Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (books for 20 year olds TXT) 📗

host, so he didn’t want to be seen losing his temper. He agreed to choose another and laughed as if the whole thing had been a joke, but the footman who was there told me Charles didn’t see Peter for a year after that, and half the court stayed away as wel out of fear of inviting the king’s displeasure.”

“Oh dear. Poor Peter.”

Nel grabbed a plum from a bowl of fruit, wiped it on her gown and sighed. “I’ve painted Charles to be a positive Old Nick, I know, but he’s a rattlin’ good cove when it comes to fun, and I do think you’d like him if you met him, but I guess Peter has other ideas.” She gave Cam a curious smile and bit into the purple flesh. “Has anyone happened to mention you’re practical y the twin of his lover?”

Cam started. “Charles’s?”

“Peter’s. That is, before old Pauly got his arms around her.”

The young man stole a look at Cam, then hoisted the painting free and hurried to the door. “Sorry for the intrusion.” As he saluted and bounded into the hal , Nel said, “You’l want to make sure—”

A shril , murderous scream exploded in the air.

“—she’s not in the hal . Oh no! Poor Peter!”

“ That’s Nell in that painting! ” a Frenchwoman cried.

“Nell! ”

Then men’s voices—Peter’s and what Cam assumed to be the king’s—joined in with urgent reassurances. The woman on the canvas, Peter explained, was the mistress of a Spanish count. She wasn’t Nel . Couldn’t possibly be Nel .

Why, the hair was al wrong, as anyone could see. Nel ’s was much darker. But the duchess would have none of it.

“She’s here, and I’ll find her. That irritating little beetch! ”

“She’s here, and I’ll find her. That irritating little beetch! ”

The last words sent a bolt of fury through Cam. Of the dozens of painters in the art book on Amazon, she’d managed to find the only one with the Restoration equivalent of Anastasia as a client. There was only one way to deal with people like that. She grabbed Nel ’s arm and dragged her toward the storage room. “Hide.”

12

As Peter hurried after the duchess, he felt his heart sink.

Around him, apprentices were running like rats before a flood, the king was alternately arguing and soothing, Stephen was quietly locking doors as if the horse hadn’t already jumped the stile, and even Mertons was rushing about trying to reassure Peter’s bewildered patrons, but al Peter could think about was that if Charles lost his temper over this, as he rightful y ought, Peter would never get his paper signed. And that paper must be signed. He owed it Ursula.

“Your Grace, please,” Peter implored. “I wil not hear it,”

the duchess snapped. “You conspire with him.”

Peter was a Dutchman, but he loved the English and had long ago acquired the disdain they nursed for their reckless, power-hungry neighbors across the sea.

“Never, Your Grace, never,” Peter said. “Why, I should rather consign my soul to the fires of hel than lie to you. You are welcome to look anywhere you please.”

She paused. “I am?”

Peter looked at Stephen, who gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. Peter dropped a deep, courtly bow in acquiescence and hoped Stephen was surer about this than he had been about the painting. If Nel was found anywhere in a five-mile radius, the king—and therefore, Peter—would have the devil to pay.

The duchess flung open the first door she found, and a half dozen of his newest apprentices, already keenly aware of the maelstrom engulfing the studio, gripped their brushes, unsure what new terrors might lie ahead.

With an aggrieved huff, the duchess spun around, clipping the closest easel with her skirt and causing the owner to drop his palette. She swept back into the hal and tried another door, only to find a closet fil ed with pots of painting supplies.

The next door was the dining room, and Peter’s heart was in his throat. Nel would certainly be smart enough to hide if she had heard the duchess. But had she heard?

The duchess jiggled the knob and turned with a triumphant “Locked!”

Peter already had the key on his outstretched palm. She grabbed