Page 24 of Rogue Lyon

“Yes, that’s right. Rubens has created a sense of urgency in the painting. So clever. That is why he is a master. I am glad you can see it.”

“And did she get away? In the story.”

“No, her father caught her and whipped her for being a Christian, but every wheal on her flesh healed miraculously. Hence, she is a saint. It is not a happy end, though. He took a sword to her neck.”

“Gosh, how awful.”

Jules’s hand slipped to her waist and he tugged her a little nearer. “It is just a story. Do not be upset.”

His warm breath stroked her cheek and she hoped no one was watching them standing so close. It was intimate, thrilling, and highly inappropriate.

“I am not upset, I am intrigued. Show me more.”

“Yes, of course. Now for something very different.”

He practically marched her through to the next room and she giggled at the speed of their pace.

“I am excited to show you everything,” he said with a soft laugh. “I get the feeling you are going to soak up every detail and every snippet of knowledge.”

“Indeed, I am, and when I visit my mother in Wales, I can tell her all about the great masterpieces I have seen.”

“And will you tell her who showed them to you?”

“Should I?”

Again, they stopped. He tipped his head and looked at her. “I should like it if you did.”

“Don’t you think that…?” She stopped herself.

“What?”

She bit on her bottom lip. How could she tell her mother about Jules Habsburg showing her art if that was all there was to their relationship? A few stolen moments. Was there to be more? Or was this simply him indulging in his own hobby?

Did he, could he, really like her in a romantic sense?

It appeared he did, but Meredith was hardly an expert.

“I should like it if you told her of me when you visit,” he said softly.

Meredith managed a small nod and then averted her eyes to the painting.

“Though I shall miss you when you visit her. Wales is a long way from London.”

“Jules…please don’t say that.” Her heart squeezed. The chances of him missing her were so slim, they barely existed.

“Why ever not?” He frowned.

“Because it can’t be true. You hardly know me enough to miss me.”

“I know that your sharp mind intrigues me, that your curiosity rivals my own, that you appreciate perfection, skill, and…”

“And honesty. I appreciate honesty.”

“Duly noted.” He nodded seriously, though his eyes flashed. Then he looked up at the painting. “Not the end Goliath would have wished for himself.”

“Oh…no.” The painting captured David’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem after defeating Goliath with David holding Goliath’s huge, severed head aloft. “That is quite…gruesome.”

“Again, it makes you feel something.” Jules pressed his hand to his torso. “Something deep inside, visceral. It’s a moment in time captured for us by Nicolas Poussin. The cheering crowds, the musicians—”