“Given the fact that Upbridge Hall is my inheritance, I have a feeling the servants may well let me in the front door.”
“You cannot come.” Oops, her voice had gone a bit too high there. Unfortunate, that.
He paused and leaned over the back of the settee. He was far too close to breathing down her neck. And his breath was giving her… oh, holy… gooseflesh.
“Give me one good reason,” he breathed.
Jane scrambled for an answer. Why indeed could the man not come to his own cousin’s party being hosted in a home he would one day own? She decided it best to switch tactics. She stood and paced away from him, desperately needing to put space between them. She had to restore her equilibrium. When she’d gone a safe enough distance, she turned to face him and narrowed her eyes on him. “Why do you want to come?”
Garrett straightened and resumed his pacing. “To see what you’re up to, of course, and to hopefully stop it before it gets too far out of hand.”
Too late.Jane took a deep breath. Oh, this was going to get ugly. Quite ugly, indeed. There was no help for it. Desperate times… “Very well, Upton. What do you want to stay away? Name your price.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning, Cass took her watercolors and palette down to the conservatory. She hadn’t painted in an age. The activity always relaxed her. It was the only thing she did for propriety’s sake that she truly enjoyed. She adored staring at objects, considering their lines, making them come to life on a canvas using only a brush. It soothed her, made her forget her troubles. And that’s exactly what she intended, to forget everything she’d heard last night from Julian, specifically his confession that he intended to end things with Pen.
She glanced about at the lovely scene in front of her. Flowers were her particular favorite things to paint. Well, flowers and birds. But birds tended to have a pesky habit of flying away, and Lady Hoppington’s half-addled parrot had said one too many inappropriate things to her. Some of them in French.
Today, Cass had chosen an orchid as her subject. The soft scent of the flower floated through the slightly humid air in the room. She’d taken a seat on a little iron bench several paces away from the plant and was happily engaged in re-creating its delicate purple petals when Julian found her.
“There you are, Miss Bunbury.”
Cass nearly dropped her paintbrush. She grappled with it, caught it, and set it down on the small table she’d asked the footmen to set up next to her. She hastily smoothed her hands over her hair, hoping she didn’t get any paint streaks through it. So much for forgetting her troubles.
“Good… good morning, Captain Swift.”
He bowed to her. “I hope I didn’t startle you again. I seem to have a nasty habit of doing so.”
“No, no, not at all.” She smiled in reply.
“May I?” He gestured to the painting.
Cass’s breath caught in her throat. He wanted to see what she’d painted? Caught off guard, all she could do was nod.
Julian came around behind her and braced his hands on the back of the iron bench. The heat of his large body radiated toward her. She could smell his scent, his usual mix of soap and the barest hint of that cologne that made her senses tingle. He tilted his head, staring at the painting. “Excellent.”
A small sliver of pride shot through her. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“The color is perfect. Did you mix it yourself?” He sounded truly interested in her work.
“Yes. It’s something I like to do.”
“My sister has been known to paint. I don’t think she’s nearly as accomplished, however.”
Cass concentrated on wiping the paint from her fingers with a bit of linen. “Daphne?”
“Yes. You didn’t say. Have you ever met her?”
Cass kept her eyes trained on her hands. Cass would be a complete cake to pretend she didn’t know Daphne. But Patience Bunbury didn’t know her. “I’m not certain I’ve had the pleasure, Captain.”Liar. Liar. Liar.
He laughed softly at that. “If you’d met Daphne, I’ve a feeling you’d remember her, Miss Bunbury. I love her dearly but my sister is a bit—shall I say—unconventional?”
Now that was true, though Cass had always greatly enjoyed Daphne’s company. One never knew quite what one might hear when Daphne was about. She was unexpected in that way, very much like Lucy. Cass searched for something to say that would not involve more lies. “I’m certain your sister is lovely and accomplished, Captain.”
He glanced back at the painting and pointed a finger. “You paint nearly as well as my friend,” he continued. “In fact, this reminds me of her work.”
Cass mentally cursed herself. She was an idiot. Why had she let him see her painting? She’d sent him paintings before, small bits of watercolors she’d created over the years, drawings. Anything to cheer him, anything that could be neatly folded and included in her letters to him. He’d seen her hand before. She stared up at him, her heart lodged in her throat. Had he guessed? It was an innocuous painting of an orchid but it wouldn’t take much to know the lines, the texture.
