Eighteen
Cam watched him work. The sun had set, and she knew there was not enough light to work, yet he continued.
She could tell by the way his eyes shone when he peered over the top of the canvas that he liked her.
He had watched her, and he had remained at his easel.
Apparently he was not given to impulse when the impulse was to serve himself.
He was the rarest of men: one she could trust.
Which is not to say that if he had taken her in his arms and carried her off to that seducing couch on the other side of the fire she would have protested.
No, she would have welcomed it and enjoyed every moment.
But the fact that he had not taken advantage of her in her recent improvidence—when he clearly could have—meant he was willing to respect the fact she was involved with someone else, or as she preferred to think, he would court her until he’d driven the thought of her fiancé out of her head.
Either way, it suggested he was an honorable man who put their relationship above his desire. It was surprising and attractive.
His brush worked the canvas, still sending sparks to her fingers and toes.
She had to admit she enjoyed posing for him, even now, after the foolish escapade, and as unrealistic as it might be, she found herself imagining an endless series of afternoons, nestled among these pillows as he painted, telling her she was beautiful.
“It’s growing cooler,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Aye. Thank you. The wine, you know…” She lifted a finger toward the glass.
“Indeed.” He smiled. “At some point it might be easier if you told me your name.”
She stirred, flustered. “Cam.”
“Cam,” he repeated, nodding his approval. “As in the Aeneid?”
“The Aeneid?”
“Cam, well, Camilla, fought the Trojans. Though she was a mortal, Virgil described her as having mythical powers. She was so fast she could run across the sea without getting her feet wet. It was as if she could be in two places at the same time.”
Cam thought of her office and that screen. She hoped she could get to that phone soon.
“Does he live in England, your fiancé?”
She did not want to think about her would-be fiancé. It seemed intrusive in this interlude she was sharing with Peter, and she shifted guiltily. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to talk of him. It feels strange. Until we’ve finished here, you understand?”
He bowed.
“It’s only that we have not had an easy time of it,” she added.
“Is that so?”
“He has not exactly proven himself to be faithful and true.”
He shook his head. “Men change.”
“Aye. They can. I think it’s better, though—safer—when they are born faithful.”
“Safer?” He scoffed with a smile. “Who wants that?”
She watched the way he approached the canvas.
It was confident, precise, controlled—very different from the disorganized chaos of Jacket.
But it was also guarded. She wondered if Ursula had departed because Peter withheld a part of himself from her.
Had he known the breakup was coming or had he been blindsided, just as Cam had been?
“Did you paint Ursula?”
He stilled. “Who mentioned Ursula?”
“Nell. She said I resemble her.”
She saw the muscles in his cheek contract. “You do, in truth. The hair and…” He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass most of the features above her shoulders and cleared his throat.
More footsteps on the stairs and Peter yelled, “Dammit, Tom, I said—Oh!” He dropped into a formal bow.
Cam covered herself, but it was too late. The king’s eyes, as well as Stephen’s, had raked her. Stephen’s gaze dropped instantly, ears reddening. The king’s lingered considerably longer. Cam jumped to her feet and grabbed the dressing gown before curtsying.
Peter, who looked horrified at the intrusion, said, “Your Majesty. What a great surprise.”
“Aye. I see that.” Charles nodded at Cam. “Good evening, Countess. ’Tis a pleasure once more. I wanted to thank you for the masquerade earlier. It was most helpful.”
Cam resummoned her inner Penelope Cruz. “’Twas nothing.”
Charles looked around the room. “Peter, is this your private studio? I’ve never seen it.”
“’Tis the quietest.”
“Quiet being an uncommon virtue. I should like to have a word.”
Stephen, who looked pained to have been part of this interruption, said, “His Majesty said it was quite urgent.”
Cam understood her removal was being requested. “I could—”
“No. Stay,” Peter said. “There’s a painting I wish to show His Majesty downstairs, in any case. Though it is nearly six, I do believe the light will still do for viewing.”
Charles nodded and began down the stairs, followed by Stephen.
Peter gave her a deep bow. “Until I return.”