“Who doesn’t appreciate a well-done painting?” I kept my words purposefully vague. My attention had always been on howwordscreated pictures rather than the image itself.
“What medium do you prefer?”
“It is so hard to choose.” I tried to imagine what would appeal to Mr. Clodwick.
“It would have to be watercolors,” Tabitha interrupted. “Have you seen my sister’s work? She is quite good.”
I shot her another look, one that I hoped communicated extreme annoyance. I hadn’t painted in years, and my skills were mediocre at best. If I had any spare time, I devoted it to my writing.
“You paint?” Mr. Clodwick’s lips quivered, and I thought he might actually smile. I confess, I had never seen Mr. Clodwick smile before. He was Tabitha’s husband’s cousin and often joined Tabitha’s parties when I visited—more for the food than for the social experience. In all that time, his long face had reminded me of a bloodhound with heavy jowls and a perpetual frown. Was it vain that I wondered if his smile would make him more handsome? After we were married, I would see his face regularly. It would be far easier to marry if there was some attraction.
Perhaps, if I were so fortunate, his smile would be as charming as Mr. Prologue’s.
“I paint a little,” I admitted.
To my disappointment, the hint of his smile slowly faded, but at least his eyes remained on me. “Will you indulge me?” he asked.
I opened my mouth and sputtered an answer. “I—I keep my work at my home in Writcombe.”
“Forgive me. I should have guessed. Perhaps you will allow me to call on you when I pass through next.”
“You would be quite welcome.” The enthusiasm in my voice might have been a touch overdone. But no one went to Writcombe unless they had connections there, and I did not think Mr. Clodwick had any. My toes danced in my slippers. Would he really go all that way for me? Finally,I was making progress. Which meant it was time to fully commit to my scheme. “When you are in Writcombe, I can show you my aunt’s art collection as well.”
Mr. Clodwick’s brow rose to an infinitesimal degree. “Is she an art enthusiast?”
“Indeed. She is a great friend to Thomas Hope.” I was not one to boast of connections, but I could not leave a stone unturned.
Something in his eyes changed. “You don’t say. I have always longed for a private tour of Deepdene, his country estate—which is not far from Writcombe, I believe. I’ve heard his collection is unrivaled. Could your aunt be persuaded to connect me with Mr. Hope?”
These were the most words I had ever heard Mr. Clodwick string together. But I was unprepared for his request. Why didn’t he want to see myaunt’scollection instead? That invitation alone would be difficult enough to procure, especially since my aunt did not like me. Or should I say, she did not care for women who wrote fanciful stories. It was nothing less than a scandalous endeavor, and I regretted that she had discovered my secret.
I chewed on my lip. “Oh, dear. I am not certain if I could persuade my aunt.”
Mr. Clodwick lifted his hand. “Say no more. I have overstepped.” His gaze wandered to the window, as if I no longer interested him.
This! This was what I desired. A man disinterested in and oblivious of me would equate to more writing time in the future. Imagine, while Mr. Clodwick traveled to exhibits all over the country, I could have the house all to myself. But while this was the exact reason I desired to marry him, it made it quite difficult to secure a proposal of marriage. Was I willing to give up so soon?
Absolutely not! My future was still mine to navigate, and I had no intention of marching home to marry Mr. Ashworth.
“If I were married . . .” I blurted.
Mr. Clodwick glanced at me once more. “Married?”
I gave a light laugh, one laced with panic and a touch of regret. “Yes. If I were married, my auntmightlook at the situation differently. Shemightbe convinced to request a favor of Mr. Hope.” Might, as in a possibility. In this case, a distant possibility. I cleared my throat. “A favor for my husband, that is, if he should care for the arts.”
My unpolished words rang in my head. Would he take the bait? And if so, was I prepared for the consequence? I had given up marrying for love when I was but a child and thrown myself wholeheartedly into my writing. But a small part of me still harbored hope for a romance of my own. With every step closer to Clodwick, I severed that hope indefinitely.
“Have you thought much about marriage, Mr. Clodwick?” my sister asked, her words breaching all the rules of polite etiquette. I had already been much too bold, and it seemed I had encouraged my sister to do the same.
Mr. Clodwick pulled at his cravat, damaging the suffocating knot. “I have been a bachelor for so long, I fear I will make a very dull husband. I am often squirreled up in my study for long hours.”
“Wonderful,” I breathed.
“Wonderful?” Mr. Clodwick asked, confusion pulling his brow low.
My eyes widened, and I hurried to remedy my blunder. “Wonderful . . . that you can stay focused for long periods of time.” I smiled for effect.
His nod of appreciation eased my worries that I had caused offense. In fact, I think I had done the opposite. I could almost see the gears whirling in his head. He was appraising me with new eyes.
