That Summer

by Lauren Willig

  “There was a reason the Scots invented the stuff,” said Nick agreeably. The car swung smoothly around a corner, through a maze of tiny streets. “Better than central heating.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Julia. She turned in her seat. While she had a captive antiques expert on hand …

  A captive cute antiques dealer. Not that that was the least bit relevant. He was property of Natalie. Or at least Natalie thought he was.

  She really shouldn’t have had that third glass of scotch.

  “So.” Julia swiped wet hair out of her eyes. “About the painting. I gather establishing provenance is the next step?”

  “That would be the major hurdle,” said Nick. “The ideal would be a receipt for the painting, preferably with Thorne’s signature on it.”

  “Possible,” said Julia. “Unlikely, but possible. I don’t think my ancestors ever threw anything away.” And she had the trash bags to prove it.

  Nick’s eyes were on the road, providing Julia with a view of his profile. “If you like,” he offered, “I can do some digging around on my end, find out if there’s any mention of the painting in other sources, if it was ever exhibited.”

  “Really?’ That was unexpectedly generous of him. “Are you sure? That would be great.”

  His eyes flicked briefly in her direction. “How often does one get a chance to rearrange the artistic canon?”

  “In your profession?” said Julia. “Probably not infrequently.”

  “It’s rarer than you’d think,” said Nick. “Whatever the Daily Mail may claim, there are a limited number of old masters tucked away in attics—and half of those are fakes.” He dodged neatly around a homicidal cab. “If you tackle your cousin Caroline about the possible family connection, I’ll follow up on Thorne on my end.”

  Julia smoothed her wet skirt over her knees. “It’s a deal—although why do I feel like I just got the short end of the stick? Hey. Stop smirking.”

  Nick held up one hand. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Julia burrowed back into her seat. “Anyway, I like my theory about the mystery model. If you look at the portrait in the drawing room, there’s something incredibly tragic about it.” Julia struggled for the right words. “Yearning. As if she’s trapped and doesn’t know how to get out.”

  She caught Nick’s eye in the rearview mirror. He raised a brow at her.

  “What? This is what my art history professors used to call reading a painting.” Julia wafted a hand. “You’ll have to take my word on it.

  “Do I have to take your word on it,” said Nick drily, pulling up by the sidewalk in front of Aunt Regina’s gate, “or do I get to see the actual portrait?”

  Julia hadn’t realized they were already there. The neighborhood looked disorientingly different from the inside of a car, with the rain dripping down the windows around them.

  It also hadn’t occurred to her that Nick might want to come in.

  Julia turned in her seat. “What about your snooker and takeout?” she asked. The scotch had hold of her tongue. At least, she preferred to blame it on that. “Or did you just offer me a ride home so you can come in and see my paintings?”

  She could see the glint of amusement in Nick’s eyes. In the background, the engine idled. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  His voice was velvety and smooth, with just a hint of suppressed humor. It sent ridiculous little tingles down Julia’s spine.

  Julia did her best to keep her tone light. “There’s nothing wrong with a little art appreciation.”

  “As much as I’d like to see your paintings”—from his voice it was impossible to tell whether he was serious or not—“I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Well, that showed her.

  “Anyway, thanks for the drive,” Julia said quickly, reaching for the door handle. Just a little harmless flirting, that was all. What was it her guy friends at the office used to say? No harm, no foul. She flashed a quick, meaningless smile over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “Enjoy your snooker.”

  “Wait.” Nick’s voice stopped her, one leg in, one leg out. “What are you doing on Friday evening?”

  Surprise shocked her into honesty. She swung her legs the rest of the way out. “Cleaning the attic?”

  Nick leaned over the gearshift, one hand holding her door open. “Can I suggest a counter-proposal?”

  After her little art appreciation gaffe, Julia wasn’t taking any chances. “What did you have in mind?” she asked warily.

  “Art appreciation,” said Nick blandly.

