And there was always a next—the exhibition seemed endless. True to his word, he remained surreptitiously in the background, but he hardly needed to be there. Min cleaved herself to Thornton, Cotton, and the artist ladies, giving Warde and Kiethly so little encouragement they soon gave up and went to pursue more giggly, amenable prey.
Jack eyed them on the other side of the room, unable to hear what they were saying but well able to imagine it from the bantering, grinning expressions and laughing gestures. One of the Miss Howarths was their audience, as was the regal Lady Frances, who deigned to permit the conversation with a degree of amusement, sharing an indulgent look with Caroline when she joined them, as though they were watching young puppies try their teeth.
Their peals of laughter reached him where he stood staring at a pale lady in a blue and white dress and wondering if he was meant to see more in the painting than that. She could be at a wedding, he supposed. There were flowers in her hand. Maybe she was a bride.
More laughter from the cluster of flirtations and gallantry.Thatwas his environment. He excelled there, could even make Lady Frances laugh so hard she abandoned the regal act and snorted, hand clamped over her mouth—he’d done it once or twice before. But if he was wistful for anything, it was for Min. To have her hand tucked back in the crook of his elbow, fingers curled lightly around him, and to turn them away from this crowded society stall and back out, into the open, where he could see her exact expression as he reminded her of Sedgewick’sviews on Blake and watch the curve of the smile she failed to suppress…
She didn’t need him to be here. She had no wish to leave Somerset House. She was deep in conversation with Thornton and Cotton, standing before some vast canvas where half-naked men did something vicious with spears to some other poor half-naked man. The scarlet blood was very vivid. And the white of the man’s teeth, his eyes, stretched open in fear and pain…
Jack suppressed a shudder. Did George not care that Min was here, surrounded by such things? What if she took a faint? Not that she would. She was studying the horrible painting with interest, probably wondering how she herself could mix such a virulent shade of red. Her face was tipped up to where the painting hung high on the wall—no hiding her gaze now. It was bold and direct, eyes wide and absorbed.
Thornton stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back, studying the picture likewise. Jack understood his tastes well enough to know Min was in no danger there. Cotton stood on her other side, plucking at his own sleeves and glancing around, restless and probably wanting a drink. He’d never shown any interest in women either, his own cravings being solely directed towards alcohol and other, more exotic intoxicants. As he often explained woozily when found slumped in a corner at the Cocoa Tree, his only mission in life was an attempt to open hisinner eye.
Jack went back to perusing his painting of the bride. What interesting thing could he think of to say to Min afterwards? He ought to form some…some opinions, or something of the sort. But the bride looked ghostly and enigmatic and slightly sad, her focus not on him, but on something outside the frame, somewhere over his left shoulder.
What sort of wedding dress would Min wear?
No, no. He tugged on his cuff, pinching the button so tight it left a white dent in his thumb, and walked on to the next painting. A sleepless night had taught him which topics to avoid dwelling on. He had no wish for the wincing lash.
It was just irritating, that was all, being caught so wrongfooted, like getting a dizzying facer during a boxing game when you’d been sure, up until that point, that you’d been holding your own. It wasirritatingimagining George with Min because…because George wouldn’t laugh at the story of the yappy dog, would he?
Or maybe he would. He was a good sport, George, damn the man. Though he’d probably tell Min off a little bit too and put some plan in motion to tactfully rescue the evil aunt from the annoying dog.
Is that whatheshould have done? Instead of just laughing?
But no, because the evil aunt deserved every minute of every headache for not treating Min like an absolute princess. Just think, if she’d bothered, she could’ve brought Min out years ago, given her a London season, and they would have been reunited maybe only two years after they were parted and then…and then…
Then he wouldn’t have forgotten about her for seven years like the idiot, good-for-nothing wretch he was.
Jack scowled at an entirely innocent painting of a Dutch landscape, another peal of laughter reaching his ears. But it was closer, softer. It was Min laughing at something Mr Thorton had said.
If it hadn’t been for George, Jack might have wondered if it was the portrait painter who’d captured her interest, even if he was too old for her. She’d spent the whole visit so far hanging on his every word, and was now speaking to him avidly, blushing, her voice low, Cotton having left the two of them alone. But what little snippets of conversation Jack managed to overhear as hesidled a few paintings closer were innocently focused on art and only art.
Until he distinctly heard Min utter the wordnude.
His head whipped round so sharply he cricked his neck.
Thornton looked up, catching his eye. Smiling, he came over with Min and nodded toward the canvas before Jack. “You seem very taken with this work of Howard’s.Venus and Cupid.A very popular subject, of course.”
Jack took another look at the painting and was startled to find himself looking at a semi-nude goddess, the globe of one full white breast barely concealed. He glanced from the painting to Min, found himself blushing, and looked away.
“Makes a difference from the horses,” he said, wishing Thornton wasn’t observing him with quite such a knowing smile.
“Ah, yes, one must marvel at the way the Royal Academy arranges its exhibitions.” Thornton chuckled. “A dozen portraits of young ladies, a dozen more of landscapes and horses, and then a dash of the classical, just to wake us all up again. Rather like one of Haydn’s symphonies.” He chuckled again, looking back at the painting.
Min moved closer to examine it too, her eyes running over the semi-nude figures in dispassionate, intelligent study and with no trace of embarrassment at all—until she happened to glance up at him and, finding his eyes upon her, turned away.
“You’re a lover of the romantic, Lord Orton?” enquired Thornton.
“Ah… I… I suppose as much as any man.”
Thornton laughed as though this was a great witticism. “Diplomatically put! Then perhaps this painting appeals to you more as a lover of the classics?”
“Calling myself asurvivorof the classics would be more accurate.”
“Yes, they do rather force them on us at school, do they not, no matter our aptitude or appetite for them. I, fortunately, did happen to appreciate them. And I confess I’ve always enjoyed the story of Cupid. The son of both war and love. It’s apt for the god of desire, don’t you think? His arrows cause as much pain as pleasure.”
Noting the uncomfortable glance Jack gave Min—who had turned her back and appeared deep in contemplation of a field of cows, Thornton smiled. “Not a fit subject for ladies, I suppose you’re about to warn me. Don’t worry, us artists are in general an open-minded, unshockable species. One must be, you understand, to truly view the world. For example, Miss Fanshaw and I have just been having a most interesting conversation about the iniquities of artistic censorship, have we not, my dear?”
