well, David told himself, for some cracked genius. But my world
is
the natural world, dammit, and not some mad, impossible artist's paradise. And in
my
world we don't do things like that.
He paid for his ale and stood uncertainly at the doorway of the tavern.
Marston was strolling easily down the street. In another moment he'd reach the tavern. It would be easy, David thought, simply to turn his back as the young man passed. No need, after all, to greet him outside of Polite Society. Of course, it might be a trifle ignoble.
Ignoble
? Bloody hell, it would be gutless, unmanly, and entirely unworthy of himself to avoid saluting a gentleman of his acquaintance.
It would also be admitting that his passions were stronger than he was.
And anyway, he found that he couldn't have turned away even if he'd wanted to.
"Mr. Marston."
Was that a hint of a blush on the young man's meticulously shaven cheeks? No, probably just the effect of a brisk wind blowing through the street.
"Lord Linseley. Good afternoon, sir. And what a surprise to find you here. Don't tell me that you've been set to wait in the Blake family anteroom."
A quick, firm handshake. And then the maddening half smile that had haunted the margins of David's thoughts since the night at Almack's.
"Yes, Mrs. Blake sent me here."
"She'd set the Angel Gabriel himself to waiting at the Coal Hole if her husband wasn't quite ready to see him. Oh, but I've forgotten to congratulate you, sir, upon your fine speech in the House of Lords."
"Ah. Yes. Th-thank you, Mr. Marston."
David had had a slight stammer as a child. But he'd lost it completely in early adolescence. He hadn't thought about it for years, hadn't given it a moment's care even as he'd rehearsed his speech.
Absurd, he thought, to be so reduced, and in the eyes of a trivial, if beautiful, youth who lived for nothing but corrupt London style. Still, he found himself unaccountably pleased that Marston had known about the speech.
Even though, he reminded himself, Marston probably cared more for the parliamentary reporter's mannered prose than for the issues involved.
"I wouldn't have thought, Mr. Marston…"
"That a dandy would attend to the results of a boring vote on agricultural policy, my lord?"
"Well, yes, actually. Something like that. Seems rather a dull business for someone like you."
The two attractive gentlemen—the older one a well set up forty-year-old, the younger one slimmer and more carefully attired—stared curiously at each other in the midst of the shabby street. A sharp wind off the Thames ruffled their hair and sent bits of ash and urban filth swirling about their legs.
"And I, sir, must confess to a bit of surprise…"
David grinned. "That a stuffy country squire would take an interest in so rare a creature as Mr. Blake?"
Their eyes met. And then they both looked quickly away.
"Well, you must agree that he's a bit of a minority taste."
"Perhaps I'm fated always to find myself in the minority." David grimaced. "Still, I always visit Mr. Blake when I'm in Town. I wanted to be sure to see him before I escape back to Lincolnshire, for he's this city's chief attraction for me. I responded to his work immediately when I first saw it, quite by accident one day in a tiny gallery that I'd ducked into to avoid a sudden rainstorm."
Phoebe nodded emphatically, with a lack of irony completely unbefitting Phizz Marston. "I was introduced to him at Lady Caroline Lamb's some months ago. She's taken him up, I'm sure, partly for the amusement of his quaintness. But I don't find him quaint. I think he's a genius, though his view of things is so eccentric that he sometimes takes my breath away."
What in the world am 1 doing
? For it certainly wasn't Mr. Blake who was taking her breath away at the moment.
A cordial nod to Lord Linseley would have been sufficient. A bow more than enough. Shaking his hand and engaging him in enthusiastic conversation was excessive, to say the least.
Mr. Blake, she
is
the natural world, dammit, and not some mad, impossible artist's paradise. And in
my
world we don't do things like that.
He paid for his ale and stood uncertainly at the doorway of the tavern.
Marston was strolling easily down the street. In another moment he'd reach the tavern. It would be easy, David thought, simply to turn his back as the young man passed. No need, after all, to greet him outside of Polite Society. Of course, it might be a trifle ignoble.
Ignoble
? Bloody hell, it would be gutless, unmanly, and entirely unworthy of himself to avoid saluting a gentleman of his acquaintance.
It would also be admitting that his passions were stronger than he was.
And anyway, he found that he couldn't have turned away even if he'd wanted to.
"Mr. Marston."
Was that a hint of a blush on the young man's meticulously shaven cheeks? No, probably just the effect of a brisk wind blowing through the street.
"Lord Linseley. Good afternoon, sir. And what a surprise to find you here. Don't tell me that you've been set to wait in the Blake family anteroom."
A quick, firm handshake. And then the maddening half smile that had haunted the margins of David's thoughts since the night at Almack's.
"Yes, Mrs. Blake sent me here."
"She'd set the Angel Gabriel himself to waiting at the Coal Hole if her husband wasn't quite ready to see him. Oh, but I've forgotten to congratulate you, sir, upon your fine speech in the House of Lords."
"Ah. Yes. Th-thank you, Mr. Marston."
David had had a slight stammer as a child. But he'd lost it completely in early adolescence. He hadn't thought about it for years, hadn't given it a moment's care even as he'd rehearsed his speech.
Absurd, he thought, to be so reduced, and in the eyes of a trivial, if beautiful, youth who lived for nothing but corrupt London style. Still, he found himself unaccountably pleased that Marston had known about the speech.
Even though, he reminded himself, Marston probably cared more for the parliamentary reporter's mannered prose than for the issues involved.
"I wouldn't have thought, Mr. Marston…"
"That a dandy would attend to the results of a boring vote on agricultural policy, my lord?"
"Well, yes, actually. Something like that. Seems rather a dull business for someone like you."
The two attractive gentlemen—the older one a well set up forty-year-old, the younger one slimmer and more carefully attired—stared curiously at each other in the midst of the shabby street. A sharp wind off the Thames ruffled their hair and sent bits of ash and urban filth swirling about their legs.
"And I, sir, must confess to a bit of surprise…"
David grinned. "That a stuffy country squire would take an interest in so rare a creature as Mr. Blake?"
Their eyes met. And then they both looked quickly away.
"Well, you must agree that he's a bit of a minority taste."
"Perhaps I'm fated always to find myself in the minority." David grimaced. "Still, I always visit Mr. Blake when I'm in Town. I wanted to be sure to see him before I escape back to Lincolnshire, for he's this city's chief attraction for me. I responded to his work immediately when I first saw it, quite by accident one day in a tiny gallery that I'd ducked into to avoid a sudden rainstorm."
Phoebe nodded emphatically, with a lack of irony completely unbefitting Phizz Marston. "I was introduced to him at Lady Caroline Lamb's some months ago. She's taken him up, I'm sure, partly for the amusement of his quaintness. But I don't find him quaint. I think he's a genius, though his view of things is so eccentric that he sometimes takes my breath away."
What in the world am 1 doing
? For it certainly wasn't Mr. Blake who was taking her breath away at the moment.
A cordial nod to Lord Linseley would have been sufficient. A bow more than enough. Shaking his hand and engaging him in enthusiastic conversation was excessive, to say the least.
Mr. Blake, she
Similar Books
