Before he could knock the door opened.
“I wanted…” They both spoke at the same time.
He dipped his head and signaled that she should speak first.
“I wanted to thank you.” She chewed on her lip and heaved in a breath. “And to disabuse you of the notion that I invited that… that imbecile to my bedchamber.”
His opinion mattered to her. “Oh, my dear.” Heart lifting, he started to reach for her and thought better of it. She’d just been assaulted by one suitor. Better to not rush his fences. “You’re very welcome. And do not fear. I sized Ripton up the first night I met him.” And you. “Only a loutish fool barges into a lady’s bedchamber without permission.”
“Quite.” She paused, hands clutched at her waist. “And what was it you wanted?”
“I wanted to ask if I may enter and see your work.”
Another long pause ensued. He held his breath, waiting.
“I see,” she said finally. “Without barging in, you mean.” Though no smile appeared, her lips quivered. “Will Sir Sancho bite you if you misbehave?”
“He won’t because I won’t misbehave. I find I very much value your good opinion and your friendship, Honoria.”
“And thus, you will give me false compliments on my skills with the brush?”
“The brushwork I’ve observed so far today has been impressively creative.”
She laughed then, a from-the-heart release of pent-up emotion, if he was any judge, and he couldn’t help but join in.
“The blue on his cheek…” she said, choking. “Oh my. I suppose he’ll go crying to Wes who thinks he’s a capital fellow, but… Oh, Augustus, it’s so nice to laugh with a friend.”
“Then may I come in?’
* * *
Sancho poked his nose out, thumped his tale, and then slid back under the bed. Should Augustus turn out to be a lecher like Ripton, Sancho would be no help to her.
But… she didn’t think he’d try to importune her, and even if he did…
She swallowed, remembering Sir Ebenezer’s intense gaze from the canvas, so like Augustus’s. Both men were so… dashing. To have all that heated warrior focus turned on her by a living man was almost irresistible.
If Augustus hated the painting, worse, if he made fun, would she be able to finish it? It was almost complete now, except for the sky. And of course, except for any touchups to the wobbly lines of the structure.
Who was she fooling? Even if he liked it, she’d go back and dab paint here or there until Midsummer arrived and her lease expired. Then she would have to stop, package it up and send it back to Twisden Manor for storage until she landed on her feet for good in some country cottage or city lodging. Perhaps by then there would be more paintings to share a wall with York Minster.
Augustus put up his hands. “Forgive me. I’ll leave you in peace.” He turned away.
“Wait.” She reached for him, stopping just short of touching him with her paint-stained hands. Biting her lip, she nodded, and said “I was merely deciding. Please come in. If you hate it, you must feel free to tell me.”
She could withstand the critique, somehow. But please, God don’t let him laugh at it.
He went straight to the window first and looked out. The Minster rose behind the crowded buildings of the surrounding neighborhood, the twin towers touching the streaky sky.
“What a magnificent view,” he said.
Then he stepped back and turned toward the easel. He paused for long moments, turning that intense gaze on her work. He didn’t rub his chin, or shake his head, or nod. Only his eyes moved, up and down, side to side.
Then he looked at her and his lips turned up.
Her heart fell. He was going to make some joke about it as Melton or Wes would do. It was too blurry, the lines too indistinct, the colors all wrong.
“Yes,” he said, nodding.
“Yes, what?”
He reached into his coat. “My sketchbook. I carry it with me often. An old habit from my Peninsular days when it was useful for, er, landscapes, and as a pastime to fill the quiet hours.” He flipped open a page to a pencil sketch. “This is my work.”
It was a picture of Sancho pouncing on prey. With just a few incisive strokes of the pencil the dog’s vivacity leapt off the page.
“It’s so very good, Augustus. His personality shines through. You must find my work dread—”
“No, that’s not why I’m showing you this picture of Sancho.”
At the mention of his name, Sancho crawled out from his under-the-bed lair.
“And here you are.” Augustus’s large hand settled atop the dog’s head, his thumb sweeping over an ear.
Envy stirred in her. Or perhaps it was madness, to be envious of a dog.
