Page 63 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Zander swallowed his growl and raked his fingers through his hair, yelped, then remembered too late not to touch anything above his eyebrow line. “What do you expect from me?”
“I expect you to paint exclusively for me.”
And this charade would last only until Zander had to make his first brush stroke. Then, when Lord Balanbonkers realized Zander couldn’t draw a straight line if his life depended on it, the memory of his mother’s words—there goes that talented forger I told you about—would rearrange itself, focusing on the pretty little blonde with green eyes and lithe fingers who had walked at Zander’s side that day.
Zander would kill the man sharing the coach with him before it came to that.
But he’d really rather not have to.
So he turned sideways on the bench, leaned against the side of the coach, and, stretching his legs out before him, crossed them at the ankle. He closed his eyes and spoke into the darkness. “Well, then, boss, what should I paint first?”
Much could come of this little subterfuge. Once he arrived at the man’s crumbling estate, he’d have access to whatever art the man had hoarded there. Perhaps he would find the originals, his long-sought-after Rubens, collecting dust and waiting to be saved.
A new urgency settled around that goal now, and not simply because he had nearly accomplished it, nearly found them (if they’d not been sold), but because if he had his inheritance, perhaps he’d have a reason to create a piece of art that would win it for him. And he’d keep this money for himself.
To build a home for himself and his dragon.
Twenty
The eardrops taking shape beneath Fiona’s charcoal pencil looked suspiciously like lips. Male lips of the kind she had lately become familiar with.
Lately?
It had been almost a week since he’d walked her home, and she’d heard nothing from him since. Had he been so mortified by their dalliance, by her inexperience, he’d run off? To the Continent likely. Farther afield possibly. To Africa? He was, even now, on the prow of a ship (was that the right word?) telling a tale of the pitiful spinster who kissed like a toothless dog and knew not how to touch a man. Or he’d hid himself away at the ancestral home, begging his marquess of a brother to put him to work in the fields till he was so exhausted he could no longer remember their nightmare of a night. Or—
No. She slammed her pencil down and slammed her eyes closed. Enough. Her body knew them for lies, even if her heart wasn’t convinced. He’d been satisfied with her. He had never pretended with her, and she believed him. He wanted her, liked her touch, unskilled though it was.
Besides, five days was not an overly long time to have gone without contacting her. He’d gone longer. His work required long stretches of time away from home, and he had no obligation to keep her abreast of his movements. He was likely on a trip for a client, and he would show up in a week’s time with a devil-may-care grin and a tweak of one of her curls and news on the paintings they searched for.
Yes, the most likely scenario, that.
She opened her eyes and returned to her design, trying to block out the chatter from the front of the shop. They were busy today. With shoppers and with merchants. Mama was even about, viewing the gems their supplier had brought. Later, she’d tell Papa which she wanted, he’d purchase those. If they’d let Fiona design, she would get to partake in that conversation as well. Instead, she sat in the candlelit dark in the workshop, sketching when she should be, according to her parents—
“Fee, why aren’t you painting?” Her mother rested in the doorway, Lillian pushing her chair from behind.
Fiona slammed her sketchbook closed. Mama would only scoff, tell her not to waste her time. “I needed to sit for a bit.”
“You do not have to come here every day, you know,” Mama said. “We can set up a room for you to paint in the back parlor.”
Fiona tapped the top of her sketchbook with a single fingertip. “But everyone else is here. Papa’s sketching, and Posey is dealing with customers, and you’re doing sums and such. Why should I be anywhere else?”
“You should be at home to accept gentleman callers.”
Fiona flattened her hand on the sketchbook and looked up, mouth open. “What gentleman callers?”
“There might be some if you stayed home now and then.”
Fiona stood and came round the back of her mother’s chair. She nodded her thanks to Lillian and took her place, moving her mother toward the fireplace. “You want me to marry?”
“That would be lovely.”
“And what of Posey?”
Her mother frowned. “If she finds a fellow who tolerates her work, yes, that would be nice as well. You have no such limitations, though.” She frowned. “Unless…” She licked her lips and turned to peer up at Fiona. “Have you heard anything? From that Lord Lysander? From the dowager? Your father will not speak of it, and—”
“I have. Lord Lysander has, I mean.” She sat in the chair across from Mama.
“Excellent! As soon as that business is taken care of, I’d like to introduce you to the haberdasher’s son. He’s a lovely, tall fellow training to be a surgeon. You two will prove perfect for one another, I’m convinced. You can paint all day and line his home with your work. His clients will value him more because of you and your accomplishments. And as he is a man of sense and intellect, you won’t have to worry about your wandering mind. He’ll take care of every detail for you.”
