her husband, a member of one of England's noblest families, dabbling like a common tinkerer in the development of motorcars. Not like Cece.
His resolve hardened and his step quickened. There would be no more delay in his marriage plans. Jared meant what he'd said to his mother: he would make every effort to win the next American heiress to come along, regardless of who she was or what she was like. It was past time to put away foolish dreams of automobiles and a tall, dark-eyed nymph.
If nothing else, he had been fortunate to at least taste that curious, intriguing ache artists exalted and poets wept over. Fortunate ... or cursed? He didn't know and didn't care. Each step carried him farther from her. and he acknowledged one searing truth.
Jared Grayson, the twenty-first Earl of Graystone. would never be the same again.
"Why didn't you just tell them we were going to the Louvre again?" Emily gazed suspiciously at the canvas set before her.
"Don't be silly, Emily," Cece said airily. "Even Mother and Father would have questioned yet another museum jaunt." And it was imperative that she not arouse the suspicions of her parents at this point. Soon, perhaps, she would reveal everything to them. Well, not quite everything.
She had decided to tell Jared of her feelings for him. It was what a modern woman, a woman headed firmly toward the twentieth century, a woman who believed in progress, would do.
"But this ..." Emily gestured helplessly at the artist's paraphernalia confronting her.
"This is perfect." Cece's tone rang firm. "I simply told Mother after all the masterpieces you had seen you wanted to attempt to paint yourself. To discover the artist within you. After all, you love—"
"I know, I know," Emily gritted her teeth. "I love art." She shook her head. "I still can't believe Mother accepted this farfetched story of yours about my sudden interest in smearing paint on canvas." She glared at her sister through narrowed eyes. "She didn't even ask me about it."
"I told her not to," Cece beamed smugly. "I must admit it was quite clever. I simply suggested that she not make a fuss over your artistic endeavors until you knew whether or not you had any real talent." She shrugged in a modest manner. "I told her it would embarrass you."
Emily's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Embarrass me? What could be more embarrassing than sitting here, in front of the Eiffel Tower—and all of Paris, I might add—and attempting to paint? I don't know how to paint."
"Honestly, Em," Cece sighed in exasperation. Why couldn't the child be a bit more cooperative? And where on earth was Jared? He should have been here by now. "How difficult can it be? Lord knows, when I was incarcerated at Miss Rutherford's Finishing School for Young Ladies they had us painting anything that didn't move. We were forced to commit to paper for all eternity everything from that astonishingly ugly building to leftover fruit from the day's luncheon. Didn't they teach you to paint?"
"Watercolors," Emily said under her breath.
"There, you see." Cece said triumphantly. "I knew it."
It was Emily's turn to sigh. "Perhaps you were unaware of this, but at Miss Rutherford's I was far better known for spilling paint than placing it on paper."
"Oh, dear," Cece drew her brows together in a thoughtful frown. "That could well explain Mother's obvious astonishment when I explained your artistic aspirations."
"No doubt," Emily said dryly.
Cece brightened. "Be that as it may, you are older now and perhaps talent is something that can be developed even if one has no natural gift."
Emily tossed her a pointed stare. "I thought this was simply a ruse for this morning only, so that you would be able to meet your Mr. Grayson." Her eyes widened with horror. "Surely you do not intend for me to continue with this cultural farce? This travesty against the very world of art itself?"
"Only so long as is necessary. Now," she said briskly, "why don't you begin?"
Emily turned
Learning to Kill: Stories