Page 5 of The Reckless Love of an Heir (The Marlow Family Secrets #4)

The door to the library opened. Susan looked up, her fingers tightening their hold on the thin paintbrush. ‘Henry…’ The tone of her voice implied, What are you doing here?

For over an hour, she had been sitting at Uncle Robert’s desk happily painting. She had come straight here when she arrived, avoiding Henry.

She sensed herself colouring when he looked at her with a questioning gaze. She had not meant to be rude, merely been engrossed in her painting and caught by surprise.

He was in dishabille, informal, wearing trousers, a shirt and his sling, he had no black neckcloth or waistcoat or morning coat on. It was unseemly really, but she supposed it was due to his injury, and this was his home – if he could not be comfortable here, then where?

He hesitated, still by the open door. Samson stood beside him, awaiting his master’s next movement.

Some decision flickered in Henry’s eyes and he shut the door behind him.

They should not be in a room together with the door shut, no matter that they had been raised almost as closely as a brother and sister. Alethea was treated like his sister here too and she was going to marry him.

‘Sorry,’ he uttered in a low tone as he crossed the room, with Samson at his heels. ‘I forgot you were in here.’

He was not his normal bold, brash self. He walked past the desk, looking from her to the leather sofa which stood side-on to the hearth, his expression odd.

When he passed one of the windows, the bright spring sunlight shone through the fine cotton of his shirt, outlining his torso in silhouette.

An odd sensation twisted in Susan’s stomach.

He was very lean, yet not thin, muscular, in the way the grooms were in her father’s stables.

They were the only other men she had seen in their shirts; mostly when they were birthing mares, when they would strip off and roll up their sleeves.

‘Where is Alethea?’ she asked.

‘Taking the other dogs for a turn about the garden with Christine and Sarah. I told her I wished to sleep.’

‘Then why are you not upstairs?’

‘I prefer to sleep in here. I like the comforting smell. It reminds me of my youth.’

‘When did you spend any time in this library as a child?’ Her retort was swift, and again the rudeness in her tone was evident. She could not help herself where Henry was concerned. Heat flared in her cheeks.

‘I spent hours in here, Susan.’ His voice did not rise to match her boorishness but purely denied her accusation.

‘They were just not the hours I spent with you and Alethea. Papa used to bring me here and we would sit together and go through the books all the time. He taught me to appreciate such things and hold the responsibility for?— ’

‘He must be so disappointed,’ she interrupted. She really could not help herself.

‘Why?’ He had reached the sofa but turned and looked at her, challenging her with his gaze as well as the question.

His good hand lifted and rested on his bad arm – as though he were in pain.

She smiled, trying to mimic the mocking smiles he regularly gave her. ‘Because you are hardly responsible. Only a fool would drive a curricle in a race on the roads. You might have broken your neck, not sprained your wrist.’

He sat down, looking away from her. Samson sat too.

‘Believe me, I am well aware. I nearly broke my neck and in the process dislocated my shoulder, not merely twisted my wrist. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am exhausted and in agony.

I just dosed myself up with laudanum and I am in no mood for you to chastise me. Let me rest.’

He was much paler than normal.

He sprawled out flat on the long leather sofa, lying on his back with his bad arm on his chest and one foot on the floor.

Samson rested his head by Henry’s side.

Henry’s good arm lifted and lay above his head as he shut his eyes.

‘I shan’t make any noise,’ she said, just to annoy him.

He opened his eyes a little, his dark eyelashes cloaking his gaze as he looked at her. ‘I did not doubt it, painting is hardly a noisy activity. Let me sleep, if you please, Susan.’

She smiled and looked back down at the orchid she was recreating.

There were very fine green lines on each pale cream petal, and that was what she was seeking to capture, only the lines in the book seemed to give the petals depth, and she had not succeeded in mastering that.

Perhaps she needed to use more than one shade of green.

But the lines then would have to be very, very narrow and far more cautiously done. She needed to develop a steadier hand.

