He glowered at it. “Your perspective is off. The hands look flat, wooden, lifeless. The colors lack value.”
“Have you finished?”
He turned to her. “No. I haven’t even begun.” Stepping close, he grasped her arms.
“Let go of me.”
“Not until you tell me why. Why could you not have waited? Why did you have to marry him? Why, Sophie? Why?”
Looking at the portrait, she echoed Wesley’s own words back at him, “His ship was leaving. I had little time to decide, so I took my chance while I could.”
A double knock sounded at the door, and Wesley’s grip loosened. Sophie quickly pulled away, putting several feet of space between them.
Carlton Keith opened the door and stuck his head in. “Hello? Anybody home?”
“Oh, Mr. Keith. You are just in time. Come in.”
Wesley glared at him. “Go away, CK.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said, “You are just in time to settle an argument.” When he hesitated, she added, “Please, Mr. Keith. I insist.”
“Very well.” He stepped into the room, looking from one to the other. “Can’t deny the request of a lady, can I, Wes?”
“Only if you don’t value your teeth.”
“I do, yes. But surely you wouldn’t hit a one-armed man.”
“I am giving it serious consideration.”
For a moment, Wesley’s stern demeanor reminded her of Stephen, and it unsettled her further. Perhaps the brothers were more alike than she’d realized.
She said, “Mr. Overtree criticizes this portrait of Captain Overtree. I would appreciate your honest opinion.” She didn’t really care what Mr. Keith thought—she simply wanted to keep him there between them.
Keith nodded. “That’s Marsh, all right. Well done, Mrs. Overtree.”
Wesley scowled again. “Oh, come on. Marsh never looked so good in his life. This is a romanticized ideal of the honorable captain. His chin isn’t half so determined. And his scar twice so.”
Mr. Keith asked her gently, “Is this how you see him, Mrs. Overtree?”
She looked at the portrait. “Yes. I don’t claim my work is flawless, but I believe I have captured his appearance.”
“Balderdash,” Wesley protested. “It’s too flattering by half.”
Keith looked at him. “I seem to recall you, Wesley, painting a certain dowager countess with gratuitously flattering lines.”
“Yes, I admit I took certain liberties to make sure the lady was pleased with her portrait—she paid a hefty commission for the privilege. But this...?”
“I like it,” Mr. Keith said.
“And I would like you to leave.”
“Actually, I promised Mrs. Overtree I would play for her this afternoon, did I not?” Mr. Keith said, raising his brows at her.
Had he?“Oh... yes. I nearly forgot.”
“Play?” Wesley asked. “Play what?”
“You are looking at Gloucestershire’s renowned one-armedpianiste,” Keith said with self-deprecating humor. “Care to hear me play—no charge?”
