Sounds above told her Gareth had risen. She wiped her hands and set the canvas on her small easel to dry. Again the new materials arrested her attention. If she told him about those stored paintings, would he let her use some?
She recoiled from broaching the subject. Short of lying to him, she could not avoid a confession if she raised the matter at all. Her behavior could only make him think less of her. He assumed she was a lady,a good, honest woman. Not a thief who took chairs to sell and paintings to copy. Not the kind of person who kept neglecting to tell him about those pictures in that attic, because she hoped to find a way to take a few more in the future.
Even admitting to the copies would embarrass her. He had complimented her landscapes. She did not want to tell him she had used her small talents the last two years mostly on slavishly reproducing the art of other painters. That would be like discovering that a great wit only repeated clever observations other, truly interesting people had said first.
“You have made it worse.”
She looked up to see Gareth five feet away. He wore a waistcoat over his shirt and no cravat. He looked at the ghostly landscape on her easel.
“It was ruined, and now I can reuse the canvas. I have plans for it.” She set the bottle of turpentine back in her paint box and closed its lid.
“Big plans, from the looks of that roll there.”
He meant the new supplies.That canvas is for other things, like copying the paintings in your collection.
“When do you expect your sister to return home?” he said.
“If you ask because you worry about my being alone—”
“I would prefer you were alone. I could stay every night then. If you allowed it.”
Would she? The unspoken question hung there, waiting for an answer. Not the one in her heart. That one shouted its joyful affirmation. The rest of her held back, trying not to be swayed by the sensual power of his presence.Think. You must think, even if you do not want to.
“I do not expect her return before next Saturday, unless something changes.”
He pointed to her new canvases. “I need to ride to Derbyshire tomorrow, but then I am going to London. You could come with me. You should see the art there, and the other sites. People will have started arriving for the Season, so the parks should be lively.”
She had never been to London, but her imagination had constructed it in her head many times. Bigger than Birmingham, and better in every way. Big parks full of fashionable coaches and people. Thousands of shops. Magnificent buildings. And, yes, art everywhere. The finest art made by the very best artists.
“I do not have a wardrobe for London,” she pointed out.
“We will find a way to see you do.”
His mussed hair framed his incredible face, leaving a few appealing locks skimming his brow. The eyes under that brow captured her attention. They reflected charm and amusement, but also his sensual intensity. They were the eyes of a rogue, but still retained the joyful, devilish lights one sees in the eyes of naughty boys.
Think. You must think before it no longer matters if you do.
“I hope you are not offering to buy me a wardrobe. I could never accept that.” She stood and turned toward the stairs. “Nor could I visit London without Rebecca. She has dreamed of going for so long, you see.” It killed her to say it. The most delicious food had just passed under her nose, but she could not indulge.
“She can come too. Write to her today. Invite your cousin as well. She will be your chaperone. No one will raise an eyebrow then.”
He astonished her. “Sarah really will be a chaperone if she comes. She would not take her duty lightly.”
“It is not my intention to seduce you in London, if that is what you think, Eva. I am only plotting the fun that I promised when we first met.”
“You agree, then, that when we go to London this affair will end?”
“If that is what you want, of course. If you have no expectations from me, I can hardly demand any from you.”
Very true. Very sensible. She wondered if anyone else in the world had as dispassionate view of the dealings between men and women as Gareth.
“I will write and ask her, but I do not know if her husband—”
“He can come too. Tell her that I will introduce him to some people he will appreciate meeting. Reassure your cousin that there will be no need to find rooms in a hotel. You will all stay at Langley House.”
“Langley House?”
“My father’s house in London. Now my brother’s. The Duke of Aylesbury’s residence.”
