Page 34

Idiotic reversal. She had ventured first onto this beach. And she cared not a whit that he’d declined to illustrate her lecture. That he’d declined to paint her nude.

Paint her nude.

Whatever had possessed her to suggest it? Her molars grated together in a half-swallowed cringe.

“He told me you’re not riding with him.” Mr. Ponsonby gave her a confidential glance. “But there’s no hard feelings.”

“I expect he replaced me within the hour.” A pause ensued during which she tried and failed to hold herself back. “Who is riding with him?”

Mr. Ponsonby didn’t have time to answer. Griffith was upon them.

“Don’t look!” Mr. Ponsonby grabbed Griffith around the shoulders, facing him away from the rowboat, toward Muriel. “It’s an atrocity. The picture is so horrifying I’m finally convinced I need a new occupation.”

“What occupation?” Griffith’s eyes met Muriel’s. Smoke gray, like the superfine wool of his suit.

“Lamplighter?” Mr. Ponsonby released Griffith.

“I can picture you on stilts.”

“Can you? I can’t. Forget everything I just said. I was born to paint, and I will paint until I die.” Ponsonby climbed back into the rowboat and sat, staring morosely at his easel. “Paint badly, that is.”

Griffith’s gaze had found Muriel’s again. He leaned closer, a near imperceptible movement.

She perceived it. God, she perceived it from her tightening scalp down to her tingling toes.

“Hello, Penny,” he greeted her softly.

“Hello, Mr. Griffith.” Her reply was stiff with dislike.

He perceived that. His long lashes lowered as he studied her. “Exploring Downalong?”

That was what the locals called this lower part of town.

The question didn’t require a direct answer, and courtesy failed to provide her with a ready alternative.

She looked at him, feeling overheated, and trapped, and wronged—and so, Lord, probably like a lobster in a pot.

A painful second ticked past.

He continued, “I could direct you to the studios of a few friends of mine. They’re not flower painters either, but—”

“I’ve already visited several studios,” she cut him off. He couldn’t really imagine she wanted his guidance?

“You’ve found someone, then,” he said.

“I have,” she lied. She clenched her hands into sticky fists. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“Nor I, to hear it.” His smile was sent by the devil. Its slightly crooked curve emphasized the symmetry of his chiseled features. It seemed to demand she kiss it into place.

Her throat went dry.

“Who is it?” he asked. “The painter?”

“You don’t know him.”

“How can you be sure?” The smile was in his voice now. “Were you talking about me?”

Bother. She rarely lied, and it never went well.