Page 24 of A Landscape of Love

“Not when one must work in the morning. It’s been a lovely evening, Alex, but I’m sure Mr De Beauvoir wishes to go home now. No doubt he rises at a far earlier hour than we do.”

“Ugh, no doubt,” Alex replied, smothering another jaw-cracking yawn behind his hand. “Well, in that case, goodnight, Mr De Beauvoir. Thank you for coming. It’s awfully dull with just the two of us.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Fidelia murmured wryly.

“Oh, you know what I mean, Lia,” Alex protested. “And you’ve been looking forward to it all day too, don’t tell me you haven’t, for I shall call you a liar. Else you wouldn’t have taken so long choosing what dress to wear. Oh, and don’t forget to show Mr De Beauvoir the painting you did for him.”

Blithely unaware of the small bomb he’d exploded at his sister’s feet, Alex left the room. Hart glanced at Fidelia, whose cheeks were as pink as a new dawn. She bit her lip, giving him a glimpse of pearly white teeth and the sight sent something that felt like a small lightening strike glittering through his blood. Hart swallowed, telling himself not to get overwrought at the idea she had been thinking of him as she’d dressed. Visions of her standing in only her lace-trimmed petticoats and the memory of her pretty ankles assaulted his mind, stirring desire to life. Was that why she’d come pell mell down the stairs earlier? She’d been trying to wear something to please him. Had she done the painting for the same reason?

Hart told himself to behave and not to get in a lather. Women always made a fuss about wearing the right frock, no matter who was coming to dinner, and the painting probably wasn’t for him, likely she just wished to show him. And what the devil did he care, anyway? The heat simmering beneath his skin was answer enough but he could not help but study her face, noticing now—as he had not allowed himself to do before—the lovely gown she wore and the delicate amethysts that decorated her slender neck and sparkled at her ears. Christ, but she was beautiful in the candlelight.

“A painting?” he queried, keeping his voice quiet, aware of the servants clearing the table around them but too curious not to ask despite knowing it was best left alone. “What did you paint?”

He would never understand how the upper classes could carry on a private conversation with servants buzzing about them and listening in.

Fidelia glanced at him uncertainly. “Would you like to see?”

Hart nodded, though he knew better than to encourage her, and followed her out of the room. She led him to a small parlour, quite the nicest room he had seen in the entire house. It was a little on the shabby side but comfortably furnished and decorated in varying shades of green, from light to dark, with small touches of yellow. It was cheerful and feminine, with embroidered cushions and rich fabrics, and reminded him of spring.

“This is your room,” he guessed, careful to leave the door open behind him when he really wanted to shut it and give them some privacy. He wasn’t that much of an idiot.

“Well, it belongs to the duke’s children, to keep us out of his way, but I make the most use of it and I… I decorated it,” she said, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “A long time ago now, I suppose. Before everything changed. Here.”

With no ceremony, she thrust a thick sheet of paper at him, and Hart took it, staring down at the painting in wonder. “You did this?”

“Well, you needn’t sound so surprised. I’m not entirely without accomplishments.”

The words were snappy, and quite unlike Fidelia. Hart looked up with a frown. Her eyes were sparkling, too bright, and she swallowed convulsively.

“Forgive me,” she said, looking stricken. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’ve had a trying evening,” he said, forcefully aware that she was on the edge of what her nerves could stand. Whatever had motivated her to invite him, tonight had been a mistake, and she knew it. Whilst the realisation that it was as obvious to her as to him made resentment burn in his chest, it was not her fault any more than it was his.

She made a quiet sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Hey, now, what’s all this?” Hart asked, setting the painting down and going to her.

“Nothing, nothing at all. I’m behaving like a complete and utter ninny. Oh, what must you think of me?” she said with a groan, covering her face with her hands.

Hart took hold of her shoulders. “Look at me,” he commanded.

She did, lowering her hands, her eyes meeting his, and he wished suddenly he had not asked her to do so. Her eyes were so clear, the emotion shining there too easy to read, but she was so vulnerable, and so very alone. His gaze fell to her mouth, soft and plush, so sweet, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to kiss her. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

She did as he instructed, never taking her eyes from his.

“Again,” he said, making her repeat the slow inhale and exhale until he was certain she was calm again. “There, now. And I think only the best of you, so stop getting yourself in such a tizzy. There’s no need for it.”

He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze and took two hasty steps away from her before he could do anything idiotic. Instead, he returned his attention to the painting, for it was far safer than gazing at her beautiful face. His instincts were all on alert, his nerves leaping, the proximity of such a beautiful woman badly in need of comforting playing havoc with his equilibrium. The overwhelming need to take her in his arms and hold her close to him made his skin hurt with repressed desire, but that way lay disaster for them both. His intentions were honourable, his yearning to offer comfort and support undeniable and no more than he would do for any fellow creature, but he could not pretend he didn’t want to bed her, or ignore how the temptation to comfort her in other ways would certainly lead him into foolishness if he did not take care.

“This is extraordinarily good,” he said, meaning it. The tiger lily had been painted with skill and a light hand, the petals so lovingly captured he almost believed he could touch the paper and feel them beneath his fingertips.

“Truly?” she asked, brightening at his words.

“Absolutely. You copied this?”

She nodded, her expression falling a little. “Yes, I’m afraid so. From a book of botanical paintings.”

“There’s no shame in that. Many painters have learned their art by copying, but if you can copy this well, I see no reason you cannot paint from life with as much skill. Botanical drawings and paintings rely on the artist capturing the details faithfully, exactly as they appear in nature. You have an exceptional talent, my lady, and one you ought to develop. It would be a sin not to.”