For a moment they just stared at each other, taking the other’s measure, and then Emmaline began to paint again, tracing the angular line of his jaw slowly with the tip of her brush. “Brummel himself would approve, I suppose, that style of knot is very complex. Your valet must be much sought after.”
“I wouldn’t know, you would have to ask the man. It is what I pay him for.”
“You do not like fashion?” Emmaline could feel two high spots of colour blooming on her cheeks at her boldness to speak in such a manner.
The man seemed almost confused for a moment, blinking at her in a perplexed manner that made Emmaline bite back a smile.
“I have more important things to think about than the colour of my waistcoat,” Lord Seton muttered, adjusting said garment and shifting on his chair.
“Such as?” prompted Emmaline, sitting forward and listening with half an ear as the man finally relaxed and allowed her to see him properly. The natural tilt of his head, the concentration of his gaze and the coiled energy that radiated off him.
And so the conversation finally started, Emmaline offering the odd soft word of encouragement as Lord Seton launched into a discussion about the finer points of popular politics and the crown.
The change in light as the afternoon drew near was her cue to put down her brush, standing up slowly as her feet remembered how to hold her weight.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Emmaline said as she untied her apron, pulling it away from her dress briskly, but taking her fichu with it. As the lacy scrap of fabric floated to the ground, Emmaline gasped and instinctively bent to snatch it up, standing up again with her cheeks flushed and quickly turning and tucking it back around her chest.
When she looked up again, Lord Seton was staring at her in a strained manner. He nodded to her, carefully looking away from her person to rise and stalk out of the room in a brusque manner that belied the pleasant afternoon they had spent together.
Apparently, she had managed to upset the man with her clumsiness. Although that did not feel quite right.
“Well I never,” muttered Emmaline, gathering up her sketchbook and making her way to the hallway.
There was a room assigned to her in this vast house, and after such a trying morning she intended to find it. And order a bath. And food. And sweets, too, purely because the man had not even saidgood afternoonbefore he quit the room.
CHAPTER THREE
At the endof a second day spent obsessing over Miss Winters, Benedict accepted defeat and reached out to Silas, the Earl of Windham, and his closest friend.
Since Silas had finally admitted his feelings and married Bendict’s sister, Honora, he had been annoyingly sensible and steady. Perhaps he would have some valuable advice on avoiding temptation, as he had done so himself for so long.
Benedict called for his carriage and hastily penned a note to Silas asking him to meet him at White’s urgently, then donned his coat and beaver hat, telling Hutchins that he would take his dinner at the club.
When he arrived, Benedict skirted a group of lords carrying on about some or other wager and settled in with a bottle of fine brandy to wait on Silas.
After Benedict had finished dinner and almost half the bottle of brandy, Silas finally made an appearance.
“Sorry I am late, Honora needed me to rub her feet, they are swollen with her condition,” said Silas with a sheepish grin.
Honora was expecting the couple’s first babe and at the excuse, Benedict rolled his eyes and poured his friend a brandy.“Please, keep the details of your marital bliss to yourself. That is my sister.”
Silas laughed and took a generous swig of his glass. “Yes, it is bliss,” he countered with a wink.
Benedict shook his head but grinned. It was heartening to see his friend in such good spirits. Silas had suffered periodically from melancholy for many years, with Benedict regularly trying to drag him up out of his misery to no avail.
“Now, tell me what is this emergency that could not wait for the morning.”
Benedict grimaced and dropped his eyes as if he had found something incredibly interesting at the bottom of his glass.
“There is… a woman,” offered Benedict at last.
Silas stared incredulously, then stifled a chuckle at the misery etched over Benedict’s face.
“A woman? Hell's teeth, I never imagined to hear those words from you.”
Benedict frowned and Silas leaned forward with a smile and slapped his knee in commiseration. “Welcome to the club, my friend.”
“This is not a jest, Silas,” grumbled Benedict, finishing his drink and pouring himself another. For a moment the room swayed around him, but he shook his head to clear it and carried on.
