LYDIA ATTACKED THE EASEL, her brow creased as she stabbed with her brush. From where he stood, Oliver couldn’t see much of what she was painting, but it looked like an array of variously shaped green blobs with the occasional brown blob thrown in for contrast. If one squinted, one could concede her painting vaguely resembled the plants surrounding them in the conservatory. If one squinted.
He watched her in silence for a moment, not wanting to destroy her version of tranquillity. She always painted when she wanted calm, and the fact she was terrible at it did not deter her at all. Tendrils of red-gold hair lay against her neck and curled softly against her shoulders, the rest of it gathered into some complicated braided thing at the crown of her head. The back of her gown dipped between her shoulder blades, a soft vee displaying warm, creamy skin. Her blades moved as she stabbed at the easel and he charted their progress, wondering how the skin would feel beneath a splayed hand as she reached for a kiss rather than a paintbrush—
Shaking himself, he scowled at his distraction. He was here to apologise, not to ogle her without her knowledge. “Are you destroying another sheet of paper?”
She whirled around, her brows drawing as she spied him. For the longest time, they stared at each other.
“You’re dripping paint,” he finally said.
She skewered the paintbrush into a water-filled jar. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”
“I came to see Lord Demartine.” Her expression didn’t change. “And to apologise.”
Her expression softened. Slightly. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Feeling awkward, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologise for my behaviour at the theatre. I was boorish.”
“You were.” She studied him a moment. With a sigh, she shook her head. “However, I am creating a masterpiece. You should not disturb genius.” The corner of her lips tilted.
Relief flowed through him. She forgave him. Taking a place behind her, he studied the composition. “Genius?”
“It is not my fault you don’t recognise artistry when it is before you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she arched a brow.
He always forgot how beautiful she was. He knew it on some base level, but to him she was Lydia, her face and form merely one part of her. She had been declared a diamond of the first order, and men fell over themselves to be the one to put a smile on her face, but it was more than her face. It was her. Her wit, her joy, the way she teased. The way she teased him. The counsel she gave. The fact she adored architecture and left hair pins littered everywhere, and when she was with him, he felt...complete.
“Did you really come to see my father?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted.
She beamed, and he smiled in return, helpless not to. “So you merely came to critique genius artwork?”
“This? This is genius?”
“It is the genesis of genius.”
“Of course.” He studied the easel, debating if he should ask about Meacham. He had just apologised, she had accepted, but he didn’t know how solid the foundation of their relationship. Before, he would have asked without thought, but that was before. Just ask, man. “You have been spending time with Lord Meacham,” he blurted.
She regarded her painting as well. “Yes,” she said. “He is courting me.”
“Good. That is good. He is…” He trailed off, uncertain how to continue. What to say? In the end, he said nothing.
She glanced at him. “I should like your opinion. He is courting me, Oliver, with serious intent. I believe he has spoken to Papa.” Her gaze turned imploring. “I need your opinion on the rest of my life.”
Just barely, he held on to his neutral expression. He didn’t want to talk with her about this. He didn’t want to know she would eventually be someone’s fiancée, someone’s wife, however, he had no choice. He had declared himself her friend. He was her friend. He would help her with this. Because they were friends. “Do you like him?”
She stared at the painting. “I think I could like him,” she finally said.
“But you don’t know?” He shouldn’t feel pleasure at the thought.
“I don’t know him well enough to know, though it doesn’t really matter.” Her expression turned bleak. “If not him, it will be someone else, someone I’ll dance with once or twice, see at a few events, and then he will ask my father for permission to propose. And I should say yes, because it is the right thing to do. For my family. For me. The thing is, though, I don’t know if I will know him. What if we do not suit? What if we marry, and then five years after we dislike each other, and we live in the same house but have separate lives? I don’t want to have a separate life from my husband, Oliver. I don’t want to hear about mistresses and opera singers and…. I want to have what Mama and Papa have. I want a person I know so well I can always trust him.” Hazel eyes caught his. “Am I naïve?”
