Page 46 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

“To Miss Bu— Yes, you must be right.” It hadn’t been Miss Burrell he’d seen last night in the rainstorm.

Matthew nodded his head vigorously. “All I have to do, then, is get Miss Burrell alone for a private conversation, and we can straighten out this whole misunderstanding.”

“And Miss Ebrington. Don’t forget, you’re going to have to confess to your beloved who you are and that you have known who she is since you first met.” He stared directly at Matthew. “And did not bother to tell her.”

Matthew winced. “Er, yes. There is that.” He brightened.

“But I believe she loves me, so she will forgive me. Before too long.” He gestured back at the path up the bluff.

“You didn’t answer my question. Was that Miss Walden I saw scurrying away when you were naked from the knees down? How did that come about?”

Vincent rolled his eyes but related the tale of their inspection of the cave and how he had carried her out when the tide came in.

“Riding on your shoulders? Which means she had her legs—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Vincent bit out.

Matthew laughed.

* * *

Sophia set another completed page on the corner of the desk for the ink to dry and started on the next page, transcribing her shorthand of Mrs. Digby’s memoir into elegant script, when Wallace strolled into the library.

He had a sketchbook clutched under one arm, a small easel held in his hand, and a pencil tucked above his ear.

Even though his hair was short and brown, not long and black like Fairfax’s, the similar gesture reminded her of earlier that day when she’d helped Fairfax with his musical composition.

Warmth spread through her at the memory of the kiss that followed.

“Aunt Agnes has banished me from her studio for the day,” Wallace said with a theatrical sigh, and a dramatic sweep of his arm that revealed a swipe of green paint across his knuckles and a smudge of blue on his chin.

What she first thought to be another smear of paint on his right cheek, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a faint bruise.

“Do you mind if I sketch in here? I’ve been dying to draw your braids. ”

Without moving her head, Sophia looked at him from the corner of her eyes.

“That sounded odd,” Wallace quickly said. “I meant that I struggle with getting the details of a woman’s hair correct, and I’d like to practice with you as my model. If you don’t object.”

Sophia gestured at the papers on the desk. “I’m afraid I need to keep working.”

“That won’t be a problem, not at all.” He set the easel up on the table before the sofa and arranged the sketchbook on it, open to a blank page. “The light from the window is hitting you perfectly just where you are. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

“Then … I suppose I don’t mind.” She’d been the subject of an artist only once before. Come to think on it, Mrs. Royston had never shown her the sketch she’d made of Sophia.

Wallace began drawing, and Sophia returned to her transcription task, doing her best to ignore his presence.

When she laid out another finished page for the ink to dry, she stared at Wallace in amazement. He had a pencil in one hand, charcoal in the other, and alternated drawing lines and shading without putting either down.

“You’re ambidextrous,” she murmured without thinking.

“Hmm?” He tilted his head to look at her, then back at his sketch. “Yes, I think that will do. Would you like to see?” He laid the sketchbook on the desk, careful to avoid touching any papers, and stood beside Sophia’s chair.

“That’s… I’m at a loss for words.” The level of detail amazed her, from the starting-to-fray lace trim on her white fichu to her braided coronet and the wisps of hair that escaped it. The likeness of her face was done so well, it bore a striking resemblance to what she saw reflected in the mirror.

“But do you like it?”

Sophia traced her finger above the detail of the braids without touching the paper. “If I did not know better, sir, I would think you were bamming me about being unskilled at drawing hair.”

“I did say I wanted to show you my sketchbook.” Wallace smiled as he spread out the book so she could turn the pages from the beginning.

She decided to accept his flirtation at face value and began thumbing through the pages. “These are quite good.”

The early pages contained scenes from the countryside, perhaps when he’d ordered the coach to stop and annoyed Xavier with the delay on their journey here.

Then there was Mrs. Royston at her easel with a paintbrush in hand.

Henry running along the beach, chasing a seagull flying just above him.

Xavier playing the pianoforte. Mrs. Digby in her armchair, taking tea with Henry on her lap.

Sophia flipped until she reached the sketch of her. All the pages after it were blank. “These are all lovely. Though I don’t see any with your brother.”

Wallace flipped back a few pages. “There he is, at the pianoforte.”

“No, your other brother. Fairfax.”

Wallace’s expression clouded. He closed the sketchbook with a snap.

“One doesn’t like to air out the family laundry in public.

Or speak ill of one’s mother.” He tucked the sketchbook under his arm and began to pace between the fireplace and desk.

“Aunt Gert has taken you into her confidence, however, so I suppose there is no harm in sharing.” Wallace stopped before the desk.

“He doesn’t look like any of us, does he? Nor sound like any of us.”

Sophia stared at him in shock as the import of his words sank in. “Fairfax doesn’t look like any of you?” she repeated in a stunned whisper.

“You saw the family portrait in the attic. I bear a strong resemblance to my father. Xavier has the blonde hair and blue eyes of our mother. Vincent looks like … none of us.” He gave a negligent shrug.

Sophia fought to keep breathing steadily, to reveal none of her astonishment.

Wallace began pacing again. “From as far back as I can remember, there was a Greek shipping merchant who used to conduct business with my father. He always brought candied figs for us boys. Such an exotic treat they seemed to us at the time. He had black hair and a booming bass voice, and he and my mother and father and their friends would spend the evenings singing and playing music. My mother would get so caught up, she’d forget to come upstairs and tuck us in.

Sometimes his visits would last a fortnight or longer. ”

Wallace picked up his easel and paused with his hand on the doorknob. “After my mother died giving birth to my little sister, he never visited again. The babe only lived a few hours. She had black hair, too.”