“Unless, of course, you would rather enjoy a hot bath—“
“No,” he answered quickly. “I would be happy to join you, My Lady. Will you allow me a moment to change into something dry?”
She swallowed and her throat felt a little thicker than it had a moment before. She had asked him to accompany her, and he’d said that he would like to. “Of course. You must get out of your wet clothing. I’ll await you in here.” She gestured toward the nearest drawing room.
“Ten minutes.” He walked backward toward the staircase. “Not a second more.” He was grinning now, and she found herself grinning back. And then he turned and took the stairs two and three at a time, disappearing as quickly as he’d arrived.
She was to have her picnic after all.
But not with George. She was going to spend a good part of the day with her intended’s nephew—her intended’s very handsome, charming, andvery young, nephew.
Alone.
“Your picnic has been prepared, My Lady.” Mr. Milton had returned. “And it will be awaiting you at the Overlook when you arrive.”
Although only a short walk from the manor, the Overlook was a very romantic location and also very secluded.
“That will be lovely, thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later,Margaret and Lord Rockingham were marching through one of the fields toward a secret path most guests were quite unaware of. Lord Rockingham had insisted on carrying her supplies, so she was free to swing her arms at her sides.
Reminding herself that he was afriendand nothing more, despite the most improper thoughts she’d had about him in the past, Margaret searched her mind for any conversation that would not lead them to either his uncle or their initial meeting. “Do you paint, My Lord?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Will you call me Sebastian? It seems unnecessarily formal that we should persist with my lording and ladying one another. We are friends, are we not?”
Oh! He was! Would anyone who was not a friend swim after a ruined hat for her, merely because she had mentioned that it was her favorite? She glanced sideways at him. His hair hadn’t dried completely yet but other than that he seemed perfectly put together.
He’d returned downstairs promptly, as promised, with thirty seconds to spare.
“We are,” she agreed. “Sebastian.” Speaking his name aloud sent something dancing in her belly. It was a beautiful and yet strong name. Very much like the man himself. “And you may call me Margaret.”
“Not Mags, or Meggie?”
She laughed. No one had ever called her Mags, except for Hugh on a few occasions, but as for Maggie… “My grandfather called me Maggie,” she remembered out loud. That had been a very, very long time ago.
“Maggie.” He slid a teasing glance in her direction, “Yes. I paint. But I prefer to sketch. Do you have charcoals inside this steamer trunk you have me carrying?”
It was hardly a steamer trunk, foolish man. And the valise was not all that heavy.
“I do.”
“Then I shall sketch while you paint.”
She could only smile at this. It would be more enjoyable to lose herself in the pleasure of painting if she did not worry that her companion might become bored.
“Are you any good?” she asked.
“Tolerable. What of you?”
“I’m not quite tolerable. But I love it. I love that I think of so many different aspects of nature and life when I look at them to paint. It is a different way to appreciate the scenery.”
They walked a few yards together in silence—a comfortable one now—until he spoke again.
“I look forward to the chaos that you shall produce today.”
Again, he had her smiling. Chaos was an apt description for the final result of many of her paintings. He was very good at reading people—at reading her, anyhow.
“My mother was a true artist. Many of the paintings in the house were done by her.”
