“Yes. The finest quality I could find. You could have canvas, too, if you prefer—”
“No.”
“And I bought watercolor paints, but if you want to try your hand at oils—”
“No.”
He looked at her and frowned. “You do not seem pleased.”
She didn’t know what she felt. He had given her a gift. One that she valued. She ought to be giddy with happiness. This was a treasure trove of supplies that she could not afford on her own. But instead of feeling grateful, she felt her gut sinking.
“This is another ruse,” she said. “So that I will paint something you can sell.”
“You could think of it that way,” he said slowly. “Or you could see that I am simply providing something you need to enjoy yourself. You need not touch them if you don’t want to.”
A silly statement. How could she resist new brushes? How could she not experiment with the paints before her? And the paper…
She unwrapped the package of paper with trembling hands. There was a variety, but most were of the thin variety as close to rice paper as she’d ever seen. The thicker paper was made for watercolors, and, she now noticed, came from the same London company where she shopped.
“I asked after the finest papermaker in London,” Lord Daniel said. “This is from him.”
“Yes,” she said as she stroked the edge of the nearest piece. “I know the shop.”
“If you prefer something else,” he began, but she abruptly looked up.
“How do you know what kind of paper I like? How do you know I want brushes?”
“I don’t. I guessed.” Then he shrugged. “Remember, I saw you painting in Hyde Park. I saw what you used.”
A shiver went down her spine. “You remembered the paper, the brushes?”
“Of course, I remembered. I had never seen anything like what you make.”
He was not the first who had tried to speak with her. Several had tried over the years, but she had rebuffed them all. How had she not realized she’d been watched by a tiger?
“I didn’t get a chance to say much more than ‘hello’ before you packed up and left.”
It was rare for people to talk with her when she painted. It happened, but not often. She learned early that the best way to handle them—especially determined gentlemen—was to gather her supplies quickly and leave. And then she would find to a different spot to paint the next morning. No one had ever followed her except him. He had pursued her enough to find out where she worked and negotiate a deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
The tiger had stalked her, and she had not been afraid. Was it because she hadn’t known he was a tiger then? Or because he wasn’t dangerous to her?
She felt the shadows burst from her, quivering around her like fierce little dogs. She slowly withdrew her hand from the packages.
“I should return to my work,” she said.
“I meant no offense,” he said.
She knew that. She could see it in his face and hear it in his voice. Why, then, was she suddenly anxious, surrounded by her shadows, and trying desperately to shrink away?
“How long have you been planning on bringing me here?”
“Since Mrs. Dove-Lyon suggested it. She said you needed a holiday.”
Yes, that was absolutely what the woman would say. Indeed, she had said it.
“I don’t understand why you’re upset,” he pressed. “These are for you to use as you want. I won’t take them from you. Indeed, I won’t even be here.”
Her gaze snapped up to his. “What? Where are you going?”
