Lucy’s defensiveness ebbed when she realized he meant it in the best of ways. As a compliment.
He lifted a hand as if he’d touch her again, but he didn’t. After a glance toward the house, he retreated, opening a distance between them.
“Mrs. Fox will be watchful and worries for your reputation. She doesn’t trust me.”
Lucy glanced surreptitiously toward the manorand saw the dark-clad outline of Mrs. Fox observing them from the window.
Of course, he was right. Mrs. Fox, all the servants, had a right to wonder at the events of the previous evening. Heavens, she’d taken hours to fall asleep despite the fatigue of the journey because she’d been troubled by questions.
And yet this morning, he’d appeared as the sun chased the mist from the field and wrapped himself around her so she could teach him how to shoot an arrow. Making sense of his presence had evaporated like their breaths in the chilly air.
Good grief, she’d never been this impractical in her life. In truth,hewas the distraction.
“I said we’d talk this morning, my lord, but all I have are questions.”
The transformation those words sparked shocked her. Gone was the softness in his gaze, the teasing tilt of his lips. The sunlit glow in his blue gaze dimmed. He had as effectively shuttered himself as if he’d entered a room and slammed the door behind him.
It was much like he’d behaved on the train, reluctant to reveal much of himself. As if he was a man with secrets to keep.
“May we talk later? I came to Scotland to examine Invermere in preparation for selling, and I’d like to do that this morning before your aunt arrives.”
Lucy tightened her grip on the bow in her hands. His coldness was as provoking as his compliments, but in a far different way.
“Of course, Lord Rossbury. Find me when you’re ready to answer my questions.”
Never in her life had she been one to storm away dramatically, or even feel the urge to. That was for beauties like her sister Marion or imps like her brother Charlie. But James Pembroke’s gaze on her was too much, and his scent, his nearness, did something to her peace of mind. She wasn’t used to losing her wits because a gentleman looked her way, and this trip was a terrible time to start.
So she double-checked to make sure she’d retrieved all her aunt’s arrows, spun on her boot heel, and commenced a march back toward the manor. At that moment, she understood the power of having the last word and then sailing on one’s way. She tried to savor it.
But, of course, her busy thoughts came crashing in. She had a great deal more to say to Lord Rossbury. Pert, insouciant, sharp-tongued things. Things a termagant would say. Boiling them all down, she stopped and pivoted toward him.
He stood precisely where she’d left him, his gaze fixed on her.
“You have your reasons for being here that seem very pressing,” she called across the field. “I came here for a holiday and to visit my most beloved aunt, and I’d like to get on with that too. But it seems we are to be the unwanted snag in each other’s plans.”
Thoseseemed like better last words. Weren’t they?
Chapter Nine
James was beginning to think the lady was trouble.
Not the dire sort of trouble, of course. Not the kind waiting for him back in London. She was a sweeter kind, an entirely too pleasing enticement when he didn’t have a moment to lose.
Nothing about this trip was to be leisurely. He wasn’t on holiday, and he didn’t have time for dallying with a bluestockingwith plans.
And yet now, over an hour after he’d gone out to that archery field and ended up with his body wrapped around hers, he stood watching her yet again.
He found himself not doing what he’d come here to do. He wasn’t examining the house for any needed repairs or issues, but watching her, fascinated, as she filled a small canvas with paint.
He’d planned to start examining upstairs rooms when he noticed a space at the rear of the manor. A soaring, bloom-filled conservatory with all the accoutrements of an art studio arranged near the center.
Lucy stood in profile with a patch of sunlightshining through the high glass overhead onto her colorful canvas. Every few minutes, she’d glance up at a cluster of hanging flowers that she was apparently attempting to capture with paint and the deft swipes of her brush.
So far, she hadn’t noticed him at the edge of the conservatory, and he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt her work. There were days he’d loved running Pembroke Shipping. Days when a profitable shipment entered port, or a new client entrusted their products to him. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever taken such utter pleasure in signing contracts and reviewing shipping documentation as she was taking in capturing the beauty of a flower in her aunt’s conservatory.
Her smile wasn’t fixed. It flickered on her lips when she stepped back to examine her work or laid down a bold sweeping stroke. Sometimes, she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, or her tongue would sweep across her plump lower lip.
When the enjoyment he took in watching her shot a rush of desire to his groin, he knew it was time to walk away. But of course, as soon as he moved, he caught her notice.
