Or paint her. He had not painted a woman since Catriona’s death.
“You paint landscapes?”
He cleared his throat, not wishing for the conversation to turn too personal.
“I did once. Now I must content myself with sketching houses.”
Miss Arden gestured for him to join her at the table. “You’re welcome to make use of my terrace if you wish to resume the occupation. It’s so nice to be friendly with one’s neighbors.”
He glanced at her. Something in her tone was breathy, like she meant more than she said and wanted him to know it.
Was that some other kind of invitation, or was he imagining it? His skill at parsing flirtation from polite conversation had gone dull from underuse. Since Catriona’s death, he’d spent most of his time working or with the children, declining introductions to eligible widows and invitations to parties where mixed company was expected.
He felt clumsy.
In any case, it did not matter, for he suspected that her building project was one at which his connections would be alarmed. There could be no future in fostering a friendship with a radical, as much as he might enjoy the frank style of her conversation and her amusing manner.
He hoped he conveyed his genuine regret when he shook his head. “I’m afraid between my work and my family I will not likely find the time.”
She stretched back, as if to feel the sunlight on her shoulders. Her movements set off the profile of her figure in the light, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, as if to see whether he noticed.
He did.
He should leave.
“I saw two children playing on the path this morning,” she said. “Are they yours?”
“Yes. As I must be here for the summer, I thought to bring them with me. Get them out of the London murk to take in a bit of seaside air.”
“Your wife must enjoy the holiday as well.”
She said this with a pointed tone that made him almost certain she was asking something else.
“My sister cares for my children. I’m a widower.”
Her face furrowed. “Oh, I’m very sorry.”
He shook his head, not wishing to dwell on this topic of conversation, which never became easier. “It was years ago.”
Three years and seven months, to be exact.
“And yet not so very far away,” she said, catching a glimpse of something in his face, which to his chagrin had never had the usual Scottish talent for opacity. “It never is, you know.”
She gave him a small, sad smile, and he was grateful for the appearance of a servant, saving him from having to say more.
The maid placed a carafe of wine and two glasses between them. She filled Miss Arden’s glass with claret, then moved to fill his own. He pressed his hand over the rim. “No, thank you. It doesn’t agree with me.”
Miss Arden cocked her head at him. “Château Rauzan-Ségla does not agree with you?”
In truth, he wouldn’t know, as he had never tried a drop. Not after watching the effect spirits had had on his father.
She swirled her own glass and inhaled, closing her eyes with pleasure. “That, Mr. Anderson, is very unfortunate for you indeed.” She drank a sip, an arch expression in her eyes. If that look was designed to draw his interest, it was effective.
But not necessary.
One did not need wine or bold conversation to be struck by Miss Arden. It was all he could do not to betray the fact that the sight of her exposed collarbone was as compelling as the view of the bay behind her.
“I should be going,” he said, half rising.
“Oh, stay,” she said, in such a way that he instantly sat back down. “You must let me give you some refreshment to thank you for your wise counsel.”
She smiled at him and turned to her servant. “Bring Mr. Anderson some tea. And perhaps some of those honey biscuits from London. If we cannot ply him with spirits, we shall ply him with something sweeter.”
She winked at her maid. Perhaps he’d been wrong to think her half-laughing, half-seductive air was directed at him. Perhaps she used it on everyone. She turned back to him.
“I must say, Mr. Anderson, I was not sure if you would be willing to come here after our rather . . . unexpected meeting. I hope I didn’t shock you. And please accept my apology for the interruption to your work.”
“No apology is necessary, Miss Arden. I have forgotten the matter entirely.”
He had not forgotten it. He had dreamt about it two nights running.
He most definitely needed to leave.
She smiled, as if she could sense the lie. “Tell me, what was it you were sketching when I interrupted you?”
“A bulwark to protect the belvedere against erosion.”
She tapped a finger to her lip. “And did you like what you saw, Mr. Anderson?”
At what he was imagining in her tone, his heart beat faster. He frantically scanned his mind for a reason to cut the conversation short.
“It will take some clever engineering but new beams beneath the old foundation should do the trick.”
Her lips quirked up beneath her finger. Wolfish. “I was not asking your opinion of the belvedere, Mr. Anderson.”
His heart briefly stopped beating altogether.
Before he could respond, the servant returned with his tea, and he waited in silence as she arranged a plate of biscuits before him for what felt like ages.
“I don’t purchase sugar, I’m afraid,” Miss Arden said.
He suspected as much. She was associated with the printer Jack Willow and his league calling for abolition, equal voting rights, and the end of monarchy.
“Neither do I,” he said. He supported the cause in principle, though he’d not done as much as he’d like to further it himself.
Miss Arden reached across the table and stole a biscuit from his plate, a gesture that displayed her bosom to such a shocking effect that he had to force his eyes above her shoulder to remain a gentleman.
When he dared look back down, she met his gaze with a challenge in her eyes, a smile playing across her generous mouth.
“You can look. I told you the view was all yours to admire.”
He nearly choked on his biscuit.
“I see I’ve shocked you,” she said. “Again.” She smiled in what could only be described as sympathy.
He had never been spoken to so boldly in all his life. His instinct was to jolt up from the chair and leap over the railing to the safety of the coastal path.
But something about the way she was looking at him, measuring his response, made him stay. She acted the way he’d always rather wished to: as if there were no consequences to what she said or did or thought.
She was daring him to meet her in her boldness.
He had two children, a sister who depended on him, a fortune to make so that they might have the secure future he alone could give them. He could not afford to take risks.
But with her eyes on him like that, he thirsted to be reckless.
Just for a minute.
Just to remind himself that he had not always been this kind of man.
That he had once been a person who did not shy from innuendo, who did not deflect advances, who did not recoil at the sight of a loose strand of a woman’s hair gleaming, as hers did now, just so in the sunlight.
He leaned over the table and met her eye. “I’m not easily shocked, Miss Arden.”