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“But you are, it would seem, quite proficient at painting Beelzebub,” he commented lightly.
“My style is whimsical,” she said agreeably. “The other ladies are ever so much more talented than I am. Whose portrait shall you choose?”
He didn’t hesitate in his decision or his answer, for Apollo knew too well the game she played.
“Yours, my lady.”
Her eyes widened, her smile faltering. “Mine? But…but only look at this portrait.” She gestured toward Theodora’s excellent likeness. “It’s exceptional.”
Apollo shrugged a shoulder. “I prefer whimsy.”
“Even so,” she argued, “you must agree that mine is not nearly as skilled. It cannot be the winner.”
If she thought he had endured the lascivious gazes of over a dozen women while sitting naked on an uncomfortable stool for two hours just so she could talk her way out of him getting what he wanted, she was decidedly wrong.
Apollo stroked his chin thoughtfully. “As I recall, the choice of winner is mine. Therefore, I alone determine the merits by which a portrait is judged and ultimately chosen. And I simply cannot in good faith decide upon another. The unique creativity inherent in this portrait is simply sublime.”
Theodora mumbled something beneath her breath that sounded suspiciously like what rot. He ignored her, Ophelia holding all his attention in her grip.
“Perhaps you could take a second look at my portrait if our hostess doesn’t wish to win,” called another woman from somewhere in the back of the library.
“Or mine,” added a second.
Arguments began to stir as the ladies rowed over whose portrait should next be considered.
“There are other ladies who would be honored to win the prize,” Ophelia said quietly, implying she wasn’t one of them.
“I’m afraid my mind is already made,” he countered, holding his tongue to keep himself from adding that she ought to surrender already.
They stared at each other, at an impasse.
“If it is the Beelzebub portrait you insist upon choosing,” Theodora broke in before raising her voice to encapsulate the room, “then we must all congratulate the winner, our indefatigable hostess. Huzzah to you, my lady.”
A weak chorus of huzzahs joined her, but the pouting expressions in the sea of faces made it clear that no one was pleased for Ophelia. Likely, each one of them had expected to win, just as Theodora had.
“You may collect the prize this evening,” he told Ophelia, anticipating their private dinner together more than he had ever looked forward to any other event in his life thus far. “But if you all will excuse me, I fear I must go dress before my fellow gentlemen return.”
“Of course,” Theodora allowed, frostiness creeping back into her voice. “Thank you for humoring us, sir.”
He held Ophelia’s gaze as he offered a solemn bow. “I aim to please.”
CHAPTER 5
Ophelia had spent the hours since she had last seen Prestwick in the library frantically considering all the ways she might extricate herself from her dinner obligation. Fleeing Wingfield Hall altogether hadn’t seemed prudent, because she still required the funds she would only receive after finishing her hostess duties. Feigning an illness felt rather like the coward’s way out. So too did the notion of pretending she had forgotten about their dinner entirely and joining the rest of the guests instead.
In the end, she had been left with no choice but to dress for dinner in a carefully chosen evening gown of silver silk with a decolletage that, whilst one of her more modest, still displayed far more of her breasts than she would have preferred. The bodice and skirt were ornamented with shimmering black spangles in the shapes of bows, coupled with a fine lace trimming. The small, puffed sleeves were accented with knots, leaving her arms largely bare, save the white gloves she wore to her elbows. Her petticoats and bustle were fuller than usual at her request—Ophelia was attempting to grant herself as much protection as possible against any sensual persuasion Prestwick would offer.
That meant a multitude of layers, a corset that was laced too tight, no fewer than three petticoats, and a tournure upon which she could scarcely sit. As she entered the salon that would host their private dinner, she felt like nothing so much as a steamship about to deliver passengers across the sea. Her gown brushed against either side of the doorway, and she narrowly avoided upending a vase of orangery orchids.
Prestwick was already awaiting her, standing with his back to her at the fireplace, in an elegant black coat and trousers. She knew a moment of disappointment that he was clothed yet again. It seemed a travesty that so much vital, masculine flesh should be hidden from sight beneath cotton, silk, and wool.
He turned to her, perhaps alerted to her presence by the sound of her skirts brushing against the furniture as she sailed into the room. She faltered, the brilliance in his gaze and the violence of her body’s reaction to him momentarily robbing her of breath. Longing swept over her. Longing she had no right to feel. It was an ache buried beneath her ribs.
Prestwick sketched a smooth bow, smiling and showing off his dimples. “There you are.”
She curtsied, feeling as if she carried the weight of a building about her middle. Her blasted skirts were so heavy, it was a miracle she didn’t topple over. “Here I am, sir. As promised.”
Perhaps he had anticipated her instinctive reaction to avoid him, then.
