Page 24

Miss Coventry seemed to notice, as well. She turned to the groom. “Would you mind very much taking Rosencrantz to the stables for me?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

She then turned to Edward with an expectant look. Heavens, she was looking for him to help her dismount.

He stepped forward, hesitating just a moment before dropping his chisel to the ground—unwilling to risk carving Miss Coventry’s skin—then reached his hands forward. He may be more comfortable speaking with the woman, but touching her? That was another matter entirely. Suppose someone saw them? Hopefully, the groom would vouch for Edward’s innocence.

Miss Coventry modestly raised her right leg up and over the lower pommel, then leaned forward, pressing her hands gently against Edward’s shoulders. As she slipped down from the horse’s back, his fingers wrapped around her slight waist, and his heart skipped a beat. The feel of her so close to him felt natural. But it shouldn’t.

The second her feet settled on the ground, he tore his eyes away from the paint accenting her delicate jawline then released her and moved back. Willing his heart to pump properly, he retrieved his tool from the ground.

“Thank you,” she said.

She extended the horse’s reins to the groom, who made his way across the grounds with both animals, leaving Edward alone with Miss Coventry.

Perfect, he could bid farewell to the man vouching for him now.

“Would you see me back to the house?” she asked. “You are going in that direction after all.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

The worst that could happen was Mrs. Coventry spotting them from the window. He was doing nothing untoward. It was not as if they were alone in a room together. They were out in the open. Nothing improper about this at all. Nothing he could be blamed for. Nothing he would lose his payment over.

“So, tell me more about the carving you do. You enjoy it greatly, yes?” She stood a good distance away on his right side, the paint still clearly visible. Should he tell her about it or leave it be?

“I do,” he replied, gripping the chisel more firmly in his hand. “The work I’ve been completing here is far more fulfilling to me than simply creating plain furniture.”

“What is it that makes you prefer one over the other?”

Edward hesitated. Did he truly wish to delve into his likes and dislikes? To create a connection with this woman even more than he already had? Then again, there was no way to kindly refuse to respond.

“There is slightly more finesse involved in detailing a piece of furniture rather than joining them together, which is difficult in its own right, but far less satisfying for me to accomplish.”

“You do come from Steele and Son, do you not? What does your father prefer doing?”

A sorrowful ache cut through his heart. He knew he should’ve changed that sign. “He preferred the opposite of me, which was why we worked so well together. But he…he passed a few years ago.”

“Oh.” A line formed between her brows, the shimmering in her eyes vanishing. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking away. He didn’t wish for pity. He was tired of pity. But then, was it pity she was extending or simply compassion?

“It must be so difficult to carry on the work without him,” she said softly. “But I’m certain you are making him proud by continuing the business.”

The ache struck deeper, as if a chisel had been driven straight through his heart. Steele and Son was failing. Edward had yet to prove to Bath that the rumors were false, that the Steeles could be trusted. He was not making his father proud. Father would be ashamed.

They reached the house, and to his relief, instead of walking him to the library, she stopped. “I must go to the stables to ensure Rosencrantz receives a good brushing.”

He nodded. “And I must see to the carving.”

She studied his eyes for a moment before nodding her goodbye and walking past him, the paint standing out once more.

He really ought to just go straight upstairs, but his conscience got the better of him. “Before you go…”

She turned back to face him. “Yes?”

He touched his lower jaw. “You’ve something there. Paint, I believe.”

“Oh, thank you.” She rubbed at her cheek. “I do wonder why the groom did not tell me so. Did I manage to clean it off?” She leaned her jaw toward him, the creamy texture of her skin calling out to be stroked.