Page 60 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“What will you do about it?”
“Have a small chat with them. As I did with Bradley.”
She threw his hand away. “You did what?” His jaw became a blade’s edge. “When?”
“The second day here. I cornered the rat and let him know what would happen to him if he continued spreading rumors about you.” He cracked his knuckles.
No. No, no, no. “Theo.” His name a whine. She wanted to hiss at him. But really, it was rather sweet, wasn’t it? Still, she must gather her anger. She was trying to saveherself.
“I was not going to let him—”
“You’ve pushed him to greater heights, likely. Exacerbated the problem.” She set her cup on the table and finished the rest of the scone.
“Cordelia, I—”
“No.” She cupped his cheek, tried to placate him with the softness she’d learned he liked from her. “I’m going to speak with him. I’m going to model for him, and nothing you say will stop me. Yes?” He glowered. “Wonderful.”
She patted his cheek, stepped around him, and, for the briefest moment, felt the brush of his fingertips against her wrist, tangling in her skirts. She yanked them from his reach and locked her gaze onto Bradley across the room. A woman had approached him, and not the woman who was his muse. Gathering her skirts in her hands, Cordelia ran, skidding to a stop between them.
“Mr. Bradley.” She conquered the need to breathe in gasps from her small sprint.
His eyes narrowed. “LadyCordelia.” The way he’d used her honorific revealed his true feelings for her. He did not think her a lady one bit.
“I hope you are not yet taken by another muse. I would like to offer my services for the day.”
The slits of his eyes widened a bit. “You? Hm.”
“What about me, Mr. Bradley?” The woman he’d been speaking to had a high voice, made higher for her inquiry.
Cordelia stepped in front of her more fully.
“Do you know,” Mr. Bradley said, scratching his jaw, “Simon has a painting of you. Had. He sold it. Got more for it than any of his other work.” He snorted. “A bitter pill for him, that.”
“I understand how it might be.” She screwed her smile on tight lest frustration drop it to her toes. “But I am anxious to set things right.”
“Are you? Hm. Very well.” He looked over her shoulder to the woman behind her. “You may go, Miss Hoskins.”
Miss Hoskins huffed, but the warmth of a body at Cordelia’s back disappeared.
“Once everyone has their new model,” Pentshire said, raising his voice above the chatter, “you may go where you like. See if you can produce a portrait of the lady better than her usual artist can.”
“Well, Mr. Bradley”—Cordelia grinned—“where shall it be?”
He walked a slow circle around her that made her skin crawl. “Outside. Hm. On the bridge over the moat, I think. With your coloring, I envision you as a siren, luring sailors to their watery graves.”
“My. How… dramatic.” The crawling across her skin became a stroke of anger, but she followed him from the gallery into the spiral staircase.
“Cordelia.” Theo’s voice echoed on the stone walls.
She stopped, finding him standing at the top of the stairs. It took her four steps and half a circle to stand face-to-face with him, as much as their heights and the steps allowed. “Yes?”
“Be careful.” He leaned near, pressed a kiss to forehead and said low enough she almost did not hear. “I’ll be watching.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed. No need for his concern, but still, it rippled something like joy through her chest. He worried. He cared. He wanted her safe. He would not traipse away and leave her alone, forgotten. He would be there, watching, so that when she returned to him safe and sound, she could gloat about how silly he’d been, then drag him back to his room and kiss him senseless.
Excellent plan. She only had six days remaining after all.
Once she and Mr. Bradley stood together on the old stone bridge above the moat, she asked, “Where do you want me?”
