Owen shot a look at Emma. “I think you mistake who her favorite person is. But there is a way to help her to guess blindly. We will line them up out of order and not stand near our masterpieces.”
It was an especially humorous descriptor coming from him. Emma bit back a smile.
“Will you arrange the paintings? I will find my aunt.” Owenstepped back from the table, running a hand through his hair and glancing over Emma’s shoulder at her painting.
She felt the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck. “We will rearrange the order.”
His footsteps receded, allowing her to breathe again.
Sophia rose, sliding her strong horse and her brother’s to the same side of the table as Emma’s and Owen’s. Emma made herself busy cleaning up the painting supplies and charcoal pencils, moving everything to one end of the table and combining the water into one cup. Her mind returned to the conversation they had shared at dinner the evening before and Mrs. Buckley’s directive for Owen to marry so he might produce an heir.
It was bold but a fair statement. He had drawn silent at that pronouncement and left shortly afterward. When he arrived that morning, his behavior was no different from before. Just as reticent, just as friendly. He continued to walk the line between the two with Emma. If he was to find a bride soon, she surely did not wish towatch.
“I think it will be close,” Sophia purred, looking between the images laid out on the table. “What shall the winner receive?”
“You and your games,” her brother muttered.
“My games?” She laughed. “That is rich, coming from you.”
Mr. Yardley frowned. “The winner may have a kiss?”
Emma’s cheeks heated, and she avoided looking at him. What a thing to suggest.
Sophia scoffed. “Never. We must select a prize that will not end our day so soon. I am enjoying myself far too much.”
“Then plan another activity.”
“That is just the thing!” Sophia clapped her hands together. “Perhaps the winner shall choose our next activity. It seems the only fair course of action.”
“Unless Miss Darling and Captain Buckley have other things to see to.” Mr. Yardley’s dark eyes watched her from the otherside of the room, where he leaned against the wall. There was a slightly challenging tone to his voice, a pointed way he continued to watch her that made her feel like a mouse and he the cat. “They might not wish to agree to another activity.”
Emma broke the heavy gaze and pushed her chair back, moving to the edge of the room as Owen escorted Mrs. Buckley in.
“I hear you would like me to select a winner.”
“If you are comfortable with it, yes,” Sophia said, beaming. Her dark blond hair curled in ringlets at her temples, and her cheeks were flushed, possibly from the heat of the fireplace, giving her a youthful glow. “The winner shall choose our next activity.”
Owen looked at her sharply.
“That is an interesting prize.” Mrs. Buckley slid her arm free and approached the table. She looked at each picture, her eyes pausing on Owen’s half-finished attempt for a beat before flicking up toward him. “I know my nephew does not have an artistic bone in his body, so he shall not be the one choosing your next activity. Pray tell me you shall select something that forces him to forget his responsibilities a while longer. He needs a little distraction.”
“I suppose that depends on who wins,” Sophia countered.
Mrs. Buckley returned her attention to the images of horses lined up on the table, studying each of them before reaching forward and pressing her finger to the one in the center with the powerful black stallion. “This one.”
Mr. Yardley pushed away from the wall and stalked over to the table, a roguish grin over his lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Buckley. Your taste is exquisite.”
“Oh, heavens,” Sophia muttered, rolling her eyes. “We shall never hear the end of this.”
“Choosing a winner wasyouridea.”
“One I am already coming to regret. Now tell us, Simon, what shall we do next?”
He rubbed his fingers over his jaw, glancing at Emma. “Shall we take a walk in the village? We can visit the shop for a peppermint.”
Goodness, what a waste of time that would be. “I fear I have too many things I ought to do?—”
“Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Buckley argued. “I am perfectly aware of your entire list of errands, Emma. There is nothing on it that cannot be put off until later. Go and have a sweet. If anyone deserves it, it is you. We have done nothing but work these last few weeks, securing this house and turning it into a home. You deserve it.”
