“Very well. Though I reserve the right to burn the result if it proves truly horrifying.”
“I promise nothing about quality,” she said lightly. “Only enthusiasm.”
His laughter—warm and genuine—filled the room as he rose to fetch his supplies.
***
The sketching materials had been tucked away in a cabinet in Christian’s study, apparently untouched for years.
Fiona watched as he laid them out upon the table in the parlour: sticks of charcoal in varying thicknesses, pencils worn nearly to the wood, sheets of paper yellowed at the edges but still usable. There was something almost reverent in the way he handled them, as though greeting old companions after a long separation.
“When did you stop?” she asked.
“Drawing?” He considered. “I cannot say exactly. It happened gradually—a day missed here, a week there—until I realised I had not picked up a pencil in months. Months became years.” He gave a small shrug. “I told myself I had outgrown it. That a grown man—particularly a duke—had no business indulging in childish pursuits.”
“That is nonsense.”
“I know that now.” He turned a stick of charcoal thoughtfully between his fingers. “I know a great many things now that I did not know before you arrived.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that happiness is not childish. That pleasure is not frivolous. That allowing myself to enjoy something does not make me weak.” His gaze lifted to hers, warm and unguarded. “You have taught me a great deal, Fiona Hart.”
“I have taught you nothing,” she said gently. “I have merely reminded you of things you already knew.”
“Perhaps.”
He gestured toward the armchair beside the window.
“Sit there, if you please. The light is best from that angle.”
She arranged herself in the chair, suddenly aware of every movement. “How should I pose? Should I look at you or away? Should I smile? Look thoughtful?”
“Simply be yourself.” He settled onto the settee opposite, paper balanced on a board across his knees. “Talk to me. Forget I am drawing. I want to capture you as you are—not as you imagine you ought to be.”
“That is rather a great deal of pressure.”
“Then let me relieve it.” The charcoal moved across the page in quick, confident strokes. “Tell me about your childhood. The happy parts. What made you laugh before you learned to be sensible?”
She watched his hand move, trying not to dwell on what he was seeing—what he was translating into line and shadow.
“Adelaide,” she said at last. “My cousin. She made me laugh more than anyone.”
“The fairy hoax?”
“Among other things.” Fiona smiled faintly. “She believed everything I told her, no matter how improbable. I convinced her the cat could speak, but chose not to. That eating vegetables would eventually grant her the power of flight. And that our great-aunt was secretly a witch cursed to appear as a perfectly ordinary old woman.”
“And how did your great-aunt feel about that?”
“She never knew. Adelaide was terrified of her for years—left offerings of biscuits outside her door in hopes of appeasing her—and I lacked the courage to confess.”
Christian laughed, his charcoal never pausing.
“You were a menace.”
“I was… imaginative. There’s a difference.”
“I am not certain there is.”
