Read Online The King of Threadneedle Street by Moriah Densley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Moriah Densley
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Daisy, the matronly mastiff, who was too old to go on the hunt, slept on Alysia’s shoes as she sketched on a large pad with charcoal and pastels.
The salon was a splendid art gallery, home to the marquess’ prized sculptures and paintings; replicas of great works, and many original pieces even the Louvre would be proud to exhibit.
Today Alysia was smitten with a copy of the Dying Gaul in marble . The life-sized piece had beckoned to her the moment she stepped through the doors and saw beams of sunlight displaying the fallen warrior in all his glorious agony. Alysia had been pushing the thought from her mind all morning that her fascination was not entirely scientific. She had been imagining Andrew as a Gallic warrior since he had arrived last week.
She had studied and sketched the statue from two other angles and now sat facing his pierced torso. Perched on his altar-like slab of marble, he seemed to incline his head to her, including her in his suffering. Alysia liked Lord Courtenay’s copy. Ancient, marvelously detailed, and unimproved. She had seen idealized replicas, smoothed and cleaned, and thereby robbed of the interesting elements, in her opinion.
His lips parted in a hiss of pain visible only from below, his head bowed to his chest. From that angle she finally discovered what exactly about the statue evoked her admiration. It was the square, defiant set of his shoulders as he sat upon his shield, confronting death. The idea of railing against a cruel fate — meeting it with proud defiance, struck her as inspiring. And irresistibly romantic.
It also made her feel wretched, to some extent. She couldn’t deny that she desired to fight her own fate, but like the Dying Gaul, misery would come whether she displayed bravery or not. The Gallic warrior couldn’t escape his death in battle, and she was doomed to the empty life Andrew so succinctly illustrated for her a few nights past.
The forceful beauty of the art, combined with her own tumultuous feelings, moved her, and she was glad to be alone. She caught a stray tear and cursed under her breath as another dropped onto her sketchpad, smudging the charcoal.
“Such scandalous language from a lady,” came Andrew’s velvety deep voice behind her, raising the hair on the back of her neck with his breath. Alysia cried in surprise, tossing her papers and pencils into the air.
Poor Daisy leapt up in fright and growled. She cast a doggish, annoyed look at Andrew then settled back on the rug, covering a few of Alysia’s pastels with her massive belly. She dropped her head onto her paws and shot a scolding look at Lord Preston.
Alysia was not much more pleased to see him. He bent to gather her things and muttered an apology through his chuckling. Alysia quickly wiped away the remainder of her traitorous tears and hurried to compose herself before he noticed. She held out the case with her eyes cast down so he could place the pencils back inside.
“Ha! Sorry, Lisa. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only tease you a bit.” He turned before she managed to erase her melancholy expression, and his face fell. “Oh, Lisa. What is it?” He tried to gather her in an embrace, but she pushed his arms away.
“Thank you, my lord. I am quite well.” She changed the subject. “You have returned from the hunt already?” A sideways peek at the clock confirmed it was yet mid-morning. She had expected them home that afternoon.
“Oh. Aye. Well, I went with them as far as Tilmore Lodge, and we had a few pheasants each. The others decided to ride on across the stream and circle back around this afternoon. I didn’t want to spend my day listening to that horrid Belmont’s boasting and floating my eyeballs in grotty tavern ale.”
That earned a half-smile from Alysia; one corner of her mouth pulled up. “You didn’t say so, of course.”
“Of course not. I claimed my gelding threw a shoe — I pried it off when no one was looking. I only hope my father will look after
The salon was a splendid art gallery, home to the marquess’ prized sculptures and paintings; replicas of great works, and many original pieces even the Louvre would be proud to exhibit.
Today Alysia was smitten with a copy of the Dying Gaul in marble . The life-sized piece had beckoned to her the moment she stepped through the doors and saw beams of sunlight displaying the fallen warrior in all his glorious agony. Alysia had been pushing the thought from her mind all morning that her fascination was not entirely scientific. She had been imagining Andrew as a Gallic warrior since he had arrived last week.
She had studied and sketched the statue from two other angles and now sat facing his pierced torso. Perched on his altar-like slab of marble, he seemed to incline his head to her, including her in his suffering. Alysia liked Lord Courtenay’s copy. Ancient, marvelously detailed, and unimproved. She had seen idealized replicas, smoothed and cleaned, and thereby robbed of the interesting elements, in her opinion.
His lips parted in a hiss of pain visible only from below, his head bowed to his chest. From that angle she finally discovered what exactly about the statue evoked her admiration. It was the square, defiant set of his shoulders as he sat upon his shield, confronting death. The idea of railing against a cruel fate — meeting it with proud defiance, struck her as inspiring. And irresistibly romantic.
It also made her feel wretched, to some extent. She couldn’t deny that she desired to fight her own fate, but like the Dying Gaul, misery would come whether she displayed bravery or not. The Gallic warrior couldn’t escape his death in battle, and she was doomed to the empty life Andrew so succinctly illustrated for her a few nights past.
The forceful beauty of the art, combined with her own tumultuous feelings, moved her, and she was glad to be alone. She caught a stray tear and cursed under her breath as another dropped onto her sketchpad, smudging the charcoal.
“Such scandalous language from a lady,” came Andrew’s velvety deep voice behind her, raising the hair on the back of her neck with his breath. Alysia cried in surprise, tossing her papers and pencils into the air.
Poor Daisy leapt up in fright and growled. She cast a doggish, annoyed look at Andrew then settled back on the rug, covering a few of Alysia’s pastels with her massive belly. She dropped her head onto her paws and shot a scolding look at Lord Preston.
Alysia was not much more pleased to see him. He bent to gather her things and muttered an apology through his chuckling. Alysia quickly wiped away the remainder of her traitorous tears and hurried to compose herself before he noticed. She held out the case with her eyes cast down so he could place the pencils back inside.
“Ha! Sorry, Lisa. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only tease you a bit.” He turned before she managed to erase her melancholy expression, and his face fell. “Oh, Lisa. What is it?” He tried to gather her in an embrace, but she pushed his arms away.
“Thank you, my lord. I am quite well.” She changed the subject. “You have returned from the hunt already?” A sideways peek at the clock confirmed it was yet mid-morning. She had expected them home that afternoon.
“Oh. Aye. Well, I went with them as far as Tilmore Lodge, and we had a few pheasants each. The others decided to ride on across the stream and circle back around this afternoon. I didn’t want to spend my day listening to that horrid Belmont’s boasting and floating my eyeballs in grotty tavern ale.”
That earned a half-smile from Alysia; one corner of her mouth pulled up. “You didn’t say so, of course.”
“Of course not. I claimed my gelding threw a shoe — I pried it off when no one was looking. I only hope my father will look after
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