Chapter Six
Meredith stared at Jules Habsburg as he bowed and kissed the back of her hand.
Her heart was thudding. It had been since the moment Nancy had appeared outside her attic room and told her he’d called upon her.
Her friend had seemed both vexed and excited as she’d blurted out that Meredith must get into a more fashionable frock and brush her hair.
Meredith almost hadn’t believed what Nancy had been saying, or doing as she’d daubed rouge onto Meredith’s cheeks. Yet here he was, Jules, the sunlight catching in his dark hair and his charm filling the alley in a way that was both magical and forbidden.
“Meredith,” he said, releasing her hand and gesturing to the right. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the new Dulwich Picture Gallery?”
“Art?”
“Yes, it is a gallery of art and houses some truly magnificent works. Pieces I admire very much and would like to share with you. I think you will be most impressed and if it’s not too boastful of me to say it, I will be a perfect guide.”
She looked at Nancy. Was this really happening? Finally, after all of these years, a man, a handsome man, was asking her to step out with him. “What do you think, Nancy?” She hoped she’d hidden the shake of excitement in her voice.
“I can cancel my plans and chaperone,” Nancy said, clearly suppressing a smile as she was attempting to appear disapproving. “I think it would be for the best for both of your reputations.” She looked at Jules as she said the last word. “Don’t you?”
Meredith nodded. “I agree.” She touched her lips and recalled their scandalous kiss. What on earth would Nancy make of that?
“Then it is decided,” Jules said. “A trip to the finest art gallery in all of the ton.”
He held out his elbow for Meredith. She took it and walked in time with him, gripping her umbrella. The sky was heavy in the east, though there was no sign of rain, but even if it didn’t rain, it would give her something to do with her hands should nerves get the better of her.
“The artworks in the Dulwich Picture Gallery were commissioned by the King of Poland,” Jules said.
“Really?” Meredith glanced over her shoulder. Nancy was strolling along several paces behind and looking up at the birds singing in the leafy trees. “So why is it in London and not Poland?”
“Excellent question,” Jules said. “The two British chaps who collected the work for the Polish monarch found themselves with a homeless collection when the king was forced to abdicate due to partitioning of his land. They considered selling this royal collection, but that didn’t happen, so instead, they built a gallery to house it and have thrown open the doors to the public.
Now everyone can enjoy the great masters’ works. Truly remarkable and generous of them.”
“Yes, it really is.”
“Isn’t it just?” He sounded enthused. “And hopefully, it will catch on, not just in London, but worldwide. Imagine if every big city had a beautiful building for the country to house its priceless artwork. Art that belongs to the people and is for the people.”
Her stomach did a little flip of anticipation. “I really am quite excited to get there.”
“You will not be disappointed. Come, we will take a carriage. It is a little too far to walk on such a humid day.”
Soon, they arrived at the gallery. It was a low, brick building with a large arched doorway and few windows.
“Sunlight is very damaging to the paintings,” Jules said as they alighted. “As is the smog.”
“It is quite fresh here.” Nancy nodded, as though approving of the location. “Oh…wait a moment…” She waved frantically. “Emily! Emily! Hey!”
A pretty, young woman with a small, white dog on a lead looked up from a bench. “Oh, Nancy, is that you? What a treat?”
Nancy gripped Meredith’s arm. “You go on in and I’ll find you in a little while. I need to catch up on Emily’s gossip. She is my second cousin and has seen my family recently.”
“Of course, go ahead.” Meredith smiled.
“You don’t mind?”
“No, of course not. The art gallery is a public building, after all.”
“True, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Nancy swung a warning glance at Jules. “You hear me?”
“Moi?” Jules planted his palm on his chest as though utterly shocked. “Never. I am the epitome of chivalry and moral standing.”
Nancy made a humph sound and pecked Meredith on the cheek. Then she was rushing across the lawn to her cousin with a definite spring in her step.