She leaned forward and studied the image. The artist had done them so well she could not even see a different shade.

Henry’s breathing became deeper and slower.

When she heard him move she looked up. Samson now lay on the floor beside him. Henry sighed out. The arm which had lain above his head fell down and hung over the edge of the low sofa so his hand was placed slackly on Samson’s head.

She looked down at her work and carried on adding detail to the petal she was working on.

The slightly different shade of green did add depth, though the variance of colours in her image was very visible to the eye.

She leaned a little closer to the book and looked at the shape of the petals.

There were different shades of cream too.

The artist must have mixed the colours with a tiny amount of black to obtain the deeper shade.

It would be hard to mix without making the cream too dark.

Henry was quiet. He had definitely fallen asleep. The sunshine from the window stretched across his leg and stomach. Perhaps that was why he’d come in here, to sleep in the sunshine.

Susan mixed a little of the green with more white to make the colour paler still and attempted another narrow line, trying to make the difference in shading less obvious. It was better than her first attempt, but still not good enough.

Rather than progress to the shading of the cream, she began another petal. She would conquer this skill before she sought to learn another.

While she painted she intermittently glanced across the room to check Henry had not woken and was surreptitiously watching her. The sunshine travelled across his lean body as the afternoon progressed. He did not wake.

If she had more natural talent he would have made a perfect model. Young gentleman in repose.

She smiled as she looked back at her work.

When he was asleep, she would admit how handsome he was – when his personality was not added into the mix.

When he was silent, like this, she could appreciate his company.

She studied him as she worked, with the same eye that she studied the flower.

The waves in his dark brown hair were a little chaotic but he had a very classical handsomeness, with his long dark eyelashes resting against the pale skin of his cheeks.

She carefully painted another flowerhead, then looked back.

He must have slept for more than an hour, perhaps two, she had not looked at the clock.

He had appeared exhausted, though, and he was still paler than normal.

The sunshine was rapidly advancing towards his face.

It would disturb him if it shone onto his eyes.

A huff of sound left her throat as she set down her brush, rose and walked across to the window, to close the shutters. Of course it would affect the light she had to work by, but he had looked exhausted.

Samson woke and lifted his head to watch her.

She walked over to him, rather than to the window.

He did not rise, so she leaned to stroke his head.

‘You foolish dog,’ she whispered. ‘To save your loyalty for such a man.’ Yet animals were like that, they had no judgement of one’s character.

If you treated them well, they treated you well.

The cuff of the loose shirtsleeve covering Henry’s good arm had been caught up when he’d moved his arm from above his head, and it had slipped upwards.

She noticed dark and vivid, vicious-looking bruises she had not seen from across the room.

His shirt had also fallen open into a wide v at his chest, without a neckcloth to hold the collar closed.

She could see the little dent at the base of his throat, the first shape of his chest, a sprinkling of dark hair and more nasty bruises.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, an odd cramp gently tightening the muscles in her stomach.

She had always been pulled to protect injured things including humans, the sight of his pain caught her hard in the middle with a sick feeling.

Guilt washed across her. She had been rude to him.

She had not cared about his injuries. She thought he was exaggerating. Now she could see he was not.

Her stomach twisted with regret as she looked at his face. Samson rose and sat beside her, so she would stroke his head again.

But her unsettled stomach was more than a feeling of nausea over the sight of his injuries. Just as she admired the flowers, or the detail in the wings of a butterfly, she admired Henry’s face.

She turned away.

It was definitely not a good thing to look at Henry and feel any sort of liking.

She did not want to think him attractive.

When he was awake she had no liking for him at all and it was better for things to be like that.

He was to be her brother-in-law, and as no one thought her beautiful it was very likely she would live here in her later life, dependent upon him, as Alethea’s spinster sister.

Her father’s property was entailed so when her father passed away her home would be given to a cousin and she would have no choice but to rely upon Henry’s generosity.

He stirred behind her.

She stopped and looked back .