Page 37 of Flirting with Forever

“’Tis nothing, nothing at all. I am glad of it. I would hate to see a friendship end on an unhappy note.”

He started up the stairs, and Cam flung herself at the wardrobe, trying to digest the discovery of such surprising generosity in a man she had taken for an egocentric painter. She stole a glance at his profile as he rounded the top of the stairs, and wondered what other of her assumptions might be incorrect.

“Who was it?” she asked casually.

“What? Oh. The cook. Something about tomorrow’s menu and a leg of lamb. I told her I can’t concern myself in such matters. I do wonder sometimes at the want of initiative in the servant ranks. Did you find a gown?”

Cam hadn’t even looked. With reluctance, she pulled her eyes away from Peter, opened the wardrobe door, and gasped. Another treasure trove of dresses. This man liked to dress women. Which, of course, probably meant the reverse was true as well.

A dozen gowns hung here, each of thick, raw silk and each in a color more brilliant than the one before—ruby, emerald, sapphire, aquamarine, topaz, amethyst. But Cam had no eyes for jewel tones. She pulled out a burnished olive green that flattered the pink of her skin and the cinnamon-blond streaks in her hair.

“There are undergowns there as well,” he said.

In the drawers below, laid out like the petals of a pressed ivory rose, were linen and muslin shifts, as intricately detailed as wedding gowns, with falls of ruffles and lace and beading.

“Choose something ethereal,” he said. “I like the Flemish lace. ’Tis the one with the lilies.”

She dug until she found it. A beautiful pattern of interlocked flowers ran around the skirt and throughout the lace at the sleeves.

She stole a look at Peter, who was busy laying different colors of velvet on the chaise, pulled the undergown out, and let it drop.

Ethereal, eh?

The fabric was as thin as gossamer, and the front of the undergown lacked any means of closure. There were no hooks, no ribbons, no fasteners, only a narrow V that yawned almost to the waist, like a floor-length dress shirt with all the buttons removed.

Nonetheless, Cam found herself longing to put it on, to feel the cool weave glide across her skin, and hear the glissando of muslin under silk.

She heard a knock at the stairs and then Peter’s deep “Aye?”

Stephen announced himself, and Peter beckoned him to the landing.

“I am to see you about the matter of an envelope?” Stephen said, perplexed. “Apparently I have forgotten where we put it.”

Cam grinned.

He added, “It pertains to Miss—”

“I know to whom it pertains,” Peter said gruffly. “Take twenty crowns out of petty cash, place them in a pouch, and see that they are delivered.”

Stephen, who clearly didn’t need a brick heaved at him to take a hint, said, “To the person in question?”

“Aye.”

“Five sittings and twenty guineas?”

The look Peter gave him must have ended the discussion for Cam heard only the quietly muttered “We’ll all be in a sponging house by Whitsuntide” as Stephen returned to the floor below.

She turned her mind to the matter of changing.

The fireplace rose to the ceiling in the center of the space, and since it stood between her and Peter, it screened her both from the stairs and from the side of the room in which he stood. The fire was open on both sides, but the opening rose to no more than knee height. Nonetheless, it was mildly unnerving to imagine herself naked, as she’d certainly be, if only for a moment, standing in the middle of Peter’s studio.

Peter appeared to have no sense of the upheaval, for he remained busy with the adjustment of the chaise. She took a deep breath, snuggled as close to the hearth as the heat of the fire would allow, and let the robin’s-egg blue gown drop.

* * *

Peter had heard her gasp as she opened the wardrobe. It pleased him immensely that she was so delighted. The gowns were made for him by a seamstress in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He’d rarely had a sitter who did not marvel over the workmanship.

He wondered if she’d choose the lily-embroidered one as he’d recommended. For a moment he was taken back to that house, his father’s house in Soest, with the heraldic lily over the door. It was the name Peter had chosen when he cast his lot with the English. How he had missed his parents when he’d come here. It seemed his whole life, except for one short period, had been about missing one person or another.