“Oh,” she said, her tone wary and her eyes widening in surprise. “You found me.” She dipped her brush into a jar of water and wiped it on a cloth before removing a smock she’d donned.
“I did, but you looked quite content, and I’m sorry to interrupt.” He gestured at the canvas. “Shall I let you finish?”
She tipped her head and stared at her creation. “I think it’s done. Or perhaps I’ll add a bit more later.”
“May I?”
Lucy stepped back, allowing him to move in closer. He had no idea what the flower she’d painted was, some frilly red hanging variety that gave off a slightly sweet perfume not nearly as appealing as Lucy’s floral scent.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
She’d taken an already pretty flower and given it more color and vibrancy, while also capturing the shifting patterns of sunlight as it brightened the flower’s red shade. Her brushstrokes had a lively looseness, but not haphazard. “You’re very talented.”
“I dabble. Nothing like Aunt Cassandra.”
“Your art truly glows.”
She smiled and relief washed over him.
“It’s just the sunlight, I suspect, but thank you for the kind words. I love painting but don’t practice enough to truly develop any skill.”
“You should paint more.” He waited until she met his gaze. “You’re too good.”
She ducked her head. It was one of the few times he’d seen her boldness falter. When she faced him again, her cheeks were flushed the most fetching pink, and she gifted him a breath-stealing smile.
“I thought we could talk in the front drawing room.”
“Of course. Wherever you wish.”
“If we’re lucky, there should be something there that might help you.” She seemed to be relishing his surprise and flashed a little smile of triumph before striding from the conservatory, leaving him to follow.
When he caught up with her and stepped into the drawing room, she waited in front of a desk with a ledger clasped in her crossed arms.
James examined the cover of the volume but could make out nothing of what it might contain.
“This is a ledger of repairs to Invermere.” She held the book out to him and released it when James clasped the front edge. “I suspect that rolled-up document on top of the desk will be the manor’s blueprints.”
James was rarely speechless, and he’d never been this continually confounded by any woman.
“Where did you find these?”
“I didn’t. Mrs. Fox did when I asked her to look for them.”
He thought he’d negated whatever fragile bit of goodwill he’d built with the housekeeper when he’d taken liberties with Lucy in the field this morning. But perhaps not.
“Why are you helping me?” Despite what she sparked in him, Lucy had every right to resent him.
She crossed her arms, rested her backside against the desk, and let out a long, contemplative sigh.
“Well, as Mrs. Winterbottom would say—”
“Mrs. who?”
“Mrs. Winterbottom,” she said defensively. “Shewrote a book about how best to handle life’s challenges.”
“An etiquette book?” He couldn’t imagine such an unconventional young woman adhering to such a thing.
“Good heavens, no. I loathe etiquette books. Mrs. Winterbottom’s works are different. She encourages independence, believes ladies should learn to look after themselves, and advises what to do when troubles come along.”
