Sighing mightily, she rose to her feet, set her palette on the stool behind her, and wiped her hands on a dry rag that did little to clean them. To his amazement, she turned her back and drew on a pair of lightweight summer gloves, directly over the paint stains.
“I can hardly do any worse at the stream,” she said.
Brilliance was thrilledthat Lord Hewitt had sought her out. They were back upon a solidly friendly footing, and she was hopeful by the end of the day, they might share another passionate kiss.
Perhaps in the throes of aprimitive passion, as the painting master had said.
“Do you need to change?” he asked, offering her his arm.
She hadn’t considered doing so. Purity would, of course, admonish her for not putting on a less diaphanous gown for going to the stream’s edge.
“I am not bothered,” Brilliance told him. “Unless I offend you for not doing so.”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “I simply recall that ladies like to put on a new gown for every occasion.”
“We often do, don’t we?” Flirting outrageously, she leaned on his arm, knowing her breasts were squashed against him. “I shall tell you a secret. Changing our dress is primarily a way to show off our wardrobe to the other ladies. I don’t think the men even notice whether we are in blue or pink or cream, silk or satin or cotton.”
He nodded, his gray-green gaze dipping to her neckline briefly before locking on her own eyes once more. Brilliance found herself fishing for a compliment more eagerly than she intended to fish in Lady Twitchard’s stream.
“For instance, have you noticed what I am wearing today versus yesterday?”
He coughed and again his glance flickered over her. “Yesterday evening, when we first met,” Lord Hewitt said, “you were wearing a pale pink gown. Today, you look lovely in that shade of sunshine.”
“Shade of sunshine?” she repeated. “Youarea poet, my lord. This pastel yellow makes me happy.”
“What about last evening’s rosy pink?” he asked.
“That color makes me happy, too.”
“I ought to tell you, then,” Lord Hewitt began, sounding a little hesitant, “since my hints about changing your gown did not work, you have paint here” — he touched her cheek, making her flinch — “and here” — he touched her nose, which made her smile — “and even above your eyebrows. Also, if you examine your hands.”
Brilliance sighed. “What about my bonnet?”
“A little,” he said. “Barely any.”
“Drat! And I tried to be so careful, too. By chance, would you have a spare handkerchief you might not mind sacrificing?”
“Indeed, yes,” he said, bringing one out of his coat pocket as quick as a whip. It had an elegant blueHembroidered on one corner.
“I shall spit on it, but then you must do the wiping, my lord.”
This was not the impression Brilliance had wished to make, needing to be cleaned up like a toddler. Nevertheless, she spat twice onto the cloth and handed it back to him. A little gingerly, he wiped her cheek and then, with more effort, scrubbed at it. In this same way, they cleaned the rest of her face.
“My bonnet will have to wait,” she said, handing him the soiled handkerchief, which he stared at a moment before shoving back into his pocket.
Finally, they were on the path to the stream, just the two of them, and knowing how clever he was and how she had ruined her painting and managed to get covered in paint, she desperately wanted to say something interesting.
“My father is in Parliament, too. Is yours?”
“He was, and infamously so. Twenty years ago, he had a torrid affair with the wife of the then Prime Minister. It became public. They fought a duel, but luckily no one was injured. Except for my father’s political career. It was dead.”
“Your mother must have been very cross.”
“She was, but my father passed away seven years ago, and she has happily remarried.”
Brilliance considered that. “Your career as a member of Parliament shall seem quite stellar in comparison.”
“That is a good way to look at it,” he agreed. “I can hardly do worse, and anything I do that is better than trying to shoot the Prime Minister will put me in good standing amongst my peers.”
