Yet mine was low. “No. Not this time.”
“But, Cilia—”
“We’re done. The manager will be here soon.”
His face didn’t change. He stepped from me and put his hands to his sides. “We should do something with the small paint samples. They all can’t go to waste.”
“The theatre might have need of the special blues to touch up the art during the shows. I’ll make new colors when I need them. Do not trouble yourself.”
He picked one jar of the translucent silver that I’d used for the clouds. “Seems a shame to let all the good go to waste.”
I took my brushes and laid them in the muslin to form a tight bundle. “Sometimes starting anew, I can make the colors brighter, better than before.”
“Letting things be is not something I’ve learned to do.”
His tone held an edge even if it was a whisper. It was an omen that Felton wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t let me be during the confines of our trip.
He finished packing my supplies. “The manager should hurry, Lady Gantry. We’ll gather your party and head to Warwick.”
I nodded, realizing that this visit to honor the duke would be one of the hardest things I’d ever done. My trust in me and my knowledge of what I wanted would be challenged mile by mile by one of the king’s spies, one who’d use his wits to win.
CHAPTER37
FELTON—WORTHHERWAGES
This was all a test.
That was how Felton had to look at things as he squatted to pick up the last of Cecilia’s drop cloths.
In his work for the Department of War and the Colonies, he’d become used to having to blend in and to not be noticed. Assimilation in country was his specialty. It was why Lord Liverpool, the Secretary for War and the Colonies, had Felton go on so many missions once he left his regiment.
Yet, being invisible wasn’t what Cecilia needed. Like her art, she craved sparkle and flash, those types of adventures.
Glancing at her securing the pigment bottles, those tantalizing fingers slipping along the caps, he noticed she still wore the simple gold band he’d given her.
That had to mean something.
She smiled at her brushes like they told her what to paint next. Her round face, the lift of her lips—he’d missed it all far too long. When he’d offered her support, she had to feel the tension betwixt them, the attraction and pain of not tasting her mouth.
Repington advised him not to give in to these tender emotions swirling about them until it was clear she was ready to surrender and love him again.
She wasn’t where Felton was.
Unless he was a canvas, he doubted she’d find any joy in him.
He stewed and stared, wanting to be handled like her dependable brushes, never far from her reach.
What else must he change in himself to be given such care?
On assignments, he did alter his demeanor—from suave, to bumbler, from priestly to militaristic, from fool to assassin. What did she need?
“Where is Mr. Smithers?” Cecilia untied, then retied her bundle. “Is it almost seven?”
He checked his pocket watch. “Almost. It’s still early, my dear. What if I take you to your residence? You can gather your friends and then return here to wait. The ladies, I’m sure, won’t mind.”
“Ladies?”
The look on her face with her brows knitting indicated a mixed party. A man, or more so a little boy. A son could be her companion.
