“For instance, that color in your cheeks would be deceptively difficult to capture,” he pondered aloud, narrowing his eyes as though studying her. “It is not simply a question of red; the merging with your complexion and the fluidity of the color itself make it more challenging.”
Harriet peeked up at him and caught him staring at her unabashedly. He faltered, mouth open as though to say more before realizing what he had been about to say. Beecham suddenly hove into view at the periphery of Harriet's awareness. Agnes wastskingand following the butler, reprimanding him for failing her trivia, thus not paying enough attention.
“Shall we move on?” Jeremy smiled charmingly.
They worked their way through the floors of the gallery. There were other ladies and gentlemen present, requiring a slowpace. Harriet found herself enjoying the sight of such artistic treasures, which she otherwise would not have been able to see.
Ralph has no interest in art and would not allow me to come to London alone. Once upon a time, he would have considered Grandmama a suitable escort, but I fear that time has passed.
With each meeting and exchange of small talk with the company present, Agnes led the conversation, ensuring no mention of the relationship between her granddaughter and Jeremy. They could not be introduced as a couple, but she sailed close to the wind when it came to suggesting that they were. Jeremy seemed to grow more relaxed as they moved deeper into the collection, finding more aspects of each painting to comment on and explain. He seemed to have no knowledge of artists or the meaning of the pictures, but was a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge concerning technique.
“Spoken like a true painter, Your Grace,” Agnes hummed after one such explanation.
“Never that. An enthusiasm from my youth,” Jeremy replied, “and a brief one at that.”
They came to a landscape, and Harriet felt the sudden tension in Jeremy’s muscles. She frowned, looking around the frame for any information as to who had painted it.
“I think I have had my fill of ancient daubings. I desire a seat and a glass of wine,” he said abruptly.
“But we have covered barely half of the collection,” Harriet protested.
“Halftoo much,” he replied.
He stepped back from her, letting his arm fall. Harriet's hand was suddenly holding empty air. She felt bereft as the gulf between them widened. The same attendant who had been collared by Agnes at the first painting now appeared again.
“Your Grace, I think you will find this landscape particularly interesting. Oil on wood panel, a depiction of the River Stour estuary by the late Duke of Penhaligon, Walter Cavendish,” the man declared, looking expectantly at Jeremy.
Jeremy scowled at the man.
“I am familiar with my great-grandfather's work, my good man. I know it when I see it. Lady Harriet, Lady Agnes, it has been an enjoyable diversion. I bid you good day.”
Then he was striding away, face resembling a thunder cloud. The other gallery patrons cleared a path for him with startled glances at his expression. Harriet shot a pointed look at her grandmother. Agnes promptly put the back of her hand to her forehead and staggered.
“Oh my, but this room is very hot. I do declare I feel faint,” she breathed in a suddenly wavering voice.
Several gentlemen rushed to her side, but Beecham was looking for Harriet. She had taken her chance to dart away after Jeremy.
“Lady Harriet!” she heard him call after her.
But such was the commotion that her grandmother had caused, there were suddenly too many people between them for him to reach her. Harriet lifted her skirts and dashed from the room.
Ahead of her, she caught a glimpse of Jeremy's back, turning a corner of a staircase. She hurried after him, seeing him stepping through a doorway at the far side of a room, then out into the street after traversing the next room. When she stepped out of the front door, she saw Jeremy briskly striding down the road, one arm raised to summon his carriage.
“Jeremy!” she called out.
He looked back, his eyes locking with hers. The carriage drew up beside him, breaking the moment. He wrenched the door open, stepped inside, and muttered an order to the driver. Harriet reached it just as the carriage lurched forward. She caught the door and tried to climb in, but slipped. Jeremy seized her hand, hauling her up.
She tumbled against him, sending him off balance so that he landed flat on his back with Harriet in a slush of gown and skirts, sprawled over him. For a breathless moment, she stayed there, chest heaving from the chase and her brief flash with jeopardy. Their faces were inches apart, noses almost touching.
It would be so easy to kiss him. I know exactly where it would lead—how quickly it could spiral…
Harriet's heart pounded against Jeremy's chest, so much so, she wondered if he could feel it opposite his own. Didhisheart ever race like this too? His hands were about her waist, holding her strongly, making her feel safe. In his embrace, everything else seemed to pale into insignificance. Ralph. Eloise de Rouvroy. Beecham...
“Are you mad?” he suddenly demanded, dispelling the magic that Harriet had felt entwining them both.
“Are you?” she retorted, “storming off like that. Hardly a good way to foster the image of us as a betrothed couple!”
She reluctantly clambered to her feet, sitting down on the bench.
