There was a moment of silence. Keaton's mind was suddenly filled with the moment at Swinthorpe when they had been interrupted by his uncle. He remembered the feel of her hands upon him and the delicious anticipation, almost as great a thrill as the actual touch.
He assuaged his breath. “As you have noticed, I do occasionally cut myself while sculpting or whittling. It is of no consequence. The bleeding has likely already stopped.”
There was silence. Then came the sound of fabric shuffling, as if Georgia had pressed her elbows to her lap and was leaning forward, chin resting in her hands. “Do you mind if I ask what you were making?”
Keaton waved a dismissive hand. “A bust. I thought perhaps something of nature and mythology. Aphrodite perhaps. It was working to distract myself rather than with a particular purpose in mind. To gather my thoughts.”
He heard her rise, then move about the room, and thought of what lay open to her sight and touch. Part of him resented the intrusion—even Edric was discouraged from coming into this room. Part of him wanted her to see his work.
There is nothing wrong with pride in art. Let her look. In all likelihood, she will not understand what she sees anyway.
“And this is what you are working towards?” Georgia asked.
From the position of her voice, Keaton judged that she stood beside the clay model that he had crafted initially to serve as the template for his stonework.
“Yes, to make my hands familiar with the shape they are bringing the stone to,” he replied.
“It is... quite remarkable,” she breathed.
“A rough model. Nothing more. A guide.”
“It seems very detailed,” she pointed out.
Keaton shrugged, rising and walking towards her.
“Some of my templates are more detailed than others. I do not think so. Once I feel I have the shape mapped into my mind, I move onto a different medium.”
Georgia was silent for a moment, and Keaton frowned, not knowing why.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, a touch breathlessly, “you are… very talented.”
Keaton reached out to the clay bust, tracing his fingers down its brow and over the line of the nose.
“It would not do to make it public. A blind artist would be the center of attention. That he is also a Duke would create a veritable circus.”
Something about the shape under his fingers was familiar. He concentrated, running his hands back over lips and cheeks,conjuring into his mind's eye the shape whose structure was so tantalizingly familiar. It was a rather good rendition, he had to admit, polished and refined for a simple template, almost a finished piece.
Silence stretched between them. To Keaton, it felt loaded with significance. Something about the clay bust had charged the air between them, silencing her and distracting him. Keaton turned his head in her direction, one hand still on the bust. The perfume was absent, perhaps to conserve the little she had left. But something guided his unseeing eyes in her direction.
“Well, I will leave you to your creativity. And do not worry. I will tell no one of your hobby,” she whispered.
Before Keaton could respond, he heard rapid footsteps moving away and was left perplexed. The door opened, and the footsteps paused.
“We have received an invitation. To Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow. It was addressed to both of us, so I took the liberty of opening it,” she said.
He suppressed a sigh of irritation. He reminded himself of the importance of being seen in public together to defang the striking serpent of scandal and gossip.
At least it will be outdoors. Fresh air and the smell of flowers and growing things. Not some stifling, confining assembly room or ballroom.
“From whom?” he asked.
“Lady Gertrude, wife of the Earl of East Anglia,” she replied, “I met her at Lord Swinthorpe's house last night and found her pleasant company.”
“Very well. We will attend.”
The footsteps hovered for a little longer. At last, her voice reached him again, “By the way. That bust… did you have anyone in mind when you were creating it?”
