He looked away, focusing on the blank paper before him with an intensity that was almost certainly excessive.
"I shall attempt a simple study," he said. "As you suggest."
"A wise choice."
"Do not patronise me, Miss Whitcombe."
"I would not dream of it, Your Grace."
Her voice carried that same hint of buried amusement that had so unsettled him at the fair; the sense that she was watching him struggle with something obvious and finding it faintly entertaining.
He did not look at her again. He focused on the paper, on the brush, on the careful application of color to the blank white surface. He painted a single flower, a wildflower from a vase on the windowsill, with painstaking attention to each petal, each leaf, each shadow and highlight.
When he finished, the result was…….Adequate. Competent. Technically correct in every respect.
It was also, he realized with a sinking sensation, utterly lifeless.
"Very precise," Miss Whitcombe said, leaning over to examine his work. She was close enough that he could smell her, something light and floral, like the gardens after rain, and his hands tightened involuntarily on the brush.
"That is not a compliment."
"It is an observation. The technique is excellent." She tilted her head, considering. "But the flower itself seems... restrained."
"Flowers do not have personalities."
"Do they not?" She smiled, and it was a different smile than the ones she had given him before; warmer, more genuine, as though he had amused her despite herself. "I have always thought they do. Some are bold. Some are shy. Some reach toward the sun as though they cannot help themselves."
"That is botany, not personality."
"Perhaps the distinction is less clear than you think."
Daniel looked at his painting, the carefully rendered petals, the precisely executed shadows, and then at the actual flower in the vase. Miss Whitcombe was right, he realized reluctantly. The real flower had a kind ofpresencethat his painting utterly lacked. A sense of reaching, of wanting, of being alive in a way that defied mere technical accuracy.
Some reach toward the sun as though they cannot help themselves.
The words echoed in his mind, and he pushed them away before they could take root.
"I should return to my work," he said, setting down his brush. "The drainage report will not write itself."
"Of course." Miss Whitcombe's voice was perfectly polite, perfectly neutral. She gave no indication that she noticed his abrupt retreat, or if she noticed, that she cared.
And yet, as he rose from his chair, he could have sworn he saw something flicker across her face. Something that looked almost like disappointment.
He told himself he had imagined it.
***
After Daniel left, abruptly, as seemed to be his habit, Lillian turned her attention back to Rosanne's painting and tried very hard not to think about the way he had looked at her when she mentioned the sun. Apparently she failed because that was all she could think about.
"He watched you the entire time, you know."
Lillian's brush slipped, leaving a streak of blue where it did not belong. She corrected it with more force than necessary. "I beg your pardon?"
"Daniel." Rosanne's voice was carefully casual, but there was something knowing in her expression. "He did not watch his painting. He watched you."
"I am sure you are mistaken."
"I am not." Rosanne set down her own brush, abandoning all pretense of artistic endeavor. "I have known my brother for seventeen years, Lillian. I have seen him at dozens of social events, surrounded by dozens of beautiful women who would dearly love to catch his attention. He does notwatchpeople. He endures their presence with barely concealed impatience and retreats at the earliest opportunity."
