moments, then he faintly grimaced and settled back on the pillows. “My apologies—I’m being tiresome. But I’m unused to being idle—I get bored rather easily.”
She wasn’t sure whether she was being led, but felt compelled to suggest, “Perhaps, then, we should work on distracting you.”
For a second, his eyes gleamed, and she fought down a blush at the thought of the opening she’d given him. But then his lashes veiled his eyes, and he murmured, “Will it bother you to talk while you sew?”
“No—not at all.”
“Then perhaps you might sit not so far away”—his gaze went to the wing chair by the fireplace—“and we can find topics to fill the silence.”
“That sounds an excellent idea.” Determined to remain in charge of any discussion, she walked to the chair and pushed and maneuvered it into position a yard from the bed, angled toward him.
Godfrey smiled encouragingly. He waited until she sat, ferreted about in the basket, lifted a length of fabric into her lap, and started to ply her needle, then said, “You’ve mentioned your family several times, and obviously, once I’m well, I’ll meet them. How many members are there?”
Her sewing gave her an excuse to keep her eyes down, and that, he hoped, would loosen any reins on her tongue.
“There’s my father and me—I’m the eldest. Then there’s Harry—he’s twenty and back home from Oxford—and the youngest is Maggie, who’s eighteen.” She paused to examine her stitches, then added, “Our mother died shortly after Maggie was born.”
“How old were you at that time?”
“Nine. Harry was two.”
“Hmm. I imagine you became something of a mother figure to your younger siblings.”
She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; ducking his head, he glimpsed a fond smile flirting about her lips. “When they were younger, to some degree, but they’re both grown now.”
He settled his head on the pillow. “I have a similar situation with my half brother. He’s eleven years older than me, and after our father died—I was thirteen at the time—Ryder became not so much a stand-in father but a very real presence as my big brother.”
She glanced up, and the smile in her eyes and on her lips was bright with understanding. “I can imagine.” After a second of studying him, she looked down again. “You’re fond of him.”
He nodded. “I am. I have two other older brothers and an older sister—I’m the youngest—but Ryder’s the eldest by several years, and despite being our half sibling, he stands in a special place for us all.”
With her looking down, he could indulge himself by staring at her—examining the way the soft winter light falling through the window shimmered on the rich gold of her hair.
Although he couldn’t presently see her face, he’d realized she was blessed—or was it cursed?—with a remarkably open expression. Her features and most of all her eyes reflected her thoughts and feelings. When she’d appealed to his understanding of honor to persuade him to remain abed, he’d seen—clearly, free of guile, and without the slightest veil—that his recovery truly mattered to her, that her insistence he get well was driven by emotion and not by any cool calculation over having her family’s painting favorably assessed.
He’d felt compelled to set aside his grumpiness and, instead, search for some way to learn more about her—the subject he found most distracting.
He cast about for avenues that might prove revealing. “Has your family always lived here?”
Without looking up, she nodded. “Since at least the time of Richard the Second. The list in the family Bible goes back that far.”
“So there were Hinckleys at Hinckley Hall since before the Wars of the Roses.”
“Our roots in the district run deep.” She glanced at him. “Obviously, you’re an expert in old paintings. Is it just paintings, or does your expertise extend to other types of artwork?”
“Paintings and sculptures are my primary interest, but I’m fascinated by art of all types—even tapestries and embroideries.” He caught her eye and smiled. “Most have a tale to tell. I imagine there would be all sorts of old embroideries and the like tucked away in a house such as this.”
She arched her brows. “I hadn’t thought of them as…bearing witness, if you like. I know where some of my grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s efforts hang—I must take a closer look.”
“As it seems I’ll be here for some time, even after I examine the Albertinelli, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at such works myself.”
“Once you’re better, we can hunt them out.”
Next topic. “Is there any village closer