Page 23 of Romancing the Artist

“I am not an artist. Not really.”

He chuckled and turned slightly away. “So you are a woodland, fey creature?”

“It isn’t good manners to call someone a fairy.”

“A sprite.”

“Still a type of fairy,” she countered as an invisible hand closed around her heart and squeezed. Despite her protests, he had given her a gift with the title she so longed to claim. And she did have sympathy for him and for Mariah.

“Do you have any other questions?” Caroline asked.

“Your reputation might suffer if we do this. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“I have no history with the people in your community. With Mariah’s family or yours. I am leaving at the end of summer, too. That gives me a great deal of freedom that neither of you may feel. As the guest of the earl and the countess, I imagine that grants me a buffer of sorts, too. So no. I am not concerned about my reputation, so long as you promise you are an honorable man.”

“I am.” His smile faded away. “We may still be asking too much of you.”

“No one asked. I offered.” A mixture of anxiety and excitement twisted about inside of her. This was happening. He was about to agree to her idea. Her ridiculous scheme that suddenly loomed larger than she thought it would in her mind.

Edward cleared his throat, and the way he tapped his fingers against his leg made her think he had as many complex emotions about the path ahead as she did.

“Miss Clapham,” he began, his voice a little unsteady. “I know we have only just met, but I feel that we understand one another. I trust you. So does Mariah.” He paused for a moment. “It doesn’t sit well with me that you do so much for us. I will insist that you have something from me. A favor of your naming, whenever you wish, in return for your kindness.”

“If it makes your mind easier, I will agree to that.” Caroline looked through the trees, where children now called to one another in a new game. “I know it sounds unconventional,” she said, “this plan of mine.”

“I think it will work.” He surprised her with a smile. “My parents will be satisfied that I am making progress towards a marriage, and it will buy time for Mariah to convince her parents of her own plans for happiness. It is only one summer.” He looked at her earnestly, and Caroline reassured him once more.

“A pretend courtship cannot be too difficult.”

“Perhaps not. I promise, I will do all I can to make your summer enjoyable and interesting. Don’t artists require unusual things to motivate their creation? Perhaps this is the sort of adventure that will lead to inspiration.”

She hadn’t thought of it that way. And her inspiration had run quite thin of late. Perhaps this strange idea would stimulate her creativity in a way nothing else had.

“It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to enter into something like this lightly.” She smiled at him, giving him one more chance to think things through. “If you need more time to think on it—”

“I don’t,” he admitted, ducking his head. “This is the right thing to do.” He didn’t appear much comforted as he offered her his arm. “When shall we begin?”

The feeling in her stomach reminded her of something strange. After she finished using a paintbrush, she would swirl it about in a mixture of turpentine, agitating the brush with quick, sharp movements. Then she removed it, and pressed the bristles between her cloth, squeezing the damp out.

Her stomach had been quite thoroughly agitated by Edward Everly’s conversation, and his acceptance of her idea had finished the job, leaving her wrung dry and uncertain as to whether she had done the right thing in proposing their strange arrangement.

“There is no time like the present,” she quipped, ignoring the increase of heat in her cheeks. “Are you a capable flirt, Mr. Everly?”

He chuckled. “Call me Edward. We are allies in battle, Miss Clapham. And you will have to judge my abilities yourself.”

“You must call me Caroline.” She lifted her chin as they left the shadows of the orchard, her heart racing. Her brazen, impractical, outlandish idea had been accepted by Mariah and Edward. And now, thought she had no experience with romance whatsoever, her first courtship was about to begin.

What would her family think of her decision? Her mother wouldn’t approve. But her papa might well find the whole idea amusing. They had praised her for thinking outside of conventional dictates before, but had she taken a step too far this time? Edward returned her to the picnic, speaking to her of the apple trees, and she said nothing about how much they reminded her of her orchard at home or the family she had left behind in pursuit of her dream.

Chapter 8

Lady Inglewood and Caroline examined a scattered selection of sketches and paintings spread across the largest table in the library while they waited for the morning’s guests. Though they had guests arriving soon, the countess had sent for Caroline earlier than their agreed-upon time.

Nearly a week had passed since the picnic, which had been wholly unremarkable after Caroline’s conversation with Mr. Everly. They would put their plan in motion for the first time this day, when he arrived with his sisters and Miss Kimball for a painting exercise dreamed up by the countess. Caroline had tried to prepare herself for what she suspected would be an attempt at flirtation amid watercolors and paintbrushes.

She hadn’t prepared herself for whatever had sent Lady Inglewood into a state of distraction. A furrow creased her brow, revealing her deep concern. Her lips, usually adorned with a gentle smile, were now pressed together in a contemplative line.

“What is it?” Caroline asked, not twisting her fingers with anxiety. She kept them clamped on the edge of the table, her eyes searching her work for whatever had made Lady Inglewood’s brow pucker. “Is something wrong?” She couldn’t imagine what glaring deficiency she had that would necessitate a look at all the work she had brought with her. Rolled canvases were held open and down by small paperweights, sketchbooks were open to display profiles of her father and farmers who had sat patiently while she captured their likenesses.