Peter retreated a step but it was too late. The woman spotted him and smiled tentatively.
His head started to buzz. He felt manipulated, his fastidiousness made to look ridiculous. He would be forced to talk to this woman as Stephen looked on. Peter’s cheeks flushed, and a sweat broke out on his lip. He wished to run, or to shout—something, anything to master this upsetting tumult of emotion.
Stephen looked as if he would prefer to be hanged, and if Peter had had easy access to a rope he would have accommodated him without a second thought.
“Peter,” Stephen said stiffly, “may I introduce Mrs.
Eugenie Kay Post. Mrs. Post, this is Peter Lely, court painter to His Majesty, King Charles. I was just explaining to Mrs. Post that you are—”
“I need only a moment of your time, Mr. Lely,” the woman said, interrupting. She extended an arm the color of glazed bisque. “I wish to discuss a commission for a landscape.
My time in London is limited.”
“I imagined as much,” Peter said cool y, but his words emerged through a mouth so dry they lost their resonance, heightening his embarrassment. He kissed her hand quickly, then released it as his own started to quake. He hated that she had this effect on him. To have felt so little in the way of attraction for so long and then to feel this … It was too much. “My clerk has failed in his duty. Desire him to explain the complexities of my diary. I am a very busy man. I suggest you take your custom elsewhere. Good day.”
10
And this, Cam thought, is why we need men like Jake Ryan.
She felt like she’d been slapped. She’d been sized up—
that rake of eyes over her body had been undeniable—and dismissed. She’d known men like this before—hel , she’d had men like this before. They were general y self-involved windbags who felt the size of their wal et, talent, Mercedes or dick made up for a lack of soul.
She watched him stride down the hal , shoulders back, head high, emperor of al he surveyed. Grrrr. She’d had enough of that in her life. Had had it up to here. First her father, then her sister, then Jacket. Someday, someone would get a piece of her mind. But at least her dismissal meant that longed-for opportunity had arrived.
“Privy,” she barked to a startled Stephen and slipped away.
She turned the corner, heading straight for the models’
room. Take my custom elsewhere, huh? She’d like to tel him what he could do with his freakin’ custom. She flew past Mercury, past the stairway, past the studio.
She screeched to a halt. Peter was in there, rifling a drawer in the bench, his back imperiously straight. She looked at the models’ door, locked but surely penetrable, then back at the studio.
The hel with it. This guy needed his ass kicked.
Mrs. Post burst into his studio like a savage, shoving the door aside with a bang, but Peter, who heard her in the hal , ignored the theatrics. He gave her a cool glance, damning his heart for its inexplicable rise, and returned to the mixture of cobalt and oil.
“I have come for a commission,” she said.
“My diary is ful .”
“Is this how al of your patrons are treated? I had heard you were rude. I didn’t realize you were also a fool.”
Peter stiffened. Only one other person in his adult life had ever dared speak to him in such a manner. He thought of Ursula with a viper’s tongue when she so chose and an angel’s mouth. How he had liked to put that mouth to use when their arguments had ended. He looked at his companion’s ful , wide lips and found himself unexpectedly wondering if she’d resemble Ursula in that way as wel .
“I apologize if I have offended you.” He bowed briskly and reached for the bowl.
She didn’t move. “Is there something more, Mrs. Post?”
“Aye. You’re a total shit.”
Peter jerked upright, unable to believe his ears, and Stephen, who had just reached the doorway, stopped dead in his tracks.
“Madam—” Stephen began.
“Leave us.” Peter held
