The sound jarred her from her wistful reverie. Before she even turned around, she knew who it was.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, careful not to let others see her talking aloud to no one.
"Following you."
She turned around and looked up into his face. The sight of him took her breath away. The gold-flecked eyes that looked down at her were languid and amused, as if he possessed some hidden knowledge that she would never know unless she begged him. His square jaw was set against her, as were the massive arms crossed at his chest. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but his raven's-wing hair seemed to have developed a sheen of some sort which shimmered in the light from the mile-high windows.
Was it possible he was getting even more attractive?
"Why? My sister is alone at home. Not a suitor in sight. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"It's not all I wanted," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Besides, I wanted to accompany you on your quest to vanquish me."
"How did you—" She bit back the rest of the question. Of course he knew what she was up to. He was Mr. Bad Luck. Her bad luck, apparently.
His gaze darted to the painting. "So this is who your father named you after. If you ask me, you're much lovelier than your namesake."
There was an unbidden fluttering at his compliment, but she tamped it down lest she be beguiled once more. "As a matter of fact, I didn't ask you. Please feel at liberty to disappear once more. Preferably, for good."
"Why must you be so prickly?"
"Right now? I'll give you one guess."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you would enjoy talking about your father."
That cracked her armor. Of course she loved talking about her father. Her mother and her sister would enjoy the occasional reminiscence about Sir Rupert, but not about his work. And never about his passions.
"My father had a great fondness for this painting. In fact, he took great delight in all of Rubens' works."
He cocked his head to the side. "Really? Rubens was a gifted painter, I'll grant you. But he was a bit too imaginative for my tastes. I've always found his depictions of angels as chubby winged children to be rather laughable."
She rolled her eyes. "I'd expect someone like you to be dismissive about things you can't possibly appreciate."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not being dismissive at all. It's just that angels don't really look like that. If they did, people would probably be more inclined to pinch their cheeks rather than to obey their commands."
He was right; her father had told her the same thing. Every time an angel made an appearance, his first words were usually, "Do not fear." If anything, Sir Rupert used to say, angels were big and scary, not cute and cuddly.
She faced the painting once more, her arms crossed at her chest. "A pity you won't do as I command and leave me alone."
His voice stroked her ears from behind. "Leaving you alone would be a pity indeed. But please don't let me stop you from trying to stop me. I quite enjoy watching you try."
She whirled on him, ready to strike with the sharp edge of her tongue. Before she could get the first word out, he vanished like a shadow in sunlight.
Never mind. He may have mysterious magical powers, but every creature has its weakness. And she was determined to find his out.