The Art of the Scandal by Suzanne Tierney

Author:Suzanne Tierney
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2019-08-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

On the veranda overlooking the out-of-control and overgrown garden, Lydia angrily cut the Bramley apple into eight even wedges and said, “You, Mr. Cohen—”

Simon. Simon, she had called him last night, when her mind buzzed on cognac and her body buzzed with attraction. The formality of his name, the four syllables, the hard C, the way the o pushed forward from the back of her throat only to be reined in by the h, felt heavy as marbles in her mouth. Cohen did not slide off the tongue and into a sigh like Simon.

“You are a monster.”

He plucked a slice off her plate and stretched out in a wicker chair that looked ready to splinter beneath him. He was too large, too composed, too athletic even when he sat still. Compared to him, everything around them seemed flimsy—the rigid Palladian lines of this London house, the twisting branches of the rose bushes choking the garden wall, Lydia herself. She stirred cream and sugar into her tea, clinking her spoon against the fine china again and again, a tinny voice to her agitation.

He lifted his smug, handsome face to absorb the heat of London’s July sun, as if the world sat at his fingertips and spun upon his command. “It’s a dinner with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, not a dance with the devil.”

Every day in this house was a dance with the devil. Lydia wanted to throttle him. Place her hands on his throat, rub her thumb across his never-yielding Adam’s apple, stroke his skin—she imagined it would be hot, tender and perhaps a little rough with the masculinity that was so distinctively his—and strangle him. Not touch. Not kiss. By God, not lick. The July heat was making mincemeat of her brain.

Finishing his apple slice, Mr. Cohen said, “As I’ve already explained, in a meeting with the good Chancellor yesterday at his home, I noted he happens to have an El Greco that looks rather like my Madonna with Saints.”

“As I’ve already explained, the Chancellor’s grandfather was notorious for his debts—never a mistress he could deny. You purchased the El Greco through Christie’s private sale and even I can see the paperwork is in good order.”

“Really,” he said on a lazy purr. Not even a fool would mistake the man for a pussy cat.

“Your receipt notes it’s a canvas with a wooden strip at the bottom.” Lydia gave up on her tea. Unlike her temper, it had gone cold. “And it is not uncommon for certain families to have copies made of their valued pieces before they then quietly sell them. . . for sentimental value,” she added to cover up a flush. Hopefully he would mistake it for embarrassment, not guilt.

“Ja-nee. Shall I pop over and ask the man in charge of England’s financial security if he’s sporting a forgery?”

“Maybe you could describe the painting to me?” Why did her voice have to pitch up? Her question was more than reasonable.

“It was rectangular. There was a woman and a baby, some angels.

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