With her hand once again in the crook of Jules’s warm elbow, Meredith stepped into the cool gallery. A large, cylindrical brass container housed umbrellas and she stood hers into it for safekeeping.
The walls of the gallery were lined with dark-wooden panels topped with scarlet paintwork. The high ceiling was decorated with thick cornices and it smelled of polish, dust, and varnish. The air seemed to hang heavier than outside, still and quiet.
“Good day.” Jules nodded at a man seated behind a desk. “Is the Rubens still on display?”
“Naturally. It has become a firm favorite of visitors.”
“I am glad.” Jules took a left and led her through the series of interconnected rooms and past walls of paintings, big and small, all with heavy frames.
There were very few people around, which suited Meredith well.
“I want to start with a painting by Peter Paul Rubens, dated back to around 1620. He is one of the most famous of the Flemish artists.”
“I haven’t heard of him.” She paused. “But then, I haven’t heard of many artists.”
“You will have by the time I have finished with you.” He stopped and gave her a sinfully irresistible grin. “Now look up. Tell me what you see.”
She did just that and he set his warm palm on the small of her back.
His touch, almost possessive, created a warmth in her that had nothing to do with the brilliance of the painting and everything to do with the magnetizing man who seemed intent on spending time with her.
“What I see is…” She cleared her throat. “A woman running from an ogre of a man.”
“Yes, her father. That is Saint Barbara, and her father locked her in a tower so no one could see her beauty.”
“That’s terrible.” The colors on and around Saint Barbara were ethereal swirls of silver, gray, white, and ochre, yet her father was in red; red like the Devil.
Meredith instantly disliked everything about him, his crêpe skin, his brutish arm reaching for his daughter, and the angle of his bearded jaw.
“What does it make you feel?” Jules stepped a little closer, his body heat radiating on her arm.
She suppressed a small tremble of awareness. “I suppose I feel sorry for her. I want her to get away from him.”
“Yes, that’s right. Rubens has created a sense of urgency in the painting. So clever. That is why he is a master. I am glad you can see it.”
“And did she get away? In the story.”
“No, her father caught her and whipped her for being a Christian, but every wheal on her flesh healed miraculously. Hence, she is a saint. It is not a happy end, though. He took a sword to her neck.”
“Gosh, how awful.”
Jules’s hand slipped to her waist and he tugged her a little nearer. “It is just a story. Do not be upset.”
His warm breath stroked her cheek and she hoped no one was watching them standing so close. It was intimate, thrilling, and highly inappropriate.
“I am not upset, I am intrigued. Show me more.”
“Yes, of course. Now for something very different.”
He practically marched her through to the next room and she giggled at the speed of their pace.
“I am excited to show you everything,” he said with a soft laugh. “I get the feeling you are going to soak up every detail and every snippet of knowledge.”
“Indeed, I am, and when I visit my mother in Wales, I can tell her all about the great masterpieces I have seen.”
“And will you tell her who showed them to you?”
“Should I?”
Again, they stopped. He tipped his head and looked at her. “I should like it if you did.”
“Don’t you think that…?” She stopped herself.
“What?”
She bit on her bottom lip. How could she tell her mother about Jules Habsburg showing her art if that was all there was to their relationship? A few stolen moments. Was there to be more? Or was this simply him indulging in his own hobby?
Did he, could he, really like her in a romantic sense?
It appeared he did, but Meredith was hardly an expert.
“I should like it if you told her of me when you visit,” he said softly.
Meredith managed a small nod and then averted her eyes to the painting.
“Though I shall miss you when you visit her. Wales is a long way from London.”
“Jules…please don’t say that.” Her heart squeezed. The chances of him missing her were so slim, they barely existed.
“Why ever not?” He frowned.
“Because it can’t be true. You hardly know me enough to miss me.”
“I know that your sharp mind intrigues me, that your curiosity rivals my own, that you appreciate perfection, skill, and…”
“And honesty. I appreciate honesty.”
