“Your Aunt and Uncle are that bad?”
“Worse.”
“I understand.”
If she took that to mean he understood her background and sympathized, he was prepared to let her be wrong. What he did understand was why she had chosen to trap a blind man with a kiss and a scandal.
She sought to escape a desperate life at Silverton. I cannot say that I blame her. Desperation can breed dishonor.
“May I have the clay model you made?” Georgia asked suddenly.
Keaton stopped, looking at her sharply.
“Why? It is a rough thing. The equivalent of a writer’s first draft.”
“It is beautiful, and I do not care if it is a first draft. May I?”
“No. I did not know what I was making. It is not a thing of consequence to be admired,” he shook his head, feeling uncomfortable at the notion that she would take it as an example of his regard.
To make matters worse, he knew its quality. When he had re-examined it, he had been impressed with his own work. The creation of the clay model had seemed a purely pragmatic exercise to facilitate the piece of art. But he had imbued the clay with personality and must have labored over it far longer than he realized.
What does that say about my thoughts and feelings towards this woman if such inspiration is within me?
“Surely beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To you, it is of no consequence. To me, it is,” Georgia persisted.
Keaton gritted his teeth. The subject was becoming a sore one, heading in a direction in which he did not wish to go.
“Let it go,” he muttered, “I do not wish another social occasion ruined by an argument. It seems that we are accepted by this company, let us simply fit in with their…”
He stopped himself from using the first word that had formed in his mind. The word wasbanality.
“Expectations,” Georgia put in diplomatically.
“Precisely,” he agreed.
He turned his head as a particularly strong fragrance reached him. He paused, breathing deeply in through his nose.
“I believe that is a rose. Is there a rose bush nearby?” he asked.
“Why yes, with beautiful yellow flowers. It is climbing the tree,” she answered.
“I do believe this particular rose made a contribution to your perfume. The one your brother gifted to you,” he remarked.
He breathed deeply again, sampling the wonderful fragrance and analyzing its component parts.
“Really?” Georgia stepped closer, inhaling.
“Indubitably,” he replied, lost in his bouquet sampling.
He had forgotten the conversation, forgotten his fear of the attraction he felt for Georgia, and the prospect of that deepening. It threatened to undermine the walls he had built and carefully maintained. But for now, that was lost to a world of sensation.
Georgia leaned close to him, taking significant sniffs to capture the scent of the rose.
“I think I know what you mean? It is very… faint.”
“Not to me. Pick one.”
Georgia bent and then gently placed a soft-petalled rose in Keaton’s waiting hands. He cupped it delicately and raised it to his face, breathing in and smiling.