“No, Lydia.” His hand twitched. He wanted to cup her face, swipe his thumb over her cheek, rid her of uncertainty and worry. “Of course not.”
She wrapped her arms about herself. “I have never had to think about this before.”
“Why?” he asked.
She looked at him sharply.
Christ. Stupid, idiotic, thoughtless comment. Because she had always thought to marry him.
“What about you?” she asked quickly. “Do you like anyone? You have not courted anyone seriously since... Was it Elizabeth Grainger?”
He stared at her blankly.
“Lord Palmeroy’s daughter?” she prompted.
“I did not court her.”
“I remember quite clearly you courting her. Everyone thought you did.”
“Well, everyone was wrong.” He barely remembered Elizabeth Grainger. He was fairly sure he’d seen her at a few events, had perhaps even danced with her, and from this society had decided he had been courting her? “I have not given serious thought to anyone.”
“But you have given an unserious thought?”
He didn’t respond.
Her smile died. “Really? Who?”
“It is a thought, nothing more.”
“Who?”
“No one in particular, however, ‘the Roxwaithe name must carry on’.”
She cocked her head. “Is that your father you are quoting?”
“Who else?”
“He is dead, Oliver.”
“And yet I still hear his voice in my head.” He exhaled. “Do not listen to me, I am being maudlin. We should instead focus on this travesty on the easel.”
“It is not a travesty, it is a work of staggering genius.”
“Of course it is.” Turning, she grinned at him and he saw the streak of paint on her jaw. Without thought, he raised his hand to wipe it clean.
Her startled gaze flew to his. Fingers cupping her neck, his thumb rested on her jaw. Mesmerised, he watched her lips part, as she wet the soft flesh. This was how a suitor would stand before her. He would want to trace the line of her jaw, feather his thumb over her full lower lip. He would want to see her eyes darken and her chest rise, watch the drift of her gaze to his own lips. He would curl his hand around the back of her neck, his fingers spearing into her hair, as he drew her to him, as he lowered his head, as he covered her mouth with his. He would want desperately to touch her, to discover if the skin of her chest was as soft as it looked. He would want to determine the exact weight of her breast, and the sound she would make when he toyed with her nipple. He would do all those things, and more. Her suitor.
Jerking his hand from her, he said hoarsely, “You had paint.”
She blinked.
“On your cheek.” He cleared his throat. “You must have wiped your cheek. It’s gone now.”
“Oh.” Great hazel eyes glanced to the side. Then back at him. She shook her head. “Paint. Yes. I”
“The Duke of Meacham is here to see you.”
They both looked to the door. Jonas stood just inside the conservatory, his face impassive.
Lydia’s eyes cleared. “Of course, Jonas. Thank you. Please tell his grace I will be with him shortly.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed and departed.
“I shall leave you to your guest,” Oliver said.
“Oliver, you should not—”
He forced a smile. “No, see to your guest. We will visit tomorrow. Or are you to the park?”
“Probably to the park, but Oliver—”
“Tomorrow,” he said, and left the conservatory.
As he entered Roxegate, he told himself he hadn’t run from her. She had a visitor. It was right and correct he left so she could attend to him. Even if it was Meacham.
A sour feeling settled in his stomach.
It was none of his concern if Meacham chose to court her. None of his concern, bar she was happy. He wanted her always to be happy.
Perhaps he should seek a wife. Maybe a sensible widow, or an aging wallflower. Or perhaps he wouldn’t marry at all. Perhaps Stephen could carry the mantle, and perhaps his brother would finally find purpose in the role of father and sire of the Roxwaithe heir. Although he, Oliver, should like children, their bright hazel eyes looking up at him as they shouted a greeting, and their mother tickling them and chasing them, her hair a red-gold stream behind her—
Exhaling, he tugged at the knot of hair at his nape. He wanted Lydia to be happy, and if Meacham made her happy, then he would smile, he would congratulate them at their wedding, and he would bounce their children on his knee. He wanted, above all things, for her to be happy, and if he, on the other hand, wasn’t….
He rubbed his hand over his face. By God, he would be happy for her. Even if it killed him.