As if he’d read her mind, he turned his smile on her and went on. “When I viewed Turner’s work in London, I didn’t…well, I’m a literalist, I suppose. When one is outlining a plan of assault, precision is helpful. I’ve always been drawn to portraits, or paintings of horses.” He laughed. “Or dogs. Yes, forgive me. I enjoy George Stubbs’s work. And I like restful landscapes.”
“Restful landscapes before battle.”
He took her hand and his gaze slid to the canvas. “Yes. I’ve seen enough scarred, tumultuous landscapes after the fighting.”
“Oh. Augustus, I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me—”
“No.” He set a finger to her lips. “What I’m trying to say is that Turner’s work with his play on light and shade, and yours, are steeped in, well, feelings. Your Minster is marvelous, gothic, and haunting. Are you working on the sky?”
Marvelous. Did he truly mean that?
“The sky?” he prompted.
“The sky. Yes. One would like a beautiful blue, but this is closer to the true one as it is now.”
“They say the strange skies and cold weather might be due to a volcanic eruption in Java two years ago.”
“Yes,” she said. “I read of that. It’s such a big world.” She would never see Java, but she’d like to go as far as France, and in her wildest dreams, Italy.
He nodded and pointed to the narrow settee at the foot of the bed. “May I sit while you work?”
The only person she’d ever allowed in the room when she was painting was Bixby, who had no interest in art and who ignored her completely while she tended to Honoria’s wardrobe.
“I won’t comment or give advice,” he said. “I have no skill with paints.”
The mere notion of being watched made her hand tremble, but why not be brave? “Certainly. And here.” She handed him back his sketchbook and pointed to the dog, who’d stretched out at her feet. “Sir Sancho is posing for you.”
He smiled, drew out a pencil and opened to a blank page.
Nerves rattling, she picked up her palette, dipped her brush and turned back to the sky. A touch of yellow here. A hint of white there. Were her Minster towers too blurry? She stepped back and decided to leave them, and then returned to the sky until finally she had it right. Almost right. For now.
“We’re losing the light.” She tidied up and found her tinderbox, walking about the room and lighting lamps and candles while his pencil flew.
A thump and voices below stairs told her the others had returned.
“I suppose I must send you away before you’re discovered here,” she said.
He grunted, made one last flourish, and patted the empty space next to him. “Have a look. If you hate it, you must feel free to tell me.”
She took off the smock and tossed it aside, deciding whether to take another risk. Like the bed, the settee could accommodate two people, but only if they squashed in close.
Heart racing, she squeezed in next to him, and accepted the sketch pad.
Her breath caught. The subject was a lady, shown in three-quarter view, her attention directed away, Tendrils of hair dangled at her neck and over her cheek. “It’s meant to be me.”
“Yes.”
“She’s too… That is how you see me? Well, the work is very precise, but to say that this is me…” She stood and he rose with her. “This lady is pretty.”
“Yes. That is how I see you. You’re pretty, Honoria.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and the heat rising in her cheeks rolled downward. “Shall I list your attributes? You have a straight little nose, full lips, hair the color of dark honey with the sun streaming through it, and rosy cheeks that seem to grow pinker when I’m around. A man notices a thing like that. And your eyes shine with intelligence and good humor. Yes. You are very pretty.”
Speechless, she forced her mouth closed. Pinned under Augustus’s dark gaze, she grew even warmer.
His big hand cradled her cheek, surprisingly gentle. “And I like your painting of the Minster. In fact, I should like to take it home with me to Whitlaw Grange and hang it over the mantel in my study. I should very much like to have you at Whitlaw Grange as well.”
“My painting?” Over his mantel? She wasn’t sure she wanted to part with it.
“Yes. And you must come as well. You can make sure it’s correctly displayed.”
“You want me to visit you? If you have ruins, perhaps I could paint… What? What are you doing?”
Augustus had dropped to one knee, sliding his hand down her arm to grasp her hand. Sancho bestirred himself and stretched.
“I don’t want you to come for a visit, Honoria. I want you to come as my bride. Will you marry me? Will you make me the happiest of men?”
Marry? Marry Augustus Kellborn?
His dark gaze pulled at her like a magnet, the desire in his eyes matching the heat rising in her. Her head dipped. Just a few inches more and…
She straightened and tried to get hold of herself. “We’ve had but one outing together.”
“And one dinner and luncheon. And don’t forget we attended church together.”
