Was that even something she might want?
All he knew was that she’d once lost her chance at marriage and that she still seemed to resent this. He stared at the white wall a moment. Had she loved the man who’d courted her and been heartbroken over losing her chance with him? A surge of displeasure raced through him, quickening his pulse. He shook his head. No. She’d only mentioned her suitor in passing, as a missed opportunity of sorts, nothing more.
That reminder, the belief that her heart remained unattached, allowed him to breathe more easily. It also forced him to acknowledge the fact that he wanted to be the object not only of her desire but of her affection. He wanted to be the man who did more than teach her how to kiss. He wanted to be the man who reminded her every day of how wonderful and extraordinary and stunning she was, the man who chased away every doubt she’d ever had about herself, who showed her that she deserved to be loved for her courage and boldness.
The door swung open behind him, causing cool air to sweep over his shoulders. He turned and immediately spotted the object of his contemplations, her hazel eyes curious as they roamed around the room before settling on him. A wave of pleasure rolled through him as he spotted that now familiar curiosity and interest brightening her gaze.
The edge of her mouth twitched, dispelling the awkwardness that had been hanging between them for days now. “When you said you would paint the room, I thought you meant the walls.”
He frowned. “What?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded toward a spot behind Griffin. He glanced over his shoulder, his muscles tightening at the sight of the fireplace mantelpiece. “Damnation.” It was brilliantly white against an equally white wall and he, simpleton that he was, was cursing in front of a lady. “Forgive me. I…” He scrambled for a rag. The paint was still wet so perhaps… A few rough swipes informed him that it was already too late. In fact, he was just making it worse now by creating a streaky mess.
“Stop.”
He dropped the rag and stared helplessly at the piece of carved rosewood now hidden away and unsalvageable due to his own stupidity. “I’m so sorry.” He’d been thinking of her and not of the task, his hand moving mindlessly over the wood instead of the wall.
“It’s all right. At least you didn’t paint the silk cushions on the sofa.”
Turning slowly toward her, he could only stare at her, incredulous. “I have ruined your mantelpiece.”
“Did you do so deliberately?”
“No. Of course not. But that does not make it all right.”
She nodded. “Perhaps not, but getting upset over it will not help either.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “It didn’t when Peter broke my clock. If anything, it will only result in unpleasant emotions that won’t resolve anything.”
“Miss Howard. I… You…” Words failed him. He’d been careless and she was accepting it without any reprimand.
“You should probably paint the rest of the fireplace too. It will look more deliberate then. But before you do, Mama suggested a picnic for luncheon because of the weather, and I thought I would ask you if you’d like to join us.”
He stared at her. “A picnic?”
“Where you eat outside on a blanket spread on the ground?”
An involuntary bit of laughter rose from his throat. “Yes. I know what it is.”
She laughed as well. “Good. For a moment there I was starting to wonder if the paint fumes had negatively affected your brain.”
“No. I do not believe so. The window is open.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “You have paint in your hair and on your cheek.”
He reached inside his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief which he promptly used to wipe at his cheek. “Better?”
She chuckled. “It’s on the other cheek.”
He made a second attempt at removing the stain. “How about now?’
Miss Howard shook her head and stepped toward him. “You’re making it worse.” She held out her hand and he gave her the handkerchief, his body on sudden alert as the expectation of her touch brought a strain to his muscles. He fought the urge to lean closer and instead remained where he was, perfectly still and immobile, save for the rise and fall of his chest.
The white linen grazed his skin, and although it created a barrier between them, he could feel the pressure of her fingertips moving against him. They did so efficiently, scrubbing at him with determination.
That same determination could be found in her eyes, now fixed upon the spot where she worked. She was still at arm’s length, not improperly close or even doing something that could be claimed as anything other than helpful. The parlor door was open behind her, denying them privacy.
But her scent… The sweet smell of lavender and fresh soap that suggested she’d recently bathed wafted over him. Along with something more homely.
“Have you been baking?” he asked when he caught a whiff of flour and milk.
