Page 23

Frustrated with this setback, he jogged halfway back to the Blue Boar, retrieved the tool, then made for Daffley Park once more. This would certainly teach him not to make the mistake again. He’d lost more than an hour of his time. After finishing only a side of one bookshelf in a fortnight, he couldn’t afford to waste a single moment. He would certainly be consuming every last week allotted him to complete the design.

He turned along the lane that led to Daffley Park, his musings propelling his feet faster. He needed to accomplish much more to prove his worth to Mr. Coventry, and dawdling on the path would do nothing of the sort.

The dirt road shifted to gravel, his feet crunching against the road to the estate. He had all of his tools, his stomach was filled with Mrs. Hill’s pastries, and the temperature breathed even cooler that day. Nothing would distract him from finishing his work now.

Except for the clopping hooves coming up behind him.

Halfway to the house, he shifted to the side of the road to allow the rider past.

“Good morning, Mr. Steele.”

Miss Coventry pulled up beside him, sitting tall and regal in her riding habit atop her bay gelding. Her groom rode a healthy distance from her on his own horse.

“Good morning,” he returned.

Her emerald eyes smiled as she looked down at him, though his attention was stolen by a swipe of green paint along her jawline. His lip twitched.

“You are late this morning,” she stated, no hint of judgment in her tone.

His eyes dropped to the paint once more. The green not only enhanced her eyes, but it also drew far too much attention to the smoothness of her skin.

He raised the chisel in his hand. “Yes, I forgot this at the Blue Boar, so I had to go back and fetch it for my work today.”

“You ought to have asked for a horse. You would have made it in half the time.” The paint on her jawline darkened as the clouds in the sky shifted.

“That is all right. I did not mind the walk.”

The usual anxiousness that accompanied being with Miss Coventry did not appear that afternoon. Not only did he trust the woman to not speak disparagingly of him to her father—she seemed to have not an unkind bone in her body—but he also had taken matters into his own hands by presenting himself to Mrs. Coventry under the guise of helping them across the puddle. Having the woman introduce her daughters would lead to far fewer questions should someone discover his strange acquaintance with Miss Coventry.

He’d felt badly sending the young woman into a panic at the churchyard, but he was grateful for the chance to prove to her that he could be trusted, despite the unsavory rumors he hoped to keep the family ignorant of for the duration of his stay.

Her gelding stomped on the ground, bringing his attention back to the present.

Miss Coventry leaned forward and stroked the horse’s neck, and the animal instantly calmed. “How goes the work in the library?”

He glanced at the groom, who stared toward the stables, no doubt bored of their conversation. “It’s moving along smoothly. I’ve never worked with such fine mahogany.”

She sniffed a laugh, still stroking the bay’s brown coat. “That is my father for you. He would never settle for anything less. Only the finest mahogany for his library. Only the finest material for Mother’s curtains. Only the finest silk for sister’s dinner party dress.”

He waited. “And for yourself?”

She stared down at him, her brow pursed beneath her elegant, blue hat. “Oh, I am in need of very little.”

Her silence spoke measures, though questions still arose in his mind. Was she neglected? Not given the same treatment and fine things as her mother and sister were? How could that be so with Mr. Coventry being as kind to Edward as he had been?

“How long have you been carving, Mr. Steele?”

He hesitated, knowing she was simply changing the subject to avoid his questions. But he wouldn’t press her to speak more on something she didn’t wish to.

The horse stomped again, despite her settling strokes.

“All of my life. My father started his business when he first married my mother, and I was born soon after. The first gift I remember receiving as a young man was a chisel.”

The dimples near the edges of her mouth deepened as she smiled. “Truly? How delightful.”

Of course, she would think that was delightful. She was delightful. He had certainly eaten his own disparaging words. She was a bit strange, but she wasn’t at all like most wealthy individuals. She was a woman who preferred the smell of old books and carved mahogany to roses and jasmine.

The horse stamped on the ground again, snorting impatiently.