George stared at a painting of
what appeared to be the blurred image of a woman with flowing hair. Or was that
a flowing gown? In any case, something was flowing around her. Blobs of blue
and green paint were splattered along her feet and around her head—if that indeed
was her head and not another random blob.
“Good heavens, what blind sot
vomited that?” George wondered.
The man’s jaw dropped. Tears
actually misted his eyes. “I—I did.”
Damn. George should have known as much.
“I’m sorry, my good man, I didn’t mean… It’s most colorful,” he grappled. “I
admire the subtle depth in the shades of blue and so much symbolism in
those…well, whatever those splotches are at the bottom.”
“Water lilies, Lord
Marylewick,” a familiar dusky voice said. Behind the man, Lilith materialized
in all her brilliance. “It’s A
Muse Amongst the Water Lilies,” she stated as if it were readily
apparent Dutch realism.
Whenever Lilith appeared,
George had the sensation of walking from a pitch-black room into the piercing
sunshine. He needed time for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he didn’t
approve of what he saw. Her lustrous auburn locks, adorned with flowers, were
loose and flowing over her azure robe and gauzy shawl. From the way the thin
silk of her robe rested on her ripe contours, he could only guess that she wore
no semblance of undergarments. That tiny vein running over his temple began to
throb, as did another part of his body.
“There, there.” She hugged the
distraught artist. “Don’t let the horrid Lord Marylewick distress you. He has
the sensibilities of a dishcloth.”
She impaled George with a
glare. “You see, Lord Marylewick, it’s about capturing the ethereal and
fleeting. Those moments when the beautiful morning light illuminates the garden
in all its blues, greens, and golds. It is not a representation of reality, but
a sensation captured in time. A sensual impression of a moment. And
philosophically, we could argue that all we have are mere impressions of a
greater reality.”
George’s mind had left off
after the “impression of a moment” part. With Lilith now standing beside the
painting, he could see the resemblance in the flowing gown and hair and
splotches.
“Lilith!” he barked. “That had
better not be your impression in those ethereal blobs.”
By God, she was a grown
toddler. He couldn’t turn his back on her for a moment or she would be playing
near fire or gleefully shedding her clothes for some filthy-minded artist. He
didn’t wait for her answer but seized her wrist and dragged her through the
nearest door, which led to a paneled study with a leather sofa stacked with
pillows. Cluttering the walls were paintings of pale-skinned, nude ladies
gazing off to some sorrowful horizon. Luckily, these paintings appeared to be
from King George III’s reign, when Lilith hadn’t been born yet to pose for
them.
He shut the door behind them.
She sauntered to the mirror and began to curl her locks around her finger and
then let them unfurl in spirals about her cheeks. There was a dangerous,
ready-for-battle tilt to the edge of her mouth, lifting the little mole above
her lip.
“Lilith, did you pose for
that…that…Tart Amid Blue Pigeon
Cack painting? And in a rag even a Covent prostitute would think
twice about wearing for fear of attracting the wrong clientele?”
Anger flashed in her eyes for a
half second, and then a delicious smile curled her lips. A warm shiver coursed
over his skin.
“And what if I did?” Her eyes,
the color of coffee, gazed at him from under her thick lashes. He couldn’t deny
their sultry allure. “What would you do? Tuck me away to another boarding
school? But I’m all grown up.” She shook her head and made a clucking sound.
“What to do with a grown woman who dares to have a mind of her own?” She
snapped her fingers. “Ah, why not control her by taking away her money?”
With gentlemen and ladies of
his set, he might say that he “spoke on the level” or “gave the news straight.”
There was nothing straightforward or level about Lilith. She was all curves and
turns. Conversing with her was akin to Spanish flamenco dancing with words.
“I never took your money away,”
he said, feeling like a weary father cursed with an errant, irresponsible
child. “And if I truly controlled you, I would never have consented to your
living with your father’s cousins. Your grandfather warned me about the
Dahlgrens. Nor would I have consented to use his hard-earned money for this
ridiculous party. Or allowed you to pose for illicit impressions of fleeting
moments.”
“Good heavens, I never posed
for anyone! The painting was in the man’s imagination—that mental faculty you
are woefully missing, darling. I merely dressed as the muse in the painting as
a lark for the exhibit opening.” She tossed back her wrists. “You know, a muse
who inspires artists to great heights of fancy.”
“Lilith, the only people you
are inspiring are unsavory men to low depths of debauchery.”
“Unsavory men?” She raised her
arms and draped her gauzy shawl across his head and over his eyes. “I didn’t
know you found me inspiring, Georgie.” The peaks of her unbound breasts lightly
brushed against his chest. Ungentlemanly desire pooled in his sex.
“Lord Marylewick,” he corrected
in a choked voice and pulled her garment from his person. “And try to behave
with some semblance of propriety.”
“Propriety, propriety,
propriety.” She tapped her finger on the side of her mouth, as if she were
searching her memory for the meaning. “I remember now. It’s when you address a
lady, such as myself, as Miss
Dahlgren.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t
realize I had addressed you inappropriately. But if one insists on acting like
a child… You are, what? Three and twenty, and continuing to romanticize this
ramshackle lifestyle that any lady of good sense would—”
“It’s the Lord Marylewick
patronizing play!” She clasped her hands. “I adore it! In fact, I know every
line. Wait. Wait. No, don’t continue.” She withdrew the cane and hat from his
hand, letting her fingers flow over his skin. “Allow me.” She placed the hat
over her head, the flowers sticking out around the brim. She scrunched her
eyebrows. “It’s high time you grew up, my little lamb, and threw yourself to
the wolves of high society.” She croaked like a stodgy man of seventy-five, not
George’s thirty-one years.
He regretted coming here. He
should have driven home to gentle, fictional Colette. And when they hauled
Lilith into police court, he would say to the judge, “You see what I must
suffer?”
Love it! So funny!
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