Free Lady Wild by Máire Claremont Page B

William Hunt, another influential member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. At present, the man had two paintings hanging in The Royal Academy and had just sold a piece for five hundred pounds. “She speaks, and one must listen,” Hunt gushed. He threw Gabriel a ball-crushing stare from under his mop of disordered, curly brown hair. “And who says you can have her, Gabriel? She is clearly meant for my fallen woman.”
    “I’m Mary Magdalene now?” Ophelia asked. A flirtatious air deepened her voice as she turned from one artist to the next.
    Andrew nearly punched both of the artists in the gut. He had to get a hold of himself before he dragged Ophelia out into the street and castigated her for being such a bloody success with the two Brothers . Which, of course, he had known she would be. It was the reason he’d brought her directly to meet them.
    Lady Darlington had beamed with delight all morning at the prospect of her daughter meeting the artists they both so admired. He would have preferred the meeting to be elsewhere, but the best chance of a quick meeting had been to come here. And Lady Darlington had been most insistent that Ophelia not wait.
    Perhaps Lady Darlington’s lack of time had something to do with her willingness to allow her daughter to explore such strange places. Or perhaps it was that as death neared, Lady Darlington seemed to be done with shoulds and should nots.
    At least he was with Ophelia.
    Andrew’s good humor at pleasing the older lady had just about vanished.
    Ophelia glanced at him. “Are you feeling quite well?”
    “Quite.”
    “Well, you look remarkably sour. Does your stomach ail you?”
    Andrew clenched his jaw before he could say that her being the model of a known profligate was suddenly making his stomach positively roil.
    “Johnny must not hear of her,” Hunt said, ignoring Ophelia and Andrew’s discourse. He pointed, jabbing his finger, knuckles swollen, no doubt from recently having punched the daylights out of something. Hunt was legendary for his rages. Hence, his apt nickname, Animal . “If he does, he shall wish her, too.”
    “You mean John Everett Millais, the painter?” she asked breathlessly. Her face positively lit up as if she’d seen her lord and savior.
    Well, of course she was excited. She’d braved a river to examine how Millais had managed the painting of his infamous canvas, Ophelia .
    Andrew looked toward the bar, wondering if he could get away with a large gin. No. He needed all his wits about him.
    “Yes,” Andrew said. “That is who Mr. Hunt means.”
    “Of course,” Hunt snapped, brushing his hands against his waistcoat. “That poncing little prince of The Royal Academy—”
    “But his painting of Ophelia is glorious!” Ophelia interjected, her emerald eyes glowing with the ardor of a devotee.
    All the men stared at her for one good long moment. All three let out collective sighs of frustration.
    Johnny was the recognized artistic darling, after all. And Andrew? Well, he damned well didn’t like that look on her face, like she’d walk over coals just to be in Millais’ presence.
    “Oh God. Not you, too,” Gabriel Rossetti groaned, his face churlish with abrupt jealousy. “Everyone is, ‘Ophelia this, and Ophelia that.’” He propped his paint-stained hands on his narrow hips and pouted rather like a beautiful girl denied a bauble.
    Somehow, he still managed to appear manly. It was a mystery. Andrew was certain it had to be his Italian blood that allowed for such preposterous attitudes.
    “I saw Lizzie Siddal first,” Gabriel continued. “And now that Johnny’s got her, I shan’t let him have you. He’d snap you up—”
    “Am I to have so many admirers?” she teased.
    Gabriel gave her a saucy look and snatched up her gloved hand. “Of course you are, my angel. And you can toss off Hunt.” Gabriel leaned toward Ophelia and whispered rather loudly, “You see, Hunt only likes whores, and clearly you are not a whore. You