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“Mrs. Gray, um… my apologies, Seraphine, would you have your butler arrange some chairs? At least two. And if it is no bother, some of your lovely floral arrangements?” Abram asked Seraphine the question, but his eyes stayed on Miss Orris. She appeared to be in a heated discussion with her cousin and sister. He imagined Violetta the elder of the three, if only due to her being introduced first.

But Miss Orris… there was something feral and passionate in her demeanor.

“Certainly,” Seraphine replied, bringing him from his preoccupation with the younger Gray lady. She nodded in the direction of the butler, whom she called ‘Dorchester.’

There was no reason for Abram to continue to stare at the Gray debutante, though he could have all day. Instead, he focused on setting up his easel, arranging his paint palette, and trying to suppress the tone of her voice in his mind.

Once the family was arranged in their positions, he observed them more closely. The ladies were all standing around Seraphine, who was seated on a red-velvet-covered armchair. They made quite the impression; jewel-toned dresses fit for royalty. To the left side of the group, the viscountess sat in a chair at the end, next to Miss Gray, and the viscount placed a hand on her shoulder.

As perfect as they looked, something was off. Miss Orris stood at her mother’s right, her hand resting on the chair.

Abram walked forward, paintbrush in one hand. Closer he drew, walking over to her. “May I?” he asked.

She did not utter a sound, merely nodded. With his thumb, he moved one of her braids behind her ear. As his hand brushed over her silken, brown skin, a pulse of energy passed between them.

Abram yanked his hand away, and as he brought his attention to her eyes, he could see the confusion. Had he been the only one who had felt anything? Of course he had been. His vivid imagination was all it had been.

Or was that so?

“I think we are ready, Mrs. Gray,” he said, noticing everyone, especially the protective viscount, had him in their sights.

“Very well, thank you,” Seraphine said. She smiled around at her family before resuming her position.

Abram moved away, back to his easel, still sensitive to the rush he’d felt moments before. His hand tingled from touching her, and he shook it out as if to snuff out the moment that had passed between them. Blast his silly notions…

As he began, he drew an outline in pencil, as he did with all of his paintings. He should have started with Seraphine, as she was the focal point. The matriarch. Instead, he found himself beginning with the beautiful Miss Orris.

He could still smell her scent, orange and chamomile, bright and sweet. His pencil found every curve of her face, her lips, her cheeks, the way her intelligent eyes were shaped like almonds. Beauty in gold, he admired.

He thought back to Rowan’s warnings. Had he been right? Could he not be trusted in the company of the stately, kind Gray family?

He would never be alone with Miss Orris. For if he were, he feared Rowan would have been correct, indeed.

Chapter Five

Orris allowed her horse to break free over the back trail of the park. It had taken her a moment to get used to the English bridle and riding style, but now that she had, her horses responded better to her.

“Ha,” she called out, nudging Belle along. The mare was remarkably fast, and Orris found herself not in want of another.

Belle was hers, and she’d rarely felt freer than she did with the wind against her face and blowing through her hair as she rode. Even if recently, she’d worried over her ability to have anything for herself. It seemed everything she wanted was doomed to be snatched away.

The sun had barely risen, a slip of it still hidden on the horizon. She had not found sleep easy since she’d lost Thomas. It had only been two days, but she hoped she could push him from her mind soon. How could she, though, when everywhere she looked, he was there? His memory in everything they had shared, every saddle and each laugh. He had not been her match, nor was he in her class, but he had made her feel alive. Her affection toward him had to mean something, did it not?

The sound of Belle’s hooves against the soft earth comforted her, where her mind was cluttered with thoughts of what could never have been.

“Ya,” she called out, driving Belle ever faster. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a moment, everything troubling Orris left her mind. The wind stripped away her breath and the cool morning air cut away the dull ache in her heart. In the briefest of moments, Orris was free—from the expectations of society and her family, from the awareness that money and class superseded loyalty, and the reality that no matter how much you desired something, it could all be snatched away.

Just as Orris had reached the point of levitation, from the corner of her eye, the blur of a man appeared as she raced by. And she recognized him, she thought.

Pulling up on the reins, she brought Belle to a slow, then guided her around. To say hello was a bit dangerous, as she had snuck out that morning without a chaperone. It was early yet, however. Very few to witness the offense. Nor did she want to be rude.

As she and Belle approached, she realized it was the painter. The very handsome painter, with deep-brown skin and honeyed eyes. In the morning sun, she could make out his good humor. “Good day, sir,” she called.

“Dia dhuit ar maidin,” he said.

For a moment, Orris thought she had not heard him correctly, as the blood was still rushing through her ears. “Sorry?”

“It means ‘May God be with you this morning.’ Apologies. Old habits, you know.” He offered her a smile, glancing down at the ground, then shrugged as he returned his eyes to her.