The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,41
papa today, or is it still too soon for that?”
He expected the baby to grab on to Mrs. Dunne in protest, but she did not withdraw as he closed the space between them. “Well, this is progress!” He lifted her from her nurse’s arms. “See now, I’m not quite as bad as all that, am I?”
Graham bounced his daughter and kissed her cheek. He looked up, suddenly aware of the two women’s eyes on him. “Miss Barrett, I was hoping to speak with you further about Lucy’s living arrangement.”
“Oh yes, of course. Mrs. Dunne, would you be so kind as to take Lucy to the nursery? I will follow soon.”
Mrs. Dunne dropped a wordless curtsy, her prominent brown eyes assessing him boldly as she took Lucy in her arms.
Once the pair left, Miss Barrett stepped to the door, popped her head out in the hall, and then pushed the door closed before returning. She turned, her face flushed. “We shan’t be disturbed. Uncle George is out, and Helena and Aunt Augusta are calling on the Mills.”
“And Littleton?”
Her lovely smile faded. “He is still in London, or so we presume. We expect his return within the week.”
Her pink gown made her cheeks appear even rosier than normal, but that was not what first drew his attention. A baggy canvas smock protected the front of her dress, stained with paints of every shade. Was his betrothed an artist?
Her easel faced away from him, so he sidestepped her to view her work.
No, definitely not an artist.
He nodded toward her smock. “It appears you managed to get more paint on your smock than on your easel.”
She giggled, an unguarded, happy sound that he had not heard from her until now. His gaze drifted from her golden tresses to her sparkling sky-blue eyes to the curve of her neck. After months at sea with only men for company, one tended to underestimate the effect a beautiful woman could have on a man. The weight of her gaze rendered him a fool and momentarily speechless.
She frowned at the easel. “My painting leaves much to be desired, I fear.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Captain Sterling!” she exclaimed with mock offense. “How can you tease me so?”
He laughed. It had been so long since a genuine laugh rumbled his chest that he’d forgotten its releasing power. “What is the subject of your painting?”
“You cannot tell?” She pointed out the window. “See that grove of elms and aspens just beyond the box hedge?”
“Oh. I see.” The uneven strokes on the page bore little likeness to the vast landscape framed by the window. “Hm, where’s your brush?”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Your paintbrush.” His gaze swept across her collection of watercolors and rags. A brush rested on the easel’s edge. He took it in his hand.
“Why, Captain Sterling,” she said. “I didn’t know you were a painter.”
“I’m not.”
She stood very close to him, so close that the sweet scent of lavender danced around him. He adjusted the brush. It seemed too tiny for his thick fingers to maneuver, but he dipped it in green paint and pressed the bristles against the canvas. For a brief moment, Amelia’s gaze fell on the scar on his hand. His jaw relaxed when she looked away again.
He cared little for painting. In fact, he hadn’t stood before an easel since school days. But if pretending to be interested in art kept a genuine smile on Amelia Barrett’s face, he would learn to like it.
A long, curly lock of Amelia’s hair slipped from its comb. She lifted a hand to return it to its place, and as she did her arm brushed his. The realization that he was enjoying his time with her made him almost uncomfortable, as if he were breaking a code of honor.
He was grateful for her abrupt change of topic. “How was London?”
“Productive. I stopped in Sheffield on the way back and spoke with Carrington.”
She looked up. “What had he to say?”
“He has agreed to resume his duties of steward and will change his residence—for the second time in a fortnight—back to his cottage here on the grounds. Good thing. I’d be no help in any matter related to running an estate.”
Amelia untied her smock and hung it on a small peg near the easel, her eyes diverted. “And the special license?”
“I have it in my satchel.”
She bit her lip as if calculating the significance of his statement. “So that means, um, that we can, well—”