Page 13 of The Rose (The Godwicks 2)

“You leave room in the myth for yourself,” he said. “You want to be in the story.”

“I know that sounds stupid.” She blushed.

“Not at all. There is no shame in wanting to live inside your favorite stories.”

“I’m getting too old for fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales aren’t real. These myths, they did happen,” August insisted. “Andromeda was real. She should be remembered. Always.”

“You won’t see the Duchess of Cambridge tied to London Bridge to stop the ice caps from melting and flooding London,” Lia said, joking to hide her arousal. “I wish I really could live in Andromeda’s shoes. Well, sandals.”

“I could put you into her sandals,” August said.

He released her hands and she turned and faced him.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We need to talk about the kylix your father gave you tonight. It’s not what you think it is.”

“What is it, then?”

“Something very, very dangerous.”

CHAPTER SIX

Lia stared at August with narrowed eyes.

“Dangerous?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I need to see it to be certain.”

“I don’t know about that. Daddy said you tried to buy it, but he beat you to it. If this is all a ploy to steal it—”

“I will not steal it. I have no desire to steal it. But I need to know if it’s what I think it is. That’s all. For your sake. I promise.”

She exhaled heavily. “Fine.”

Lia took her candle and led him to her bedroom, where she’d put the kylix for safekeeping after dinner. August went to her bedroom fireplace and lit several more candles.

“Is that Aphrodite?” he asked, staring at the statue on her bedroom fireplace mantel.

“Oh, yes, it is.” Lia walked over to him. “She was my great-grandfather’s, the thirteenth Earl of Godwick—Old Number Thirteen, we call him. Notorious rake. Loved fine art and even finer sex.”

“I like the man already,” August said.

He took the statue by the base and turned it so Aphrodite faced the wall.

“No offense,” he said, and Lia wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or Aphrodite. He pointed at a black-and-white photograph that was also on her mantel. “Who’s this?”

“That’s him—Old Number Thirteen. That photo was taken in 1933 at the Pearl, a brothel in London,” she said. “Lord Malcolm’s favorite haunt.”

“These women with him are all prostitutes?” he asked. Three glamorous young women in exquisite evening dress sat arrayed around her smiling handsome grandfather.

“I told you he was notorious,” she said.

He moved down the mantel to a second photograph.

“I know these ladies,” August said. “My dinner companions.”

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