Page 13 of Tears of Ink
His fingers fan across the table, his right index finger still touching my book. “We don’t want to do something normal, that’s not the point.”
“Is this a royal we?” I smirk and take another sip of my drink. It burns in my veins and I welcome its warmth.
He frowns, his dark brows pulling together. “No, Peter is 18th in line to the throne. I think the chances of him making it onto the throne are slim.”
I watch his handsome face for a crack of humour, but no cute dimple appears. “Sorry, what?”
“Oh, I thought you were digging at the royal succession.”
My eyes widen. “No, I was taking the piss, oh, I mean the mick, uh.” I decide to stop talking, but then another question pops into my head. “Who’s Peter?”
There’s a pause and Elijah Fairclough’s face grows pensive. My hand itches for my paints. “He’s my elder brother.”
“Two of you?” Oh my god, I sound like a wanton lunatic.
“Three of us. Me, one older brother, and one baby sister.” His face hardens into an unreadable mask.
“And your mother is a baroness?”
He nods, but his gaze lingers on the pristine tablecloth.
I lean forward. I’ve never met a member of the aristocracy before. “And Peter is going to be the baron as well as in line for the throne?”
When Elijah meets my gaze, I’m sure I catch a flicker across his lips. “It’s an unusual succession, quite old and embroiled in tradition.”
“And you’re the sibling who got lumbered meeting me today?” I take another sip. “Shame for you.”
Finally, he picks up his own glass, and I watch mesmerised as he allows the iced liquid to slip between his sumptuous lips. Sumptuous lips? Someone shoot me now. “Something like that.”
I glower. “Maybe I should meet your mother when she’s back from her trip?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay.” I go to get my stuff. Honestly, I can cope without sitting at a table in a poncy over-priced bar with an egotistical prick who doesn’t want to be there.
“What gallery sells your work?”
“What?” I turn back to face him. He doesn’t seem to realise I’m leaving.
“What gallery sells your stuff?”
“Uh, Whitlocks in Whitechapel; they are only small.”
He nods.
“You know them?”
“Yes, I’ve bought a few bits from there.”
“You have, or your mother?”
He smiles, enigmatic. “I like you. You’re sharp, different.”
He doesn’t know how different; he doesn’t know that under my silk oversized blouse I have a multitude of secrets written on my skin.
“How’s your final piece for the year?”
“Sorry?” I’m going to get a migraine if this conversation carries on this way.
