She didn’t look at him, but a slight flush covered her shoulders and neck. “It did help that you remained still.” She looked up at him and raised one eyebrow. “Not talking helped as well.”
Looking down at the slight smirk on her lips, he found himself tempted to kiss her. Abruptly, he stepped back. Her reputation was as important to him as it was to her. “I can see that my vast knowledge will go unappreciated on these visits.”
She chuckled then stood, rubbing her back with the back of her hand, the side of her hand and two fingers colored from the pastel she’d used.
A memory of her brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand surfaced. It had to be a habit to keep from smudging her face or clothes. “Were you always so careful not to ruin your dress from your work?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
He pointed to her hands.
“Oh, you mean this.” She held them up so he could see her fingertips and palms. “No. It took years of Mother scolding me. When I was little, I didn’t care, but as I grew older and came to understand that my pretty gowns were burnt instead of passed down to others, I finally made an effort.” She took a few steps away to wipe her hands on a cloth. “It still took me months, and even now and again, if I don’t have my apron on, I will forget. It all depends on how immersed I am in a particular piece.” She dropped the cloth then glanced at him before looking over his shoulder. Her eyes widened.
He spun around expecting to see one of her parents, but no one was there.
“Oh, I must go. You must go.” She brushed by him, knocking over her stool in her rush.
Confused and not a little surprised, he reached out, catching her hand as she passed. The contact of skin on skin had him letting go as if burned. Though the touch had been mere seconds, the soft warmth of her hand traveled up his arm.
She halted, still facing the door.
He cleared his throat to break the awkward silence.
As if that was all she needed, she took another step away before facing him, the hand he’d clasped now held by her other. “I fear I forgot to make the connection for you once again. I noticed the time and realized I need to be back at the house to help my mother with a bonnet she wishes to change. If I don’t arrive soon, she’ll send someone out here—”
“And they would discover me. I understand.” He bent to set the stool upright again before walking past her to help her with her spencer.
She shook her head. “No, you must leave immediately before someone sees you.” She moved to a window not far from the door. “The gardener and his men have left.”
He pulled his greatcoat from the hook, her urgency communicating itself to him now. “It’s also growing darker and not because it’s the end of the day.” Though the daylight had been fading, a dark cloud mass had covered the sky, and he worried they would both experience a soaking if they didn’t leave quickly.
“Yes, and you have miles to walk.”
At the concern on her face, a hint of satisfaction filled him. If she worried already, perhaps her feelings would grow quickly. Still, he didn’t wish to cause her undo distress. “Not so far. I left my horse in the woods at the edge of the Enderlys’ estate.”
She contemplated that. “So a mile or so.” She glanced out the window. “You still best hurry.”
He agreed and quickly fastened his coat. “I will call tomorrow. Should we plan my next sitting for the day after?”
She shrugged into her spencer and began buttoning it as she spoke. “No. I want to work with the sketch I have first. The day after that would be soon enough.” She paused to look at him. “I suggest not wearing your typical clothing.”
He widened his eyes. “Is it not appropriate for a portrait?”
She grinned, her nose crinkling just a bit. “It is, but I don’t plan to paint your portrait. In addition, if you are seen in such quality clothing, rumors will be about Bedford within hours.”
“Ah, you’d like me to be in disguise next time I visit.” Her amusement over the situation had become contagious.
“Yes! That’s it exactly. You’ll find it enjoyable. I know. Joanna used to have us dress up and perform one of Shakespeare’s plays at Christmastide every year.” She rolled her eyes as if it was the worst possible pastime, but her smile never left her lips.
“Surely you must have liked at least one of them.” At the mischief in her eyes, he was sure the skies could open up and he’d still stay to hear her answer.
“Oh, I did. Hamlet was my favorite with everyone dying here and there. By the end, the floor was littered with bodies.”
He hadn’t expected her to be so morbid. “You liked all the death?”
She chuckled. “I liked lying on the floor so I wouldn’t have to say any more boring lines.”
At that he laughed, too entertained to withhold it.
