Page 83 of Seductive Reprise
She glowered. “If you would only tell—”
“I mean to pay for it, if that would be his point of contention.”
Irritation flashed in her eyes, but she allowed the cut to pass. Perhaps the effect of the morphine. “Pray just say it.”
“A portrait. Of you and Margaret.”
“A portrait?”
“Yes, do keep up.”
“Of Margaret and myself?” Her voice rang with incredulity.
“Precisely.”
Confusion settled on her, and she cocked her head to one side, squinting as she attempted to puzzle out his ulterior motive. “Butwhateverfor?”
“A great many reasons,” he said, keeping his tone chilled even as loneliness twisted the knife in his chest. Despite his sister’s atrocious choice of partner, at least she didn’t hang about a massive palace without even a dog for company. He looked to his walking stick, his serpentine cufflinks. After weeks of collecting dust he had decided they suited him after all. “But most important is this: I need you to engage the painter. Immediately.”
“And why is that?”
Yusef looked up to find her elegantly crossing her arms, her chin tipped upward. He smirked.
“Because, my dear sister, it seems that for once your husband’s good name shall be put to excellent use.”
The joke must have sailed over her head, for her harsh arrogance softened the slightest bit.
“I still don’t follow. You never do anything for anyone without expecting some sort of exchange. Measure for measure. You’ve never had a kind word for Davey. Forgive me, but I am quite unable to suspend disbelief. What are you scheming?”
Yusef fixed her with a long, penetrating look. At last he smiled. “I’ve made an offer of marriage to a stubborn lady painter who won’t accept my suit and my worldly ways, so I intend to lure her to your home and convince her. Or, to be more precise: foryouto lure her here, that I might convince her.”
Florence stared at him, blinking several times. Then she burst out laughing. “You? Married? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never given anyone a passing glance…” Her words trailed off as she realized his unyielding stare had returned. “But that can’t be…” Her mouth puckered as she thought. When she finally settled on a memory she turned back with a gasp. “No! Not Ipsley’s… the tall girl? The one with the hair? Margaret mentioned something about her years ago, but I didn’t think…” A pinkish tinge colored her cheeks, tempering her arctic frigidity.
Yusef decided to take her flustered realization as agreement. He stood, and went for the same desk from which she’d extracted her glimmering box earlier, rifling through the drawers without permission.
“But she’s an actual painter?” Florence said with such disbelief that Yusef took offense.
He checked it, of course, and blandly responded, “You think I’d gift our father a slapdash travesty done by some second-rate hack?” He came upon a tidy stack of thick cream paper and lifted a sheet. He slapped it upon the blotter, then unceremoniously plucked a fountain pen from its stand and extended it towardFlorence with one hand as he yanked the rosewood chair out from behind the desk with the other.
Florence stared at him, stupefied, slowly shaking her head back and forth. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Whatever you like. Just make sure you sign it Florence Clewer, not Lady Florence Clewer, as your birth entitles you. I don’t expect she’d pick up on it, but I shan’t risk her refusal.”
Florence stood. It seemed it was her turn to wear a smirk. Yusef remained stock-still, his face impassive as he stood over his sister’s desk, still holding her pen expectantly.
“Tsk, such impatience. And from you! If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d say you really loved this painter woman.” She stopped before him, glancing at the pen before taking it gingerly.
“I doubt you know me as well as you claim,” he said. “And I do.”
She sat in the chair, not breaking eye contact. “If I perform this favor for you, you do realize you will be beholden to me, don’t you?”
The thought of it nearly caused him to shudder. “It had crossed my mind,” he admitted.
“Hmm,” she said, finally looking down to the blank page. “Lovely. I wanted to make sure we were both certain of the terms.” She dated the page in her refined, curling hand. “What’s the name?” she said, the boredom in her voice rivaling even his.
“Rose. Rose Verdier.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
