Peter clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed his companion. However despicable Peter found the effort, Stephen had executed his job wel . She had the shapely hips and earthy, round breasts of Ursula as wel as the damn-you-to-hel face when she was crossed. His only question now was, was this interloper a woman freely interested in him or had Stephen purchased her interest in the back lanes of Covent Garden? He was surprised and a bit ashamed to find himself pruriently eager to know the answer.
“What is your name?”
“Mrs. Eugenie Post.”
“Your real name.”
She seemed to falter. Had she thought him blind to the game?
“None of your goddamned business.”
He exhaled. There was something irritatingly entrancing about a woman who refused to bend.
“But you are a widow?”
“I am.”
Then not a whore? He narrowed his eyes. The dress was beautiful—especial y with her coloring—but dresses could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, could be bought. There was a regality to her posture, however, that could not be pretense. She was an intel igent, wel -bred woman.
“Did you speak in such a manner to your husband?”
She picked a speck of lint from her sleeve. “When he deserved it.”
He had circled behind her now, and the woman turned to hold his gaze.
“I should speak to any man or gentleman so,” she added with a significant look, “should he deserve it.”
He dropped his gaze, abashed. He had been inexcusably rude in the waiting room.
“I beg your pardon. I was unnecessarily abrupt.”
She pursed her lips. His defenses were crumbling.
“You understand I am in no mood to be played upon,” he said.
“I have no intention of playing, I assure you.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Whence are your people?”
She blinked. “My people? I am German and Welsh. Is that what you mean?”
He’d been right. The accent, the eyes, the skin.
“German, is it? Where?”
“North. Bremen, I believe.”
He nodded. He knew Bremen.
“It is not,” he said after a long pause, “that you do not tempt me. If I am honest, you do. But I am simply not capable of such a thing now.”
“Of a commission?” She looked at him, confused. “I treated you like a scrub, and for that I apologize, but I cannot …” Oh, why had Stephen chosen such a moment to push this?
“Cannot? Cannot what?”
As he searched for words, he discovered he was not as certain about what he could and couldn’t do as he’d thought. “I-I—”
His answer was cut short by the sound of a large group of people trooping up the stairs. “The royal entourage!”
someone wailed.
Stephen reappeared in the doorway. “The Duchess of Portsmouth is with him.”
“Bloody Christ!” Peter paled. If the king were to be embarrassed in front of his lover, he would be furious, and the last thing Peter needed now was a furious king. “What about Nel ?”
“Locked away.”
“And the painting?”
“I wil send someone to remove it.”
“Hurry!”
“Peter … ?” Stephen tossed a worried expression in Mrs. Post’s direction.
“Aye, I know.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Put Charles and the duchess in the Gold Room,” he said to Stephen. “I wil attend shortly.”
Stephen disappeared, and Peter shut the door and leaned against it. “I must insist you stay here. Do not exit this room.”
“What? No. I should like to meet the king—I mean, if it’s possible. I should like to very much, in fact.”
“I cannot al ow it.”
“You have redeemed yourself, Mr. Lely, but you are not my keeper. I refuse to be held against my wil .”
She started for the door, and he angled his bulk in front of her. The blue flames returned to her eyes, and while Peter wished for time to find out what else might fan them, time was a luxury he didn’t have.
“The king has more power than you can imagine,” he said flatly, “and a disturbing predilection for redheads. I see you smile, milady, but I assure you, ’tis not a matter for lightheartedness. I have seen women seized who have been foolish enough to catch his eye and then