  Julia’s eyes narrowed, but before she could think of a suitable retort Nick went on, “Your place, Friday night. If you provide the paintings, I’ll bring the takeaway curry.” He raised a brow. “Do you prefer rice or naan?”

  London, 1849

  “Still working away, Thorne?”

  Gavin looked up from his painting to find Augustus standing in the doorway of the studio. It was early in the morning, early for Augustus, at any event. The other man looked as though he hadn’t been to bed; he was wearing evening clothes, a top hat in his hand, a white scarf hanging carelessly around his neck.

  Gavin reached a paint-spattered hand to massage a sore muscle in his own neck. What day was it? For the past few days he had been painting around the clock, burning precious candles, working like a fury to get Mrs. Grantham’s portrait done before the following Monday.

  Mrs. Grantham. Never Imogen. Gavin reminded himself of that with every stroke, trying to exorcise the longing, the crazy yearning.

  He had tried to tell himself that that moment in the summerhouse had been an accident, an aberration, but once he’d started thinking of her that way he couldn’t stop. He’d dreamed of her last night, her long, dark hair unbound and streaming around her shoulders. She’d been dressed in nothing but her shift, the tie at the top undone, the fabric sliding down over the curve of her shoulders as she bent over him, her long hair hanging around them both like a veil. “Shh,” she whispered to him, and leaned sweetly forward, her lips warm against his ear, his throat, his chest, and then lower, lower still.

  He’d woken up in a sweat, his fingers clutching the sheet in a death grasp, elated, aroused, and horrified all at once.

  He pulled on his trousers, yanked on a shirt, lit a candle, and padded through the door to the studio, fighting the waves of light-headedness and headache, as though by finishing the portrait he might put an end to his feelings as well, this horrible, heady mixture of lust and tenderness.

  He’d felt desire before, yes, but not like this. That had been carnal, pure, and uncomplicated. This … Gavin didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know himself. He wanted to sit with her by a fire and feel the soft weight of her head in the hollow of his shoulder and rub his cheek against the silk of her hair. He wanted to hold her hand when it was grown old and gnarled, her skin as wrinkled as the peel of an old apple.

  He’d been fighting against it for days, fighting it the only way he knew how, with a brush in his hand, but there it was, waking or sleeping: he’d fallen in love with Imogen Grantham.

  It was madness. Madness and foolishness. If Grantham had the slightest notion what Gavin was thinking, he could ruin him and the world would account him justified. A word in the ear of Sir Martin Shee and Gavin’s painting would be set in the lowest, darkest corner of the Academy show or, simply, not accepted at all. All his work, all his ambitions, gone for a bit of passing emotion.

  That was all it was, he told himself firmly. Passing emotion. And friendship. He owed Imogen—Mrs. Grantham—that. And, as her friend, there was at least one thing he could do for her.

  Setting his brush carefully down on the palette, he said to Augustus, “I heard you’ve been calling on Miss Grantham.”

  Augustus didn’t like that. He straightened slowly, rising to his full height. “What business is it of yours if I have?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Mr. Grantham has been very good to me.”
>
  Augustus looked narrowly at Gavin, pursing his lips suggestively. “Are you sure it is Mr. Grantham who’s been good to you?”

  “He has been very generous with his collections,” said Gavin stiffly.

  Augustus leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “And do those collections include his wife?”

  Alarm sliced through the fog of Gavin’s fatigue, turning his body tense with wariness. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” Augustus’s smirk was a miracle of suggestiveness. “There’s no point in coming over all high-and-mighty with me. You can pretend to be all pure and high-minded, but do you think I haven’t guessed what’s been going on?”

  “Spare me your lurid imaginings,” said Gavin tersely. The idea of Augustus thinking of Imogen that way—

  “Lurid, is it?” Augustus strolled across the room, pausing to flick a speck of imaginary dust from the surface of a painting. “Tell me, how many times have you tupped the wife now? Is it an extra part of your fee?”

  Gavin had Augustus up against the wall, his hands wrapped around Augustus’s throat, before he was even consciously aware of moving. Rage surged through him, like a red haze. He shoved Augustus back against the wall, hard, making the candlesticks on the tables rattle. “Take that back.”

