Page 5 of Must Love Dukes
“Sometimes other inanimate objects. Symbolism, if you will, when he paints a portrait. Like a secret message of sorts. It is difficult to explain without showing you a specific example.” Her hands twisted absently in her skirts.
“So if I take your meaning, you might use a squash for my jaw?” His brows drew up. “My head imagined as an apple?” Lips, so full and sensual, curved at the thought. “Wait, let me guess. My nose resembles a wintered-over parsnip.”
Muriel opened her mouth to reply, but only a tiny squeak came out. Now that she was done telling him about Arcimboldo, she was really looking at him again. Particularly his mouth. Which made thinking, let alone speaking, difficult.
“Good lord, a turnip?” He slapped his palm lightly on the table, making Muriel jump. “I must stop you there, if you consider me a root vegetable, Miss?—”
“Bell,” she finally croaked. “Muriel Bell. And what is wrong with a turnip?” Her feet inched closer. She avoided looking at his mouth, which made her stomach jump about, and focused on the shape of his nose.
“Nothing at all, I suppose. But I feel more kinship with a radish.” He tapped his lips with one finger. “Or a melon. Do you make such observations a habit, Miss Bell? Who is this artist you so admire?”
“I doubt you would know of him…sir.” She wasn’t sure how to address him. He was obviously wealthy. Possibly titled, given his arrogance. But he had yet to introduce himself.
“Hmm. Try me, Miss Bell. I might surprise you.” This time, he smiled, stunning her speechless once more for at least a full thirty seconds.
No wonder he is so arrogant.
“Arcimboldo.” She hoped he might recognize the name, even if no one else ever did.
He nodded slowly. “You are correct, Miss Bell. I’ve no idea who that is, though based on what you’ve said thus far, he must have been of some note.”
“His most famous painting, more a series, really, is titledThe Four Seasons. And Arcimboldo didn’t limit himself to merely fruit and vegetables, as I mentioned before. In one of his works, he uses a fishhook for a nose.”
“How unusual. I confess, I’m intrigued. What do you think the fishhook represented?”
Muriel had never been able to discern the fishhook’s meaning. “I’m not sure. But his use of olives, for example, was meant to reflect the subject’s wealth. As I said, all his works contain such symbolism, and I enjoy the mystery, I suppose. Hiding messages within a painting to see if anyone can guess what his meaning might be.”
“You enjoy puzzles, I think. Or creating them. I believe that your true interest, Miss Bell.”
Muriel had never considered as much, though it certainly explained her affinity for Arcimboldo. “I’ve never given it much thought. But you could be right.”
“Would you care to sit?” He inclined his head at the chair across from him. “I’d like to know more about Arcimboldo.”
“You would? I mean, no, thank you. I’ve already interrupted your meal.”
“Meal? Oh, you mean these.” He motioned towards the small plate of what looked to be meat pies before him. “Not tasty at all.”
“So you would offer them to me?” she asked boldly.
That amused look crossed his features once more. “Well, the pies are a puzzle. I can’t discern the filling—some sort of meat and vegetables—but thought you might.” He wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“You want me to eat your terrible meat pies.”
“Taste them. Tell me what’s inside.” He pushed the chair out with one large, booted foot. “I’m sure Arcimboldo would.”
Muriel smiled back at him, marched forward, and sat. Tentatively, she picked up a pie and nibbled. An unwelcome taste filled her mouth. She didn’t even bother to hide the curl of her lips as she set the pastry back down. “I am uncertain of the contents,” she chewed and forced herself to swallow. “But I believe there is at least carrot. Possibly…chicken? The rest remains a mystery.”
He leaned towards her, filling the air with the heady scent of cedar and spice. Those eyes, almost feline in nature, ran over Muriel’s form, lingering on her bosom. All of which nearly made her forget the terrible taste in her mouth. “But all of it unpleasant.” He nodded to his tankard. “The ale is decent. I’m happy to share.”
“A young lady does not partake of ale.” Nor did she sit with a strange gentleman to whom she had not been properly introduced, discussing meat pies and Arcimboldo. But Muriel didn’t care, at present. She hadn’t had a genuine conversation with a man in ages, if ever. Most only discussed the weather, their connections, or their horses.
“What a pity. I think most young ladies would be improved with a little ale, don’t you? What is that horrid stuff they like to ply you with? Terribly sweet.” He made a face.
“Usually, punch or lemonade, both of which are equally terrible. But I think you are referring to ratafia. Served at balls, dinners, and house parties everywhere.”
Her parents strolled by the open window but, thankfully, did not glance in her direction. Instead, Nora craned her neck towards the coach, likely checking to see if Muriel had returned. Her stepmother would come looking for her soon if Muriel didn’t appear and would be horrified to see her sitting before a plate of cold meat pies engaged in conversation with a stranger.
Who had eyes like a cat. With glorious auburn hair the color of beaten copper.
