“A tour, my lord?”
“Yes, and dinner. I need your opinion on a few things. I do hope you don’t mind.”
I didn’t mind being on his arm, but I was tense.
He had me out of the carriage in a blink.
“You don’t need to fidget, Ruth.” Wycliff’s steps were unhurried, almost lazy, like he had no care.
I was torn between wanting to be through Blaren House’s entry and loving the feel of his hand heating my satin glove.
“Your ideas of color for my house are what I crave. Your thoughts and whims are for me. I’m yours to command.”
This joke, sort of serious, sort of sweet, sent a shiver down my skin. His graveled voice wasn’t a church hymn, but it meant seasoned and secure, even desire to my ears.
Security wasn’t the thing I knew I needed. Coming from the closely knit Croome family, it was the thing I didn’t know I’d missed.
Wycliff had his palms about my waist, tight and low, as he helped me up the steps. “My staff has prepared a feast for you.”
“I don’t need such trouble, and it’s getting late.”
“You need someone to make a fuss over you.”
The doors opened before he touched the knocker.
The vile scent of fresh paint hit my nostrils. I brought a hand to my nose. “Paint fumes don’t smell like a roast. It’s quite the opposite.”
“No. They don’t. This is terrible. We won’t dine down here. But…” He drummed his boot. “The smell is indicative of the choice you must make.”
I fanned my face. “The choice to be sickened by fumes or to leave?”
“No, the choice of color you want in this grand hall.”
“Color is a personal thing, Lord Wycliff.”
“Blaren House is personal. I want the hues of the walls to be something that inspires you. I want to induce you to consider a more permanent friendship. I’m getting a bit old to be a bachelor.”
“You’re not old. What are you? Thirty, thirty-two?”
“Twenty-eight.”
The same age as Adam. I crossed my arms to block the memories. The hopes of what could’ve been paled to what Wycliff promised.
“At such an age, I should be married. What do you think, friend?”
“I don’t want to talk of this tonight.”
He bent and picked up a brush from a bucket. “What of this?” He slathered creamy beige paint onto the wall.
I held my nose. The stench was strong. “Rather dull.”
He stopped again, creasing his elegant buff breaches, and stirred a second bucket.
“Dull. I hate being a bore, but when do we discuss things?”
I stepped back and realized he’d painted an R onto the wall. “I exchanged letters with Mr. Marks for months before we met in person. I wish to take things slowly.”
Tugging at his jade-green waistcoat, he bent to the second of the three buckets. This one was dead-salmon pink. He slapped a heart underneath the R. “Six months is about the time you were secretly engaged to Adam. That’s a long time to wait. This is our third week.”
