Page 38

“No, no,” Mr. Tinston replied. “I had not realized Miss Prescott had a partner already. I shall leave you both to the important task ahead. Good evening, Miss Prescott. My lord.”

Nell smiled and bid him the same, then turned to the earl. “What an interesting concept of three minutes you have.”

He smiled, then took a pencil. “Three minutes at a minimum, you said.” He led her down the gallery, and they passed Mr. Fowell, who was too busy tracing Miss Caldwell to notice.

Lord Dalmeer led Nell to the only open space: the last stool and candle in the gallery. At least they would be far from Mr. Fowell’s eyes.

Lady Dalmeer swept into view, wearing a wide—and forced—smile. “Lord Dalmeer, I had intended for Miss Prescott to partner with Mr. Tinston.”

“You know what they say about intentions, Mother. Next time, perhaps. Mr. Tinston would be happy to do your silhouette, I am sure.”

Lady Dalmeer looked at Nell, who had no notion what to say and settled on, “What a wonderful idea for an activity this is, my lady.”

The countess offered a sour smile, then swept away again.

“Sit or trace?” Lord Dalmeer asked Nell, unbothered by the exchange with his mother. Did anything ever bother him?

“Neither.”

Smiling, he handed her the pencil. “Trace, then.”

She set the pencil down on the stool and worked to remove her gloves. “I have warned you sufficiently, my lord, and now you will have only yourself to blame when your vanity is wounded.” She picked up the pencil as he came to take his seat.

“My vanity is made of stern stuff, Miss Prescott.”

“We shall see.”

He situated himself on the stool so that his profile was parallel with the wall. The light of the candle in front of him cast a shadow on the paper affixed to the peach wallpaper.

It was strange to see the familiar shape of his face without the details that brought it to life—the glint of humor in his eye or the charm of his smile.

Face resolutely forward, his eyes followed her with that very glint of humor as she passed him to take her place at the wall. She put her pencil to the paper, setting it where the shadow curved for his hair, which waved gently, leading naturally to the crown of his head.

The shadow suddenly shifted.

She looked at Lord Dalmeer, who was watching her. “You must sit still, my lord.”

“Yes. I shall do that.” He returned his gaze ahead.

She continued along the curve of the back of his head, hoping her hand would steady by the time she moved to the most difficult section: the face.

She tried her best to follow the shadow of his tailcoat collar, and once that was done, she lifted her pencil and moved to the face.

No sooner had she begun to trace the line of his forehead when it disappeared entirely.

The earl’s head was turned toward her again, his gaze upon her.

She dropped her hand to her side. “Are you, in fact, capable of sitting still, my lord?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Well, unless you wish to be a faceless monster, you must turn your profile to me again.”

He shifted obediently, but the line of the forehead did not precisely match the one she had begun on. She did her best but was stopped no less than three times by the earl’s gaze shifting to her.

“I like to watch you trace,” he defended, returning to the proper position. “It is far more entertaining than sitting here.”

“Entertaining for whom?”