Author: Summer Devon
Book: The Gentleman's Muse
Cover Artist: Tara of Fantasia Frog Designs
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Length: 56,000 words
RELEASE DATE: October 12, 2017
Length: 56,000 words
RELEASE DATE: October 12, 2017
Synopsis
When a frantic man races after David on a
London street, he’s certain the fellow is a lunatic. But in fact, Isak Jensen
is an artist caught by David’s beauty. He coaxes David to model for him, for a
generous fee, of course. David, down on his luck and with a sister to support,
agrees—despite his undeniable and dangerous attraction to the eccentric,
wealthy artist. The sort of attraction that has led him into trouble before.
Enjoying rising fame as a painter, Isak
struggles to keep his emotional distance from his handsome
model—unsuccessfully. Dodging downstairs gossip and swirling intrigue amongst
the servants, he and David indulge in clandestine rendezvous. Until the
problems that hound David land on Isak’s doorstep in the shape of a former
lover, a conniving aristocrat who preyed upon both David and his sister.
With a looming scandal in a censorious
society threatening to destroy Isak, David, and his sister, Isac makes a
perilous offer that could save them all…or put paid to the love and passion
just beginning to bloom between the gentleman and his model.
Excerpt
London, 1880
David
had set out with purpose that morning. He’d thrilled at the sight of
the gold dome of the cathedral and the magnificent Blackfriars Bridge.
He’d gawked at the organ grinders, the throngs of gentlemen in suits,
the elegant ladies in lace. Even the cats slinking along the iron fences
seemed more exotic in the city than the cats back home.
Now
he only wanted to trudge back to the inn and take off his uncomfortable
shoes. His money would run out in a couple of days, and he felt only
relief at the thought of returning home—until he imagined facing Bethie
again.
He was making his way down a narrow street with brick-terraced houses when a man’s voice rang out. “Here, you! I need you.”
David
stopped and looked around. A wild figure, with no hat or coat, raced
across the pavement toward him in a what must have been a black-and-red
smoking jacket, tails flapping.
David
considered racing away from the crazed gentleman, but that would look
absurd, especially since several passersby and a dray cart had stopped
to watch the exciting action.
“Sir?” he asked nervously.
“You…”
The man bent and put his hands on his knees. He held out a large bony
hand palm up and panted. After a few deep breaths, he straightened and
pushed his other hand through his dark hair, leaving a streak of blue
across his forehead.
David considered escape again. He took a step backward.
“No, wait. I beg your pardon.” The man had a plummy, upper-crust accent.
David took another step back, even more wary. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I would like to hire you. Immediately.”
The
dray cart driver clicked to his horse and the pedestrians turned
away—obviously disappointed there wasn’t to be something more
interesting going on.
David’s
mouth opened and closed. He almost asked the gentleman if he wanted a
carpenter, but remembered his ambitions in time. “You require a clerk?”
“No, no, I need a model, and you’re bloody perfect.”
David winced at the bad language.
The
man didn’t notice. He was looking David up and down, like a
cabinetmaker examining a load of lumber. Better that than the predatory
look David had imagined when he’d first noticed the man.
The
blue stripe on his forehead moved as the man raised his impressive
eyebrows. “I saw you hours ago and thought about going after you then,
but I was entirely too lazy, and then here you came in the other
direction.”
“Ah,”
David said. The man could recall David from all the people walking down
the street? That seemed doubtful in a city of men in dark suits and
hats.
“Come back to my studio, and we’ll talk.”
A
year ago, David would have smiled and happily gone wherever the fine
gent took him. Now he folded his arms over his chest and said, “No. I
don’t think so.”
The
man’s icy blue-gray eyes widened. “Good Lord, I’m not out to rob you.
I’d attack someone who seems more prosperous if I were.”
David was wearing his Sunday best and had his grandfather’s silver watch. He’d felt entirely grand as he’d set out that morning.
And now this gentleman called him shabby. David wanted to walk away and maybe throw a curse over his shoulder.
And
then tomorrow, he’d go home to Bethie—and no, that wouldn’t do. He had
to find work, even if it was from this sort of man who oozed wealth and
arrogance.
“Modeling,” David said. “For a picture, you mean?”
“Yes,
that exactly.” The artist straightened the waistcoat under his odd silk
jacket, then apparently noticed he’d smeared it with blue. “Bother.
There’s another one ruined. Are you coming? I pay well.”
“How much?”
“Seven shillings.”
That
settled the matter. David couldn’t possibly say no. During his busiest
time with his uncle, he made twenty shillings—a whole pound—a week, but
after the incident with George, he didn’t get that sort of work.
He really shouldn’t have broken George’s fingers.
Without
waiting for more, the gentleman turned and walked away. David hesitated
only a moment before following. “What’s your name? Sir?” he said when
he caught up with him.
“Isak Jensen. Yes, I know I don’t look Nordic.”
The
hair was dark and the skin more toast than white milk, but there was
something about Mr. Jensen’s face, a boniness that seemed Viking.
“I’m
heartily sick of painting my own face,” Jensen said as he walked along.
“Too raw. You have precisely the look I want. The jawline, the eyes are
refined.”
“I hope I can be of service.” Only because I want the money, he finished silently.
“Hmm.” Jensen sounded uninterested, which was reassuring. David didn’t trust eagerness.
The
man led him past the squat terraced houses, around the corner. He’d run
a great distance, and thinking of the man running after him, wanting
him that much, almost made David stop, refuse the job, and walk away.
They
walked to another, far grander, row of houses, red brick behind the
usual black wrought iron fence—the place where David had seen and
greeted a cat that very morning.
The
entrance, with a single shiny red door under a canopy, wasn’t as grand
as the manors back home, but close enough to make the back of David’s
neck prickle.
He had worked in houses like this one, and had met George in one only slightly grander.
He
followed the Viking man inside and looked around with his trained eye.
Some of the wainscoting had been dented. A few plaster walls could use
some repair, though the curving mahogany banister under his hand was
smooth and perfect. He trailed after Jensen up the stairs, and then up
more stairs, and even more—into a room with skylights and windows. He
walked to the broad window that wasn’t original to the building and put
his hand on the glass. “We’re on top of the city here. Look at all those
chimney pots.”
Jensen said, “You’re not a servant, then.”
David
turned away from window. “No. Why did you think that?” It was
refreshing to speak to this gentlemen with little or no deference. That
was what came of being suspicious, discouraged, and hungry—the one
advantage.
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