“Duly noted.” He nodded seriously, though his eyes flashed. Then he looked up at the painting. “Not the end Goliath would have wished for himself.”
“Oh…no.” The painting captured David’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem after defeating Goliath with David holding Goliath’s huge, severed head aloft. “That is quite…gruesome.”
“Again, it makes you feel something.” Jules pressed his hand to his torso. “Something deep inside, visceral. It’s a moment in time captured for us by Nicolas Poussin. The cheering crowds, the musicians—”
“I can almost hear them!”
He laughed and clapped his hands. “So can I. And the detail of the clothing, look…”
She stepped closer to admire the jewel-colored gowns and tunics of the crowd.
“What do you think, honestly?” he asked from close behind her.
“I think… I think the sum equals more than the parts. It is simple paint, plain canvas, but put together by such an accomplished artist. It’s a work of genius. It’s spellbinding, an entire story brought to life.”
He was quiet for a long moment and then said, “You really are as good a pupil as you are a teacher.” He very gently stroked his finger down the nape of her neck.
She gasped and turned. Looking up at his face, she was surprised by how close he was.
He grinned and then ran his hand from her shoulder to her hand and took it in his.
“Jules,” she whispered as a tremble followed his touch. Her belly tightened and for a moment, she wished they were alone so that he could touch her all over.
“And now we will browse,” he said. “Ask me anything. I am familiar with all of the artwork here.”
She sucked in a breath and tried to steady her heartbeat. A hand of cards and a few chess moves and here she was in a picture gallery with a man from whom she should probably stay away but whom she was unable to resist.
An hour later, and with Meredith’s mind spinning with all of the images she had learned about, they stepped outside.
The air had chilled and the sky had darkened. She fiddled with her umbrella.
“I have a suspicion inclement weather is coming.” Jules clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “And soon.”
“Where is Nancy?” Meredith searched the lawns and tall, wind-ruffled trees. Two benches were empty. A small party of nuns rushed past with their heads bowed against the wind. There was no sign of either Nancy or her cousin.
“Do you know where she might have gone?” Jules asked.
“No, not a clue. I have not been to this part of London before.” Anxiety gripped her. What was she to do?
“I suggest we get a carriage before the heavens open.”
“But we can’t leave her…”
“She was heading out on her own before I saw her. I’m sure Nancy is quite capable of looking after herself and making her own decisions.”
“Yes, but…” It didn’t seem right to just leave.
A huge spot of rain landed on the end of her nose. “Oh, dear.” She brushed at it and fiddled with her umbrella to wipe it off. “We are out of time.”
Jules was already hailing a carriage and within seconds, they were undercover. The rain came down in a biblical onslaught, hail mixed in and wind that sliced through the small gaps in the windows.
“Where are we going?” she asked, peering out and not recognizing the route they had taken earlier.
“To my home.”
“What?” She gasped. “I can’t go to your home unchaperoned.”
He laughed. “Do not fear. Mrs. Buxton will be there.”
“And who is Mrs. Buxton?”
“My cook. She will be busy preparing dinner as we speak.”
“But I can’t. I…”
“I see no reason why you can’t unless you don’t want to, in which case I will re-direct the driver.”
She looked into his eyes, so tempting, so alluring, so damn seductive. She could fall into them, lose herself, drown happily. “And what will we do at your house?”
“To start with, we will warm up, then I will pour you a glass of port wine; I know you like that. And finally, I will show you some of my art collection.”
“You have an art collection at home?”
“Art is my trade, so yes, I have art. Though the majority of the pieces in my home are not for sale. I own them because I love them.”
“So they are for your eyes only?”
“For now, yes.”
A huge crash of thunder bellowed around the carriage. One of the horses whinnied and they lurched in and out of a pothole.
“Luckily, it is not far,” he said, taking her hand and holding it tightly. “And then we will be out of this storm.”
Meredith swallowed. Why did she get the feeling she was about to alight into another type of storm, one which had rid her of the ability to say no to a handsome, charming, and intriguing man?