“I am well,” she smiled faintly. “And you?”
“Very eager to immortalize your image on paper and hopefully oils,” he then nodded to Miss Colton. “And good morning to you too.”
Soon, Rachel was seated on her chase, and his pencils were flying over the paper. He kept flickering his gaze to her and noted the placid, almost resigned look on her face and wondered why some of her fire had dimmed.
Something must have happened last night.
“How was your night?” he asked.
As he feared, she went tense for a moment. She was telling him, wordlessly, that his assumption was right. He kept his tone light and his gaze down on the paper, allowing her time to reply.
“It was enlightening, to say the least,” she muttered.
“Why do you say that?” he asked while shading in a curl of her hair.
She turned a page of the book. Her tone was low and bitter. “I have come to realize, Mr. Smith, that I am, without a doubt, an abnormality to the ton. I have no illusions that if those in charge of the London publications did not fear my parents that I would be splashed all over their newspapers.”
His motions faltered a little, and his fingers tightened around the pencils. He could hear how angry, disappointed, and bitter she was about being cast as a pariah.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said comfortingly.
She seemed to deflate. “Thank you.”
He gritted his teeth and bit back the words he wanted to say that were resting on his tongue. Instead, he continued to draw the image before him, but his mind was drawing another picture of her. One that he was going to draw later that night.
The door pushed open, and Lady Hurstemere came in, a self-satisfied look on her face.
“Daughter, I doubted you, but to my happy surprise, a suitor has come to call on you,” the Duchess said. “Lord Strathmore is here to see you.”
The book nearly tumbled from Rachel’s lap. “Mister Bennet, er, Lord Strathmore is here? For me?”
“Yes,” her mother said proudly. “Come along now. This sitting can wait a while.”
William refrained from scowling but bowed to the lady and shared a fleeting look with Rachel as she scrambled from her seat and stood. When the door closed behind them, William placed the pencils down and wiped his hands.
Miss Colton looked a bit lost at having been left out in accompanying her mistress to refreshing for the visiting lord, so he gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Miss Colton, do you know if your mistress saw the drawing?”
She looked a bit unsure. “I believe she must have because it was not where I left it. But she has not mentioned anything to me about it this morning. I suppose she will talk about it later on.”
“I suppose this might be it for today,” William mentioned while closing the drawing in the folio. “I will be in my rooms if Her Grace decides to resume Lady Hampton’s session. Good day, Miss Colton.”
After gathering his material, he bowed his head and left for his rooms. There he set down the things on the table before taking out his personal set of papers and flipping that folio open. Reaching for a new paper, he sat and began to draw the image of Rachel he had held in his mind.
As he had a predilection to do, he lost himself in his drawing, and by the time he pulled himself away from the fervency in his mind, it was past midday. He had missed a meal, but it did not matter much to him.
He stood on stiff, wooden legs and walked to the window while massaging the minor stiffness in his hand. As his eyes landed on the garden—rather the people in it—his body went rigid.
Rachel and this Lord Strathmore were there, meandering down the twisting lanes. There were not close or touching, but the man's mere presence irritated him. His grip on the railing was stiff enough of him to grow white-knuckled.
When Rachel tripped, he nearly launched forward just as the Lord reached for her. And when he dropped his hand to the small of her spine—he growled under his breath.
The surge of protectiveness and possessiveness he felt for Rachel was illogical because he had no claim on her. But his nature, his instinct, pushed him to want to rip her away from the Lord because, undoubtedly, he wanted her for himself.
Which again made no sense because there was no logical way he could be with her or have her in the way he wanted. But logic did not match emotion, and William knew that he was simmering with jealousy.
Take your hand away from her back, you nob.
