What type of woman did he think she was? And was he justified, considering the fact that she had not screeched with outrage or smacked his face as soon as it came within one foot of her?
She could still taste him. She could still feel him on her lips. Her mind was still almost numb. That secret, feminine place inside her still throbbed. And she knew that his kiss had been one of the most memorably glorious experiences of her life.
How much more pathetic could shebe?
“The daffodils will not live forever,” he said.
“No,” she agreed.
But she would never paint them if she could not be alone with them, her mind placid and composed. Would she come back? And what would be her motive if she did? To paint? To see him again?
He did not wait for any further answer. He stooped to pick up his hat, inclined his head to her before putting it on, and strode away in the direction of the route around the lake.
He was by far the most masculine man she had ever encountered—or kissed. But then, she had only ever been kissed by William before today, and kisses from William had been more in the nature of affectionate pecks on the cheek or forehead.
Oh, dear, she felt like a novice swimmer suddenly plunged into the very deepest part of a turbulent river.
She touched the fingertips of one hand to her lips. They were trembling—both the fingers and her lips.
4
Vincent was still in the music room when Flavian opened the door quietly and stole inside. He was at the pianoforte, playing something with plodding care. The dog cocked his ears and had a good look without lifting his head and decided the intruder was no threat. The viscountess’s cat—Squiggles? Squabble? Squat?—had commandeered one side of the sofa. Flavian lowered himself to the other side, but the cat was not content with simple symmetry. It padded across the cushions, paused to give him an assessing look, made its decision, and took up residence on his lap, a big, curled-up blob of feline warmth. There was nothing to do with one’s hands but stroke him between his ears.
Flavian had had pets galore as a boy, none as a man.
The plodding stopped, and Vincent cocked his head to one side.
“Who came in?” he asked.
“Me,” Flavian told him vaguely and ungrammatically.
“Flave? Stepping voluntarily into the music room? While I am in it, practicing a Bach fugue at considerably less than half speed so that I can get the notes and the rhythm exact?”
“Squeak? Squawk? S-Squid? What the deuceisthe name of this cat?” Flavian asked.
“Tab.”
“Ah, yes, I knew it was something like that. Tab. He is going to be l-leaving cat hair all over my breeches and coat. And he is quite unapologetic about it.”
Vincent turned on the stool and looked almost directly at him in that disconcerting way he had of seeming veryunblind.
“Blue-deviled, Flave?” he asked.
“Oh, not at all,” Flavian assured him, waving a hand airily toward the pianoforte, though Vincent would not see it. “Play on. I thought I might c-creep in here without disturbing you.”
Fat chance. Vincent, who for a few months after his near-encounter with a cannonball on the field of battle had been as deaf as he was blind, could now hear a pin drop at a hundred yards—on thick carpet.
“This has something to do with last night?” Vincent asked.
Flavian set his head back and gazed at the ceiling before closing his eyes.
“Play me a lullaby,” he said.
And Vincent did and brought him near to tears. Flavian liked to tease Vince about his playing, especially on the violin, but really he was quite good and getting better all the time. There were a few minor accuracy and tempo issues, but the feeling was there. Vince was learning to get inside the music, to play it from the inside out.
Whatever the devil that meant.
Andwhatin the name ofthunderwas enchanting about an unfashionably clad, not particularly young, not obviously beautiful woman, who was idiotic enough to stretch out on the grass of a meadow so that she could see the world as daffodils saw it, and then did not have the sense, when interrupted, to hop to her feet and run like the wind for home?
