Lenora took up the smock and shrugged into it—only just realizing she could not do up the back herself. She turned Margery’s way, intending to ask for help. But her friend had stepped away and was currently explaining the view to Mr. Nesbitt.
As she was trying to come up with a polite way to interrupt their exchange, Mr. Ashford spoke.
“Please, allow me.”
He was at her back before she could react. There was a pause, the air heavy with anticipation. Lenora didn’t so much as draw breath as she waited.
Suddenly the faintest touch, his fingers a whisper as he grabbed at the tapes on either side of her rib cage. The material pulled against her breasts, the gentle tugging as he did up the back a torturous friction. She drew in a shaky breath, closing her eyes, her head falling forward of its own accord. Soon the tugging stopped, his hands fell away—yet he stayed where he was. She could hear the faint rasp of his breath over the sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze, feel the warmth of it stir the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Heat pooled low in her belly, a warm rush that spread outward, filling her body with a heady need. She swayed back, straining for something, wanting his touch like she needed air to breathe.
With a soft curse, he stepped back and away. She felt it immediately, the loss of him. A chill wind seemed to sweep over her.
A light laugh reached her then. Jolted back to the present, she cleared her throat and managed a quiet “Thank you.” Picking up a pencil, she sat on the stool before the easel. Shaken, she was unable to put pencil to paper for several moments, her hands trembled so. She knew what it must be, though she had never felt it herself: it was desire, plain and simple.
But why him, damn it? Why did she have to feel this for him, the very last man she should have wanted? A cold, unfeeling man who wore a scowl like others wore a ring or a watch fob.
She refused to want him. It would be as easy as blowing out a candle.
Looking at the paper once more, she straightened her shoulders. It should be as easy to paint without emotion. She had done it for the past three years, after all. Pressing her lips tight, she raised the pencil to the waiting paper and began to sketch.
***
Why in hell had he offered to tie that damn apron? The sight of the graceful curve of her neck had been torture. As it still was. He eyed it in a haze. How he longed to press his lips there, to run his tongue over the sensitive flesh.
He tugged at his cravat, turning away from the sight of her. Her gown was a bit overdone and ostentatious, with the ridiculous flounces at the hem and the fussy puffed sleeves. Even so, she looked as fresh as spring leaves in the pale green concoction, her hair in cunning curls that danced enticingly against her throat. He would take a walk, he decided. He would take a walk, and not stop walking until he came to the sea.
Maybe not even then.
Before he could take a step, Mrs. Kitteridge, who had returned to her own easel, spoke. “Mr. Ashford, my grandmother bid me to tell you the history of the place, if you’re amenable.”
What could he do but acquiesce? With minimal grumbling, he moved closer to her, as far from Miss Hartley as he could manage. The shade was pleasant where they stood, the grasses green and fragrant. From here he could barely discern a rectangular-shaped indention in the valley below, several holes marking its perimeter. He settled in against an obliging tree and gave her a curt nod to continue.
She turned back to her easel. Beside her, Miss Hartley was already at work, her pencil scratching against her paper.
“You know, of course, that this island is called the Isle of Synne,” Mrs. Kitteridge began, squinting out over the valley. “What you may not know is that it was named after our ancestor, an Anglo-Saxon maiden. She lived on this very spot; those markings in the ground below are the only thing left of her former home.”
Peter had not felt an ounce of connection to this Isle since arriving. Yet he felt a tremor go through him at Mrs. Kitteridge’s words. His eyes traced the depression, seeing now the outline of a house, the deeper holes no doubt the remains of where posts once stood.
“How long ago was this?” he found himself asking.
“Oh, I’d say nearly a thousand years ago. There are no official records, of course. Just stories passed down from generation to generation.”
“A millennium?” Quincy whistled, even as he looked over Mrs. Kitteridge’s shoulder at the sketch she was making. “That’s an impressive lineage to be able to trace, even without the title.”
“You think that because you’ve been in America for half your life,” Peter drawled, “where everyone is as bright and new as freshly minted pennies.”
“D’you think they dropped out of the sky then?” Quincy countered. “You’ve been there with me for the past thirteen years, old man. I’d think you would be better informed than that.”
“Thirteen years? Is that when you left England?” Miss Hartley’s musical voice broke through the good-natured banter. When Peter looked her way, there was a faint flush to her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “My mother died and I left for America.”
“You must have been very young. Just a boy.”
“I was young, yes,” he replied quietly. “Too young.” A moment later, he wondered why he’d said such a thing. It was her eyes, perhaps. There was a compassion there that touched his very soul. That made him want to open up in ways he hadn’t with anyone before.
Unnerved by the direction his mind was taking, he turned back to Mrs. Kitteridge. She had stopped to stare at him as well. “You were saying, madam,” he prompted, eager to let the strange moment pass.
