Page 24 of Flirting with Forever

“You have redeemed yourself, Mr. Lely, but you are not my keeper. I refuse to be held against my will.”

She started for the door, and he angled his bulk in front of her. The blue flames returned to her eyes, and while Peter wished for time to find out what else might fan them, time was a luxury he didn’t have.

“The king has more power than you can imagine,” he said flatly, “and a disturbing predilection for redheads. I see you smile, milady, but I assure you, ’tis not a matter for lightheartedness. I have seen women seized who have been foolish enough to catch his eye and then reject his invitation. Your liberty would be restored in a matter of hours, but I do not think you’d care for your state when he is done. He is a king, and I make no apologies, but if you wish my protection, you must stay here.”

Eleven

“If you wish my protection…” Despite a growing fear about her presence here, Cam thought there was something wildly romantic about the phrase, especially accompanied by the earnestness in those brandy-colored eyes. She leaned against the door, tingling as Peter locked it, and it was with a small smile she pulled the phone from her clutch and checked the display for a signal.

Nothing.

She moved toward the wall closest to the models’ room, reminding herself as she did so that tingling had rarely been a harbinger of good decision making. Jacket hadn’t offered her protection before he’d dragged her to the ladies’ room that night—in fact, she’d barely gotten him to use protection, if she remembered correctly—but he had whispered to her that the seriously sexy real-estate developer eliciting her opinions of postmodern art and buying her fifteen-dollar martinis that evening was rumored to have started the most virulent strain of genital herpes this side of the Atlantic, which, when you think about it, was about as close to protection as one was likely to get in the modern art world.

She remembered with a smile how the brandy in Peter’s eyes had stirred at her acquiescence.

“Thank you,” he’d said gruffly. “I’ll repay your trust.”

And as much as she’d like to meet the king who had not only known Van Dyck but actually posed for him, she was willing—for a bit, at least—to put her faith in Lely.

“Ah, Peter,” she said. “You are a curious man.”

“Curious?” said a voice behind her. “Upon my word, if you two aren’t fucking by Friday, I’ll be a baboon’s berth mate.”

Cam spun around and nearly dropped the phone. A slim woman in a robin’s-egg blue dressing gown emerged from a neighboring room. She held a shepherd’s hook in one hand.

“I hope you’ve got a comfortable hammock, then,” Cam said, slipping the phone back into her bag. “I am not one to be mastered by impulses.” She checked to see if her pants were on fire.

The woman eyed her as long as she politely could, then added, “I’m Nell, by the way.” She set the hook against the wall.

“I’m Campbell Stratford. Er, Eugenie Stratford. Eugenie Campbell Stratford Post.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Call me Cam.”

“Very nice to make your acquaintance, Cam.” She took Cam’s hand and smiled, sprouting dimples.

She had bright pink polish on her fingernails and a personality that filled the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be locked away?” Cam asked.

“Aye. ’Tis standard procedure when Squintabella arrives. But I suspect poor Stephen thought I was in the dining room and locked that. I finished my eel pie there a quarter hour ago.”

“Squintabella?”

“The Duchess of Portsmouth. Bit of a cockeye, you know. I believe there may be hunchback blood in the family as well.”

In the hall, Cam heard running feet and furiously whispered orders. She examined Nell’s ankles. No wreaths of leaves, but there was that shepherd’s crook… “Are you to be a royal supporter as well?”

Nell laughed. “Only if cockstands are the object in question. I’m the king’s other mistress.”

Cam felt the smack of surprise. This was Nell Gwyn, the spirited young actress with whom Charles dallied for almost a decade and who was the mother of at least a couple of his illegitimate children. And while Nell’s hair was more of an auburn than the copper of Cam’s, there were enough streaks of red to explain Charles’s attraction. Nell Gwyn and the king! The bubble of authorial excitement nearly made her clap.

Cam said, “So no posing as the Danish coat of arms for you, then, eh?”

“No. I am the Madonna.” Nell gestured toward the opposite end of the room. There, next to a cushioned chaise, sat a nearly finished painting of Nell, utterly nude, lying on the same chaise, accompanied by a small cherub.

“Madonna,” Cam repeated, “the mother of Jesus?”