comforting.
He released her and guided the equipage several feet away, where he unharnessed the two horses with quick, efficient motions so that they could graze.
“What are these?”
Spread on the grass were dozens of large rectangular sheets of paper. Several blankets were strewn before the papers, along with a mound of cushions. And charcoals, paintbrushes, paints, and an ewer of water. Phoebe walked closer to the odd display. “You did this in such a short time?”
“Yes.”
She toed off her shoes, moaning at the relief in her feet. Then she stepped onto the blanket, which had a pile of neatly laid notes set to one side, at least more than a dozen. Holding her steady at the elbow, Hugh helped lower her onto the well-padded blankets on the thick, lush grass. He then grabbed several of the pillows and cushions and propped them behind her. She supposed they were to have a picnic of sorts, and she found the notion delightful. Hugh also sat on the blanket a couple feet from her.
“Are we to have a picnic?”
He rubbed his chin as if in deep contemplation and squinted at the notes. Then he pointed at the third note from the right. With a smile, Phoebe leaned over slightly and plucked it up.
What you see before you are specially made papers. We are going to draw and write on them.
“Why?”
Another rub of his chin and then he pointed at another note.
Phoebe plucked it up and opened it.
Be patient and you will see.
She smiled, oddly delighted with him. “Did you try to anticipate all of my questions?”
When he pointed to another note, she could not help laughing. He reached for a paper and laid it before her. Then he set up a bowl with water, paintbrushes, and paint. The quality of the paper was different from what she used to write on, and it crinkled each time she shifted it.
He gave her another note.
Write down everything you worry about…write down every dream you have. Each fear and each hope and dream to a paper.
A pounding ache went through her heart, and she stared at him helplessly. “What does happiness look like?”
He selected a paper and a paintbrush and made a show of rolling his sleeves to his elbows before he started painting. Leaning over him, she watched the images take shape. He was no artist, for he drew stick figures. But they were stick figures of a man and woman dancing. She choked on a laugh when he attempted to draw a dress onto the woman. Then beneath it, he wrote, “One day I hope to dance the waltz the entire night with my wife.”
Her viscount had a degree of charm that might prove dangerous to her heart.
When she peered up at him, his countenance was admirably composed.
“I believe I would like that as well,” she said, very aware of how furious her heart pounded.
Following his direction, she selected a paper and drew a lady, a gentleman, and four children together, running and flying kites. Then at the bottom she wrote—happiness.
He nodded approvingly, took it from her, and placed it to dry beside his. With a smile, Phoebe proceeded to pour out her varied hopes and fears into the form of drawings or words onto the paper. Hugh did the same, appearing, too, as if he needed this moment. To Phoebe’s mind, more than an hour passed, so immersed they were in their tasks. She lowered the paintbrush, aware of a cramp in her fingers, and leaned back against the cushions, gently rubbing her stomach.
Hugh painted; his brows furrowed in fierce concentration. With a grin, she lifted the paintbrush, leaned over, and ran the brush gently over his nose. The comical expression on his face pulled a laugh from her throat.
He stared at him, clearly bemused. Then his eyes dropped to her lips and darkened. He looked away from her to the sky, a quick grin flashing before it disappeared.
“What did you think of just now?” she asked, wiggling her brow.
Instead of attempting to sign, he reached over and lightly pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger before going back to his drawing. Phoebe scowled. That was how Richard often touched her. A bit playful yet also a reprimand. Did…did Hugh think of her in a sisterly manner? Was that why he made no effort to consummate their marriage?
Phoebe sucked in a harsh breath, surprised at her instinctive rejection of that idea.
The soft crunch of footfall had her looking away from his patrician profile