Sixty
“’Tis good of you to do this.” Peter laid in some vermillion and watched it spark in the light. The early morning sun flooding in from Washington Road cast a beautiful pink-gold gleam on his canvas.
Cam shifted on Peter’s long brocade couch, still giddy from the night before, tilting her head toward the window as Peter had directed, but also to see the fat, gleaming emerald on her finger.
“Well, when Mertons agreed to sneak the painting of Nell out of your Covent Garden studio for a night, impact on the tangent arcs aside, I could hardly say no.”
“That was a brilliant idea. With the painting in hand, Charles will sign the edict and Ursula will get my name. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I wish I’d known before.”
“I just hope Stephen doesn’t notice the painting’s absence. Mertons says he’ll have it back to London tomorrow and on its way to Charles the next.”
“That Mertons… He’s an enigma.”
“I’ve decided he’s a romantic at heart. Besides, he told me the Guild was in such disarray when he broke the news last night—had to roust the chairman out of his bed at midnight—he probably could have reversed the outcome of the Thirty Years’ War and no one would have noticed.”
“Do you think Nell will mind?”
“I doubt it. Her nakedness has been well admired over the years, and there have been, shall we say, countless monuments erected to it. One naked painting more or less will not be missed by our Miss Gwyn.”
Cam laughed and then shivered, remembering the monument that had been erected to her last night in Peter’s warm, dark bed.
She still didn’t know if Anastasia was going to get the executive directorship, and it didn’t matter.
She’d told Packard last night her resignation stood, and Ball immediately offered her twice the salary to curate his stuff.
“My own museum,” he’d said to her dreamily.
“I’m seeing ‘The Ball Collection’ in big lights. Tasteful, but big.”
“Can I get a peek?” she said, and Peter obliged by turning the easel.
What had been Barbara Villiers and then Nell was now Cam, the reddish brunette waves interwoven with orange and gold, the nose made just a touch more retroussé, and the gray eyes streaked with blue.
It was amazing what could be altered with a few masterful touches of paint.
“But if you’re only changing the face,” she said, “I don’t understand why you needed me naked under here.” She gazed down at the black dressing gown she held tightly around her.
Spots of color appeared on his cheeks. “Hmm, aye, that’s a fair question. Well, when Charles asked for a painting of you in a, um, mythological setting in exchange for signing the marriage edict, he was quite clear he wanted everything to be as accurate as possible.”
“Everything?” Cam repeated, confused.
“Everything.” Peter’s eyes trailed down the gown, and a small, shameless curve appeared on his mouth.
“Ah. I see. I should think at this point you could do it from memory.”
“One might think that, that is, if one didn’t recall that you were clothed from the waist down the first two times we made love and bathed in darkness the third.
I beg you not to consider this a complaint,” he added quickly, “but there is a certain question with women of your coloring as to what, er, shade would be appropriate.” He looked at his palette, embarrassed.
“Is there?” she said drolly.
“Oh, indeed there is. There is cinnabar, red ochre, raw umber, and even ivory black—any or all could be required. That’s the question men—I mean artists—grapple with. All of this you’ll learn when we begin your lessons.”
“My lessons? I wasn’t aware I needed any lessons.”
“In certain areas, no. In fact, in certain areas I would almost defer to your expertise.”
“Almost?” She smiled.
“But in painting, aye. Your work shows good promise, and I will teach you to be great. Peaches, plums, and oranges to the end of your day, milady. We shall be overrun with still lifes.”
She grinned. The Ball Collection with Jeanne as her assistant and painting lessons with Peter. Could life be more perfect?
“But for now…” He tilted his head toward the gown.
Cam flushed to her toes. She took a deep breath, stood, and turned away.
She fumbled with the belt. She could feel his gaze on her and the heat that always comes from sporting at the edge of danger.
The belt fell loose, and she brushed the flaps of the gown open.
Screwing up her courage, she lowered her shoulders and let the gown slip.
“Ah.”
She caught the silk on her wrists before it fell completely and looked over her shoulder at him. “What?”
His eyes danced over the view this movement had bestowed upon him. “The blackness of the gown will turn you gray. Toss it over there, please.”
The basket where he pointed seemed a long way away. Nonetheless, she tossed the gown and turned.
And with a deeply contented smile that made her smile as well, Peter reached for the cinnabar.