Romancing Her Rival - Joanna Barker Page 0,30

he could hardly oppose her.

But would it perhaps give him the courage to offer her yet another option?

Chapter 8

Cole tried not to watch Daphne overmuch. He truly did. He hardly wanted to make it obvious how often he thought of her. But as he followed behind Aunt Hartwell and Daphne after dinner as they went into the drawing room, he could not help where his eyes went. And they went to her—to the bend in her neck as she listened to Aunt Hartwell, to her slim shoulders just barely hidden by the filmy sleeves of her evening gown, and to her curls, carefully and tightly arranged, darker now in the coming night.

“What do you think, Mr. Everard?”

Cole straightened, heat snaking up his neck as Aunt Hartwell looked back over her shoulder at him. “Pardon?” Had she seen him watching Daphne?

“I suggested Daphne entertain us with her silhouettes tonight, since she promised me ages ago that she would make me one.” Aunt Hartwell patted Daphne’s arm as they entered the drawing room.

“I was not aware she’d moved past flower pressings,” he managed, going to stand beside the low-burning fire. It was hardly needed in June, but Aunt Hartwell liked things just so. “I suppose the absence of leaves and petals scattered about the house should have been evidence enough of that.”

Cole teased, but he’d always been fascinated by Daphne’s various interests. He had no idea how she made such beautiful creations, whether it be from flowers or shells or thread. He’d observed her talent on more than one occasion over the years, and it continually baffled him.

“Fortunately, making silhouettes is a much simpler process than pressings,” Daphne said, laying one hand on the back of the couch where Aunt Hartwell sat. “Just paper and scissors, really.”

“Let us see it, then,” Aunt Hartwell encouraged. She sent a servant to collect the necessary items, and then turned back to Daphne. “Where shall I sit?”

Daphne inspected the room. “The sunlight is nearly gone, but perhaps if you sit before the fire, it will work well enough.” She turned to Cole hesitantly. “Would you move that chair, Mr. Everard?”

She said his name softly, not like before when it had been used as a weapon. He nodded and placed the chair directly before the fire just as the maid returned with the paper and scissors.

“Thank you,” Daphne said with a smile as she took them. She’d always been like that, kind even to those beneath her station. He’d forgotten that facet of her, shielded as it was behind the hard and indifferent facade she’d fought to maintain. “Aunt, you sit there and I’ll sit on the sofa to have the best view.”

Daphne settled on the sofa and Cole drifted nearer, wanting to watch without disrupting her. She directed Aunt Hartwell to sit facing the wall, and with the firelight behind her, she presented a striking profile.

“Now try not to move,” Daphne said, taking up a paper and the scissors. “I’m not nearly as fast as I’d like to be, so it might require a few minutes of patience.”

“You ought to have warned me of that before I had an itch on my nose,” Aunt Hartwell said dryly, and Daphne laughed. It was the most carefree sound Cole had heard from her since she’d come to Cheriton.

“You can scratch an itch,” Daphne said, scooting forward to sit on the edge of her cushion. “But do try to keep your head at the same angle.”

Aunt Hartwell obediently held still, and Daphne eyed her closely for a few moments before bringing the shears to the bottom edge of the paper. She made a small, careful cut, then looked again at her aunt before making the next one.

“I’ve never watched anyone make a shadow portrait before.” Cole spoke without thinking, but Daphne seemed not to mind, keeping her focus as she inspected Aunt Hartwell. He went on. “Is this the only way to do it?”

“Not at all,” she responded, squinting down at her paper. “This is simply the least complicated. Some draw an outline and then paint it, or there are even profile machines used to trace a shadow.”

“Machine?” He raised an eyebrow. “Sounds rather sinister. Should we be glad you settled for the scissors?”

Daphne laughed again. “It is not as strange as it sounds. The sitter uses a special chair and when light is cast against them, their profile can be traced against a screen.”

“Where on earth did you hear of such a contraption?” Aunt Hartwell turned to give