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Silly. Orris was being ridiculous. She knew the problem would not resolve itself. The rules were the rules, after all.

With a shake of her head, she glanced back to the dress. She would go into the back, but before she did, she chanced one last look at him.

To her surprise, he was staring at her. The chill of gooseflesh breaking over her arms made her clasp her hands in front of her.

In most circumstances, when one was caught staring at another, the person would look away. Mr. Fain did not. Instead, he allowed their gaze to hold for impossibly long seconds, time crawling by as if on its belly.

Orris, who should have been modest and chaste when engaging with men, did not look away, either. Instead, she held on to the fleeting moment, allowing herself to take in every inch of him. He was a tall man, his deep-brown skin complementing rugged features, and lips that promised salacious kisses and hands that promised to hold her safe.

In another exaggerated second, he offered her a nod, slightly lifting a bowler hat from his head, then turned to walk away.

She still could not bring herself to break the stare, even after he was gone from sight.

It took her a moment to realize she had been panting. Was she straining against her corset for his touch even if he was not in the same room?

As if she were riding over the rough terrain of the countryside, she had been tossed by Mr. Fain’s dangerous territory.

Orris knew she shouldn’t have been drawn to him, having learned her lesson with Thomas. However, if simply seeing him walk by was enough to awaken all her senses, was the warning not already too late?

Chapter Ten

Abram knew staring at Miss Orris Gray, longing for her, in full view of any passerby, was the worst idea of all the worst ideas. He had already been warned by Viscount Fredericks to be mindful of who she was and where she belonged.

Abram had lamented over the viscount’s warning him off of Miss Gray. In truth, would his father object to an American? Abram cursed under his breath. There were times his da would object to anything that might have made his life joyful. Anything that would have made him whole.

He had never forgiven him for his mother’s death. There had always been a significant risk. In fact, his grandmother would say death itself walked around a woman’s bed while trying to bring a child into the world. She would tell him that specifically.

So he would know it was not his fault.

The blame belonged to death and should not have been placed on Abram’s young shoulders.

Yet his father did not share that consensus. As far as he was concerned, Abram was a curse brought on his family. Even when he’d told him of the abuses he’d suffered at his boarding school, the duke had honestly believed Abram had a penance to repay. From the day he’d been born, Abram had been deemed broken and vile.

Perhaps it was just as well. Again, the viscount would learn soon enough that while he was titled, he was not what one would consider good stock. So sayeth his father.

Abram cursed under his breath and made his way up to the bachelor’s lodging. The suite was adjacent to Rowan’s. With a rap on his door, Abram called out to him. “I’ve just come back with bread and cheese. I shall not require anything more, so the day is yours. I am working on the batch of paints.”

Rowen would be happy to know Abram was almost finished here, once Abram finished with the Grays and the Earl of Brookshire’s request for a new miniature, since Abram fully intended to keep his word and return to Ireland within a fortnight. It was the least he could do since he had succumbed to folly for such an inordinately long time.

There was no sound from the other side. Perhaps Rowan had gone out already? Without knocking again, Abram retired to his own rooms and began mixing paints and gathering supplies for what would be his last time visiting Gray Manor.

Abram had not been satisfied with the brown pigment he had used for Miss Orris’s skin. Her hue was luminous, a mix of sandalwood and umber with undertones of gold. As he crushed the color into the linseed oil, he tested the combination by smearing it on a swatch of canvas. Still certain it was not quite right, he added more gold. Just a touch. He wanted to paint her accurately, though he knew his brushstrokes were inadequate to recreate such beauty.

Still, he wanted her to look at the painting and think of him fondly. It would have to be enough, for he knew she could never be his.

As he worked, he thought back to catching a glimpse of her earlier. He had not known she would be there, but as if compelled, he’d felt her presence and turned to find her. She’d been looking at dresses, her hand inspecting fabric, a thoughtful expression on her lovely face. Abram had wished he could be the delicate lace of the sleeve, her fingers gently stroking the broken pattern and empty spaces. He’d watched her move through and around the elaborately outfitted dress forms. Then she had looked up to find him there. Though he’d known she’d been surprised to find his eyes on her, Orris had not shied away, as dictated by societal rules. Instead, she’d held his gaze boldly. Confidently. He’d wondered, if only briefly, whether it was because she was American, or if it was because she thought him handsome?

Abram knew he was being foolish. He had been warned off the Grays. All of them, he supposed.

Her face, the delicate jawline, the pert nose—broad at the nostrils, her almond-shaped eyes, honey colored and golden, as if lit from within, formed in his mind. He filled in an elegant neck, then added the silk rosettes of her bodice. The dress from the second day, not the first. There was more flourish and richer fabric. She was beauty personified, as if Venus poured an extra measure of favor over her.

Abram pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, the slight burning in each the result of paint fumes in close quarters. He usually opened a window but had not expected to be working for so long. A glance at his watch, he wondered where the time had gone. And where was Rowan?

Even though he was technically his valet, a duty Abram had expressly forbidden him to fulfill, Rowan still reminded him of things like mealtimes and kept him on schedule.

After quickly gathering up his things, Abram went back across the hall and knocked on his door. “Rowan?” After a few moments, he called his name again. No answer. Where could he have gotten off to?

Maybe he’d gone downstairs already and made his way to the Dove and Hound…