Page 7

There was no escaping this, it seemed. For an old lady, Mrs. Stone was persistent. These two months were going to be quite a bit different to what she imagined.

Angel stared at the flowers for a while, taking in the curves and points. Then she glanced at Mrs. Stone’s artwork, lying flat on the grass. Taking a breath, she painted her first deliberate stroke, curving the color, despite the fact it did not match a single color in front of her.

She continued in this manner, layering in colors and using bold sweeps whilst trying to ignore the voice of Miss Hill that kept echoing in her mind and reminding her how little discipline she had and how she would never be an accomplished lady.

Well, Miss Hill, just look at me now.

By the time she’d be finished, she’d be practically a master. The bold splashes of color merged to form a wonderful riot of flowers. Goodness, Angel could practically feel the creativity surging from her fingertips. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Mrs. Stone nodding with approval. Angel grinned.

“You know—” Angel paused when movement flickered in the corner of her eye. Paintbrush still raised, she twisted to view the approaching man.

Moving with long, confident strides across the lawns, even from a distance, the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his tall body was evident. She could not see his features properlyunder his hat but she was no stranger to men—after all, she was a marquis’s sister. Since even before her coming out ball, men had flirted with her, and the fact she was not hideous to look at certainly helped.

And that experience told her that this was a strong, likely attractive man. Her stomach told her of this too. It did an odd swoop, and a tingle raced through her limbs as the newcomer moved closer. She gripped the paintbrush so as not to press a hand to her chest while her breaths grew a little ragged.

Oh, yes, her knowledge of men had proved her correct. Handsome indeed. From underneath the brim of his hat, a determined gaze fixed upon her. For a moment, she was certain he was going to keep walking until he was practically toe to toe with her. Quite a large part of her would not have minded that. He had the body of a man who surely had to know how to hold a woman when dancing, and long fingers that would cradle a lady’s hand just so.

He did not barrel right up to her and press the length of his body against her, however. Of course he did not. He was a stranger, and that would be an entirely odd thing to do. But Angel could not help mourn the loss of her little fantasy. The men in Town rarely looked at her with such intensity—not even the Duke of Norwick. No, that blasted man had a constant quirked smile on his lips as though she amused him persistently. For once, she’d like to see him look at her like this. She offered a careful smile and tilted her head a little to ensure he saw her from her best angle—all wide-eyed and innocent.

“What the devil is this?” The stranger in question motioned to Mrs. Stone and then the paintbrush in Angel’s hand.

Now that Angel had a moment to think about it, perhaps that intense look was not quite as she had anticipated. He was not driven to stride over by his desperate need to be close to her. No, the man was angry.

She frowned. What sort of a man was angered by art? Especially by her wonderful, creative masterpiece in progress.

Angel looked back at her work. “Oh.”

“Oh?” The man removed his hat and rested it under his arm so that he could push a hand through his hair.

After looking a little more dispassionately at her work, she could see that it was perhaps not quite as masterful as she had hoped. In fact, it was quite a way from being masterful. In truth, a five-year-old could likely have done better. How frustrating. She had so been enjoying herself.

The man ran his gaze over Angel, and his lips tightened. His callous stare lingered on where she felt the paint hardening on her skin. Though it was silly and frivolous of her, she found herself disappointed that the only reaction she could conjure in this man was pure disdain.

No one looked at her that way. Ever!

If they did not appreciate her symmetrical face, sweetly pointed nose, and generous lips, they at least respected her rank.

Well, she would show him as soon as she had the opportunity to introduce herself.

“Aunt, you should be inside. It is breezy today.” The man went to put his arms around Mrs. Stone, but she shrugged them off.

“I am quite well, Reuben.”

So this handsome, dismissive man was a nephew. It would do to charm him then as she would likely be seeing him a fair bit during her two months here. Unfortunately, she could no longer summon her charming smile. Not when he was scowling as though Angel and his aunt had done something gravely more terrible than painting outside.

“It is a lovely day. The fresh air is good for your aunt,” Angel interjected.

He sent her a hard look that she had no doubt many a man and woman had cowered under. Angel puffed out a breath and met his gaze head-on.

It would be a lot easier to dismiss this man if he were not so handsome. Black hair curled around an angular face that revealed slight signs of stubble. Admittedly, he was not as perfectly polished as the Duke of Norwick, and the dimple in one cheek was a little odd in a grown man, especially on such a stern face. Her attention kept swinging back to it, wondering how it was that he only had one and if women enjoyed tracing their fingers over it.

She gave herself a mental shake and forced herself to hold a glare of her own, drawing up her chin and trying not to think about how blue his eyes were.

He had to have Irish blood in him surely…? And—

“Miss?”

Angel blinked. “Pardon?”