“You rescued me, and now you are being chivalrous. You’re acting in haste, and there is no need.”
His eyes twinkled. “I’m chivalrous? I rather like that.”
“You’re smiling now. That is better. Now, please, get up.”
He complied, still holding her hand. “You haven’t answered my question, Honoria. Will you marry me?”
Heart hammering, she stared up into his dark, intent gaze. “Augustus, you must agree this is precipitate. You cannot mean… you’ll meet a bevy of young women looking to marry.”
“It’s you I want.”
“But… but.” He’d shown no interest beyond what was polite and appropriate for a house guest. “Until now, I had no notion… no hint of any interest on your part.”
“I escorted you on your outing. I sat next to you at church. I would have snared your hand for a private stroll away from the picnickers today if you’d gone along with us. When I saw that Ripton had disappeared, I had a suspicion he’d be coming back here, so I returned in all haste only to find you rescuing yourself. And now, I want to make my intentions clear.”
“Clear?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Did he feel the same wicked heat rising as she did? There was humor in his dark eyes, not lust.
She shook her head. “I don’t think you can be serious, Major Kellborn. Offering marriage when you haven’t so much as tried to kiss—”
“Kiss you? Why so I haven’t.” He leaned close and brought his lips a hair’s breadth from hers. “May I, my lady?”
Her heart threatened to melt into a puddle. He was letting her decide.
A spurt of madness lifted her heels, tipping her forward.
Her lips touched his in a featherlight connection. He angled his head and brushed a kiss over the corner of her mouth, over her cheek, and jaw, and down to her neck where his touch sent a ripple of need through her. Such softness, such tenderness, from such a hard man—it was a marvel, one that sent her hand sliding around his waist, and her other groping for his shoulder. She raked through the dark curls of hair at his collar and when he brought his lips back to hers, sighed and gave herself up entirely.
While he was gentle, she grew demanding, and he accommodated her, touching her, letting her sighs and moans guide his skilled fingers. In the dark recesses of her mind, the thought flashed that Melton had never kissed her like this.
She ran a hand down his chest and while his lips found the spot on her neck again, she glanced at the bed.
Augustus lifted his head and stepped back, his hands at her shoulders steadying her. A moment later the door opened.
She heard a startled gasp, and then the sound of the door snicking shut.
Heat burning her cheeks, she laughed. She was a wanton who’d just been eying up the bed and plotting to lead Augustus there. Who would have known? She’d certainly shocked Bixby—that had been her maid’s wheezy gasp.
When she lifted her chin, she found Augustus watching her. The look was… almost smug, and that thought made her smile again. He had a right to his little victory. If he was aiming at seduction, he didn’t require much more persuasion than that kiss, which was so much more than any kiss she’d ever shared with her husband or had stolen from her by one of his brash drunken friends.
She was a widow. She could do what she’d never done as a married lady—she could take a lover, one who was, if she wasn’t mistaken, highly skilled. Well, at least more skilled than Melton, because how would she know beyond that?
“I am very glad you asked for that kiss,” he said. “I am certain now that we will suit.”
She had asked for the kiss? Well, she supposed she had. It didn’t mean she would marry him. They would suit in that way for a while, but she knew they would eventually have to leave the bedchamber and then what? Then she’d find herself in a moldering manor house far on the outside of nowhere, running a household while he hunted and fished and went to horse auctions with her stepson. She’d have little time to search out Roman ruins, and she’d never visit Paris, or any other grand foreign city.
She wanted to see something of the world before she retired to kick up her feet in the country. Augustus would want to marry and be home by Michaelmas. And he’d want to start filling his nursery.
At the thought of babies, her throat thickened with longing. She’d loved and lost her child, and there’d been no others. Many children didn’t survive, so the more babies a man fathered, the greater his chance for an heir. Augustus needed a young wife for that, not a widow of three and thirty.
She wouldn’t marry him, but perhaps she could pay him a visit, as soon even as next summer. After all, she would like to see those Roman ruins on his estate. Perhaps there’d be a christening, and all of his new-found Twisden relations could attend.
And for that reason, she wouldn’t take him as a lover. Imagine greeting his young wife a year from now, especially if he married one of Patience’s girls? She was, perhaps, putting too fine a point on it, but making love to Augustus would feel like betraying his future wife.