“Wait! You’re supposed to keep me company!”
He waved an arm in the air without looking back. “I’ll return shortly!”
And he did, a treasure trove of warm clothes bundled in his arms and a footman carrying a tray of food following behind him.
She squealed in delight. “Thank you! She took the fur-trimmed velvet coat first and pulled it on, then donned the rest of the items before taking a steaming cup of tea in her hands. “Mama will likely not approve.”
Tobias stepped away from the pedestal. “She intercepted me on my return. You’re right. She does not approve. She seems to think the price of art is starvation and frostbite. But I told her breaking your fast would only take a small amount of time yet would strengthen you for the rest of the day. I reminded her you’ll need lunch, too, but I’m hoping you don’t have to wait that long to descend from that damned thing.” He kicked the pedestal.
“You’ve never been to the party before. You don’t know what it’s like. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to climb back up here tomorrow.”
He pulled back, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like a fish. “Tomorrow? For what?”
“Art takes time, don’t you know.”
He crossed his arms and grumbled something she couldn’t hear.
“Pardon?”
“I was simply saying this is a lovely event your parents host. Not at all lacking in priorities.”
She laughed. “Art is theonlypriority, Mr. Blake.”
He stepped closer, craning his head back to look up at her. “I disagree if it leaves you hungry and cold.”
Maggie shivered, but not from the cold. She couldn’t marry him. She couldn’t.
He was an artist, and he lived his life to upset his father. Could she marry a man whose only goal was to see his father annoyed and sputtering? And all because the man dared to leave his life’s work to his son upon his death.
If her parents could leave anything other than debt for Raph, her other brothers, and herself to inherit, she’d welcome it. Alas, they could not.
“Too-bright cravat for your thoughts, Lady Magnificent?”
She startled at Tobias’s scratchy voice and turned to him. Their gazes caught and tangled, and she managed a lighthearted smile.
“I was simply thinking how poorly you’re accomplishing your self-assigned task of keeping me amused. If I frown, what will the artists do?”
“Draw you frowning,” he drawled.
“Come, you are more creative than this.”
The corner of his mouth hitched up in an almost smile, his eyelids lowered, hiding his expression, and he quickly trained the line of his lips into a contemplative moue. “Your obviously high expectations for my wit inspire me to new heights. Let’s see.” He ambled closer, arms crossed over his chest, one hand drumming his fingers on the other bicep. He stopped before her and looked up. She stood still as a statue and looked down, waiting.
“Should you frown, the assembled artists’ hearts will break. And a sound, louder than the church bells of London all ringing at once, will echo through the garden, the hills, down the roads, and across the channel so that even those on the Continent will know what it sounds like when fifty artists’ hearts break all at once.”
She suppressed a smile, a laugh. “Then what?”
“My, you’re demanding.”
She blinked at him. Tapped her foot.
“Then, since you must know, I abscond with you to parts unknown while everyone is still reeling from the cumulative heartbreak.”
“Wouldn’t you be reeling, too?”
“I’d shove cotton in my ears and be the only man in England—nay, the world—with intact eardrums.”
She did smile then. She could not help it. Her very heart seemed to want to smile around Mr. Tobias Blake. “You are ridiculous, Mr. Blake.”
