Page 13
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.
