She certainly did seem to enjoy Mr. Lundall’s company. And Gregory certainly did not seem to be interested in her, not when he was holding my hand and proclaiming that he did not wish to be formal with me. Yet there was a kind of familiarity between them. And Lady Cox believed an engagement imminent.
“I have been led to believe—and I am not the only one—that there is perhaps an expectation between the two of you.” I glanced at him to gauge his reaction.
Gregory’s brows rose in disbelief. “I assure you, Miss Brinton, that despite whatever expectations Lady Cox has, I have no plans regarding Miss Perrin other than allowing her to escape now and then from her mother and stepfather.”
I turned quickly to hide the silly grin covering my face. Gregory was not interested in Miss Perrin. He was not like Edward after all.
Yet I shouldn’t be feeling this rush of elation. It shouldn’t matter to me what his plans were.
A canvas of stretched paper had been placed on the easel before me. Beside it, a small table held a box containing twelve watercolor blocks, an assortment of brushes, and a dish of water. I picked up a brush with a small handle and pretended to study it, though my mind was racing. If Gregory didn’t seek an alliance with Miss Perrin, if he was indeed not like Edward, and if it was not his intent to seek my hand only to teach me a lesson, then perhaps he was exactly as he seemed.
This was bad. If he was what he seemed, and I allowed that whatever had initially spurred him to ask for my hand was unimportant, then there was nothing to keep my arguments against him from floating away like the boats we’d sailed down the river.
Except there was. I could not deem that reason as unimportant. He might not be hiding a mistress, but he was still hiding something. And what of my promise? Allowing myself to care for Gregory would lead only to heartache.
I set the brush down and picked up a thicker one, dipped it into the water, then paused to study the landscape before me. It was probably best to start with the lines of the bank of the river. But with watercolor, did one work from dark colors to light or light colors to dark? I couldn’t remember. If I chose wrong, the painting would be spoiled. Perhaps if I first practiced on the branches of a tree. Surely no one would notice if I practiced a little in the upper corner of the painting. Just to get my bearings.
I slid my brush across a dark brown block. Glancing once more at the shore, I lifted the brush to the top of the canvas where I thought the branches should go. The canvas was perfectly clean. There wasn’t even a dirty fingerprint on it.
It was ridiculous to pretend I could paint. I would humiliate myself by even attempting the endeavor. Better to save the paper and paint for Miss Perrin or some other young woman who set her sights on Gregory.
I spun around to confess my lack of talent. Gregory had stooped down directly behind me as though to see the painting from my angle and, in so doing, became my unintended canvas as my brush stroked his face. He flinched and stood, but too late. A thick brown line streaked his cheek.
I stepped back. And bumped into the easel, sending it toppling into the table of paints. The whole setup crashed to the ground.
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry.” I should have rushed to pick up the canvas and rescue the paints, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Gregory. His hand rose to his face, his finger swiping at the mark, smearing it.
The servant appeared next to us and I again apologized as he began cleaning up my mess. When the easel was righted, I placed the brush on its lip and turned back to Gregory. He had a handkerchief to his face but instead of cleaning the mark off he had smeared it some more.
“I didn’t realize you were directly behind me. Here. Let me help.” I held out my hand for the fabric.
“It’s all right.”
“You’re only smearing it. Please, stop.”
He hesitated, uncertain. I snatched the handkerchief from his fingers and dipped it into the now-righted water, which contained only drops. I hoped it was enough.
I reached back for his face. He flinched away. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I exclaimed.
“Really, it’s all right. I’ll just step inside—”
“Gregory, just hold still. It will only take a moment.”
He stilled, and I realized I’d called him by his name. Out loud.
How had I let that happen? Without meeting his gaze, I quickly rose onto my tiptoes and, with a few gentle swipes, cleaned the paint from his face. “There. It’s gone.” My next breath was filled with him—his light cologne, the faint saddle oil. I hadn’t realized we’d moved so close. Nor had I realized that my other hand cupped his face, steadying it while I cleaned his cheek. Our faces were mere inches from each other. If I leaned forward ever so slightly, our lips would touch. I raised my gaze from his mouth to his eyes and my breath caught as truth flooded over me.
All my precautions, all my objections, all my arguments—
they were for naught.
I was in love with Gregory.
Thirty
I reeled back, remembering too late that the easel had been set up again. Again it crashed to the ground.
“Sorry,” I said distractedly as the servant set about righting it.
I couldn’t be in love with Gregory. It was impossible. It was merely loneliness and worry for Alice that had me thinking such ridiculous thoughts.
I shoved the handkerchief at Gregory, staring at it to avoid looking at his face.
He seemed to take forever in reaching for it. His fingers brushed my hand, lingering long enough to send a tingle up my arm. A tingle that I rather enjoyed and that left me longing for more.
I flinched away. “To own the truth, my lord, I do not paint. Please, excuse me.” I walked toward the house, hoping my pace didn’t reveal my retreat for what it was—flight away from him. How had I let this happen? I had promised never to allow my heart to fall in love again.
I had to get away. Far away.
“Miss Brinton,” Mr. Lundall called. “Wait.”
I stopped. I had forgotten all about Mr. Lundall and his desire to speak to me. It would provide a needed distraction until I could regain control of my wayward emotions.
He rushed to my side as a chaise was brought around front. Mr. Lundall frowned and looked at his timepiece. “It is time already. We are too late for our walk.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved a letter. “Here. This is from your brother. He commissioned me to bring it to you.”
I took the note, imagining a scenario where Mr. Lundall pestered Daniel for my whereabouts and Daniel, thinking it would be good humor, not only told him where I was but gave him a note as an excuse for Mr. Lundall to visit. He had probably been laughing ever since Mr. Lundall had left to come find me.
“But, if you’ve spoken with Daniel, you must know about Alice.”
“I regret that I did not know she was ill, so I did not ask after her. Your brother provided no information. I hope the letter answers all your questions to your satisfaction.”
“Why did you not give this to me yesterday?” I broke the seal in my eagerness to know the letter’s content.
“Mr. Lundall,” Miss Perrin said, joining us, her presence forcing me to put the perusal of my letter on hold. “Would you think me terribly unrefined if I begged a ride home? The light isn’t ideal for painting just now, and I believe Miss Bowen is bored.” I glanced at Miss Perrin’s companion; she appeared completely content to sit on that bench until she’d finished her book.