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“I shall have to take you at your word, I am afraid.”

“Indeed,” he said, moving closer to the fountain. “Are you an art lover?”

Heat punched at Orris’s cheeks. “I am afraid not. I believe I have spent more time looking at our family’s portrait than any other.”

“Art is a splendid thing, though subjective. You likely have not found a painting or sculpture that has captivated you.” He looked at the fountain as if it were a living thing, his eyes roving over the tail, her hands, the hair spilling over her shoulders in the limestone. “Once you do, I am sure you will find your perfect specimen.”

“I am sure you are right. Perhaps one day.” Mr. Fain made her uncomfortable… No, ‘uncomfortable’ was not quite the right word. He made her feel something stirring deep inside. It was the sensation with which she was uncomfortable.

Mr. Fain was of the same deep-brown skin as her father, near mahogany and smooth enough to invite her touch, if she dared.

He was taller than Orris, even in her booted heels, with broad shoulders. A thought of his strong forearms flashed in his mind. His long hair was tied back with a cord at the nape of his neck. She wondered what he would look like in the apparel of the cowhands.

His clothing was not as grand as that of the men of the ton, but she liked that about him. If only the gentlemen of the beau monde had some occupation other than standing about and sharing their latest accomplishments. So full of airs and absent concern for anything anyone else had done.

“I should go back inside and finish working on your portrait. Your family’s portrait,” he said, offering a bow, so she offered a curtsy in return.

She watched as he walked away. He was most kind.

“And, Miss Gray,” he said, stopping on the stairs with an elegant return to her attention.

“Yes, Mr. Fain?”

“You may call me ‘Aldridge,’ should you like. And please know, it has been my greatest pleasure to paint your lovely family.”

His words, while kind, were not what she appreciated most. His demeanor and the way he spoke to her was honest. A remarkable thing to know someone shared how they truly felt in a land where thoughts and actions rarely aligned. He was a sincere man.

It was his authenticity that was responsible for the warmth in her heart. It was something she had not even felt with Thomas. With any man she’d come across, save for her papa and Samuel.

Chapter Eight

The morning air was crisp, a sharp departure from the day before. The London weather was somewhat unpredictable, as was Ireland’s. Abram appreciated the break from the relentless oppression of factories and products of labor in certain areas he frequented, however.

Abram had never been one for early mornings. He loved to haunt society’s underbelly, establishments of which the wealthier members of the ton would not dare to speak.

Despite his preference for evening activities, the chance of catching a glimpse of Miss Orris in the morning light was worth the minor inconvenience.

His behavior, creeping through parks and gardens to catch a glimpse of her beauty, was scandalous. The benefit of having no designs on wedding a member of London’s society and his little-known stature as the second-born son of an Irish duke granted him a veil or sorts. They would not recognize him as anyone of importance.

And so, he skulked around before most people were out of doors. He imagined she was hiding her desire to run her horse at whatever speed she desired. Activities that left young ladies with heaving chests and sweat were frowned upon. Thinking back on her the other morning, he understood the rationale.

The moment he’d seen her break the horizon line, he’d been captivated. She’d been resplendent.

After more than an hour, it was clear all he would have was his imagined vision. The gentlemen of society were already passing through to meet for Parliament.

He struggled to rationalize the reason her absence troubled him. He would see her again for the final sitting of the portrait. He had promised Mrs. Gray one more sitting to ensure the lighting was right. Many artists were painting out of doors to achieve optimal lighting. Given the advancements in painting supplies, it had become more of a possibility.

Still, Abram enjoyed very much the inclusion of texture and tapestry in his works.

“Mr. Fain,” he heard from behind his chosen bench along the riding path.

Turning, he found Viscount Fredericks, dressed to the nines in the traditional garb for political affairs. The silk top hat, tailored suit, gold embroidery on his emerald-green waistcoat, and matching cravat made his status impossible to ignore.

“Good day to you, my lord. I hope you are well this fine morning,” he replied, standing and straightening his own morning coat and necktie.

“Very well, indeed. Taking the air this early, are you?”

“I find my inspiration during the morning hours.”