  Stunned, gasping, Augustus managed a choked laugh. “Or what? You’ll throttle me? You couldn’t paint in Newgate.”

  Gavin pushed away, so abruptly that Augustus staggered. He leaned over, his hands on his knees, fighting a wave of nausea. Would he really have done it? Crushed Augustus’s windpipe, and for words?

  Augustus massaged his sore throat with an air of innocent injury. “Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been doing—alone with her?” He readjusted his cuffs, tugging the folds just so. “She’s not bad looking for a woman that age.”

  Gavin breathed in deeply through his nose, fighting the urge to slam his fist into Augustus’s smug face, to pound those arrogant features into a pulp. He wouldn’t let anger turn him from a man to a beast.

  Clinging to self-control by a very short straw, he said brusquely, “For the love of God, Augustus. We’ve been in public, the whole time. In full view of the house. Trust me, the proprieties have been observed.”

  Mostly. In summer, the shrubbery grew thickly around the summerhouse and the leafy branches of the trees shielded the interior from the view of the house. In his mind’s eye, he could see Imogen drawing the pins from her hair, undoing the mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened her collar and cuffs, beginning, one by one, to start on the long row of buttons that ran down her bodice from neck to waist. His fingers itched to undo them, to peel away the layers of fabric, to watch the play of light and shadow across skin and bone, bared in that glorious circle of seclusion among the shielding leaves of the trees.

  One movement forward, one moment of encouragement …

  And farewell to all his dreams of being an Academician someday.

  “Have you seen that summerhouse?” Guilt made Gavin crude. “Do you really think I’d rut in a wicker cage for the amusement of every passing housemaid?”

  “I don’t know.” Augustus’s heavy-lidded eyes regarded him shrewdly. “It depends on just how badly you want the lady. Or,” he added delicately, “how badly the lady wants you.”

  “You impugn her good name,” said Gavin roughly. “You speak of a lady.”

  Augustus raised a brow. “And my future mama, if all goes my way.” Almost gently, he added, “Don’t go all Knight of the Round Table on me. That’s the fantasy you paint on your canvas. Real life isn’t like that. And you know it as well as I.”

  “You can keep your so-called real world.” The phrase tasted sour on Gavin’s tongue; he spat it out like rotten fruit. The world was what a man made of it, good or bad. Gavin would take his “real” over Augustus’s any day. Even if it balked him of his dearest desires. “And stay away from the Granthams.”

  Augustus looked at him pityingly. “I don’t care what you do with the older one—but I intend to marry the younger one, before the year is out.”

  He meant it, too. Gavin looked at him incredulously. “You’re mad.”

  “Not mad, just ambitious, and a rich young wife will serve me well.” Augustus’s face hardened, steel beneath the sleek, social exterior. “Don’t cross me in this, Thorne, or you’ll see just how determined I can be.”

  THIRTEEN

  London, 2009

  In the end, Julia didn’t have to call Cousin Caroline. Cousin Caroline called her, with an invitation to tea that felt more like a royal command.

  Or, if not a royal command, at least a suitably regal one.

  Out came the blue shirtwaist dress again, somewhat the worse for its recent dunking. That’s what she got for buying “dry-clean only.” But it was the only respectable outfit she’d brought with her and she didn’t think Cousin Caroline would take well to shorts or jeans. Something about the way Caroline had said tea had conjured up images of large hats and extended pinky fingers.

  A train, a Tube, and a bus ride later, Julia was making her way through the iron gates of an alarmingly well-maintained redbrick house in Richmond. She felt that she had, at last, achieved a comprehensive overview of the British public transportation system. And she wasn’t looking forward to doing it again in another hour or so.

  There would be no Nick to offer her a lift this time.

  She’d really gotten the wrong end of the stick with him at the house last weekend. Unless, of course, that had been the right end of the stick and the sudden surge of cheer and goodwill towards men had more to do with her suddenly being in possession of a potentially interesting painting.

