The Master & the Muses Read Free Page A

matter how rude I am.”
    His blue eyes regarded me with new interest. “Are you being rude?”
    â€œSee there, you wouldn’t even know!” I replied.
    He laughed and the sound of it was so carefree that I daresay I found my mouth twitching to smile.
    â€œMiss Bridgeton, I assure you that my intentions are honorable. Are you not old enough to accept a simple invitation for a walk in the gardens, maybe to enjoy an ice cream with me?”
    â€œFor what purpose, Mr. Rodin?” I knew to accept meant I would hear more about this proposal. Moreover, I feared that my interest was not merely in his proposal, but in seeing him again.
    â€œVery well, Mr. Rodin. Shall we meet at the west gate of the Cremorne Gardens, then? Around five?”
    â€œI look forward to it, Miss Bridgeton. You can ask then all the questions that I’m certain are mulling around that beautiful head of yours.”
    Â 
    We’d taken our ice cream and walked past the dancing platform to get away from the crowd and the loud music of the outdoor stage. It was a pleasant early evening at the gardens. The lights, hung by lanterns in the trees, flickered in the dusky wane of sunlight. A gentle breeze blew, mercifully keeping the lingering stench of the city at bay, at least for a while. “Tell me about your brother, Mr. Rodin.”
    I used a spoon to scoop up a bite of the refreshing ice cream infused with lemon. An arched tunnel overgrown with wisteria and vines led to another part of the park. I thought we would be able to talk quietly there.
    We walked through the tunnel in silence, the cool shadows as welcome as the treats we ate.
    â€œWhat would you like to know about him?” Mr. Rodin asked.
    I confess my head felt light for no reason I could think of other than the handsome gentleman at my side. Unnerved by my reaction to his proximity, I sought to find a question about his brother that could possibly interest me more than Mr. Rodin. “Why don’t you tell me about his work?”
    A small blob of ice cream slid off my spoon and landed in the middle of my chest. I grimaced and Mr. Rodin offered to hold my cone while I rummaged through my bag for a handkerchief.
    â€œThere now, Miss Bridgeton. I’ve got it.”
    He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped away the mess. I felt the slight brush of his fingertips over my breast. A gasp tore from my throat. “Please, Mr. Rodin!”
    â€œMy apologies, Miss Bridgeton. It seemed simple enough to remove without touching your—”
    My brows shot up. “I receive your meaning, Mr. Rodin. You needn’t embellish.” I took his handkerchief and dabbed at the place where the ice cream had seeped through to my skin. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Perhaps we could find a place to sit down?”
    â€œOh, yes, of course. Here, this looks like a suitable spot.”
    He waited as I sat, and I shook my head when he offered me the remainder of my cone. He tossed both cones into a receptacle nearby and sat down beside me.
    â€œPlease continue, Mr. Rodin. You were telling me about your brother.” I took a breath and patted my hair, trying not to look too disheveled.
    â€œAbout Thomas—” he tapped his long fingers together “—he’s a complex fellow, as most men of his position are. His passion is his art and that is what drives him, I suppose.”
    â€œForgive me, but is he any good? Does he exhibit his work publicly?”
    He turned to look at me, his expression curious. “You’ve truly not heard of him?”
    I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I have not.”
    â€œHis earlier works have been on exhibition at the Royal Academy gallery. I believe one or two still hang in a permanent wing at the insistence of one of the academy’s wealthy contributors.”
    â€œHis accomplishments sound most impressive. You must be quite proud.”
    â€œI told you, Miss