  Much as the conspiracy theorist in her liked that idea, she didn’t think the painting was worth that kind of money. It was more that it was a mystery, a matter of curiosity—and curiosity didn’t attract men with a bottom line in mind. It was possible that he really had just been in a crappy mood the previous weekend, had gotten snippy, was feeling guilty, and was trying to make amends. Or he could be an asshole of the highest order.

  She’d just have to see what happened when he showed up on Friday. She’d put in an order for chicken tikka masala, onion naan, and a mango lassi and refrained from asking whether he came with the meal.

  He might just be a decent guy doing a favor for the cousin of a friend.

  Or not. It was always safest to assume the worst.

  Ahead, in the house, a curtain twitched. Cousin Caroline, watching for her from the bay window? The house looked like Aunt Regina’s on steroids: instead of a cracked old brick walkway, there was an entire courtyard of large, interlocking pinkish-red bricks. The house was also brick, a modern architect’s take on traditional architecture, everything just a bit too big, too sleek, too polished. When Julia pressed the bell, a series of sickeningly sweet chimes rang out.

  Cousin Caroline matched her house, just a shade too carefully put together. Like Helen’s, her hair was an assisted blond, but where Helen’s ash blond managed to look natural, Cousin Caroline’s was chopped and styled and her tailored pantsuit was just a bit too much for tea at home.

  Her verbal style matched her clothes. She was so frightfully sorry; she’d meant to welcome Julia before, but, of course, Julia understood how it was; one was just so busy. All the same, it was wonderful to see Julia after all these years and such a pity she had stayed away so long. Such a tragedy, all of it.

  “Your poor, dear mother.” Caroline’s voice was syrupy with pity. “She and I were so very close. Practically sisters.”

  The sort of sisters who didn’t like each other much?

  From very far away, Julia could hear her father saying, I don’t know why you let her treat you like that, and another voice, a female voice, saying lightly, Oh, it’s just Caroline. You know how she is. And Julia’s father, grimly, No. I don’t.

  Memory? Or imagination? Julia shook the echoes aside and trotted out her best schoolgirl manners. “It�
��s so nice to see you again. Thanks so much for having me over.”

  Caroline led the way into an overstuffed living room. The carpet bore the tracks of recent vacuuming. There was a tea tray on the table, the china a familiar pattern of roses and gilt. It made Julia think wistfully of Helen’s restful Danish modern.

  Caroline indicated that Julia was to seat herself on the sofa. “Well, naturally. It was the least I could do. It must have been such a shock for you, inheriting the house, when you hadn’t even known Regina.”

  Beneath the italics and faux sympathy was a distinct air of pique.

  “It was a bit of a surprise,” said Julia cautiously. “But I’m enjoying getting to know more about the family.”

  She seated herself carefully on the rigid cushions of the chintz sofa. For something so billowy it was a surprisingly uncomfortable piece of furniture. Julia sat on the edge, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands folded in her lap.

  Cousin Caroline looked at her with obvious condescension. “I can’t imagine you know much about it, living as you have.” She made it sound like Julia had been raised in a grass hut in the Ubangi. “The family has lived in that house for generations.”

  And now, Cousin Caroline’s tone implied, it had fallen to the barbarians. Or the Americans, which was much the same thing.

  “Yes,” said Julia demurely. “I gather my mother grew up there. I’ve spent some time in her old room.” Before Cousin Caroline could muster her guns, Julia said quickly, “I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about the family history. I asked my father, and he said you were the one to ask.”

  The tactic worked. Cousin Caroline patted her too-blond hair. “Of course, your father wouldn’t take any interest. People with no family themselves…”

  Julia took a hasty sip of tea to stop herself from swinging back with my father is too busy saving lives to bother with genealogy. Her father didn’t need defending. He was an internationally renowned surgeon, and, yes, she might have her personal quibbles with him—sometimes he had all the emotional sensitivity of a fossilized starfish—but he certainly didn’t need to be justified to a suburban snob in a polyester pantsuit.