Page 13

Miss Rosenfeld smiled at him. Not a new circumstance.

In their brief acquaintance, she'd favored him with at least half a dozen of the things.

Yet they still took him by surprise. Hit him square in the chest every time.

Odd for a man who used to collect feminine smiles like a post office collected letters.

In the past they'd come with such frequency and volume, he'd taken them for granted.

After a five-year drought, however, he now recognized the rare and exquisite treasure of a woman's smile.

Especially one as free of artifice as the one currently aimed in his direction.

"I appreciate your caution." She set the book she'd been examining on the worktable closest to the shelves then made her way toward him.

Miraculously, the welcome in her gaze didn't dim as she neared.

It seemed she'd acclimated to his scars faster than he'd acclimated to her smiles.

"Hopefully, I'll prove less clumsy with my feet on the floor. "

There was nothing the least bit clumsy about the way she moved through the room. She possessed a natural grace that many New York debutantes would envy.

Before she reached him at the doorway, she diverted to a larger worktable littered with scraps of leather, iron hand tools, and embossing stamps.

"I've laid out some preliminary design options for you to consider." Her attention moved to the table as her fingers slid along the wooden edge beneath the display. "Once I get a better feel for your personal preferences, I can tailor specific motifs for your collection."

Throat suddenly tight, Everett took a single step into the room. "Before we discuss the bindings, I need to address another matter with you."

She turned and stepped closer to him, her large brown eyes blinking innocently up at him. "All right."

"I . . . uh . . . need to apologize." The word tasted foreign on his tongue.

He couldn't recall the last time his lips had shaped those particular syllables.

He'd been too concerned with fortifications and barricades around his own spirit to consider anyone else's feelings.

Not the most laudable conduct on his part.

Everett forced himself to hold her gaze. He had to fist his hands and lock his knees to manage the feat, but he did it. "I behaved like a boor yesterday, and I'm sorry."

Her eyes lit as if he'd just bestowed a marvelous gift, and then the blasted things began twinkling. Completely unfair of her to let them glimmer about like that. Made it hard for a man to breathe properly. Not to mention the fact that now he wanted to paint her again.

"Well, you were a tiny bit unfriendly when first we met, but you didn't let your dog eat me, so it wasn't all bad."

A tiny bit unfriendly? A rusty chuckle coughed out of him. He shut it down at once, of course, somewhat amazed his throat could still produce such a sound. "I assure you Miss Rosenfeld, Spartacus is not in the habit of eating visitors, no matter what rumors you might have heard to the contrary."

"How reassuring. Perhaps I'll take a stroll about the grounds later then.

" She leaned in slightly and lowered her voice.

"I admit to worrying that I might be forced to pass the entirety of my stay cooped up indoors for fear of running across your hound.

I usually get along quite well with animals, but your Spartacus has a rather intimidating bearing. "

The thought of her being afraid of anything around his home, including himself, twisted his gut. "Have Mrs. Potter set aside some meat scraps for you," he groused. "Feed those to him, and he'll be your new best friend."

"He can be won over so easily?"

The woman had won him over without hardly trying, and he was far more cantankerous than his dog.

"He's seen that you're accepted at the manor, so that will help.

He'll probably even try to play, which can pose a threat of a different sort.

Lightfoot is still a little gun-shy around him.

Spartacus's favorite game used to be Knock Over the Valet.

I've trained him not to jump on people unless invited these days, though, so you shouldn't have to worry about being pounced upon. "

However, Everett still sent Spartacus off to ram into old Lightfoot every now and then. Hard to resist the temptation when the result was so hilarious. Lightfoot sputtering and completely out of sorts over a bit of dirt on his sleeve or a crease in his trousers.

"In all seriousness, though," Everett continued, "I beg your pardon for my . . . unfriendliness yesterday."

Miss Rosenfeld schooled her smile into a sober line—or tried to. The disobedient edges of her mouth kept twitching upward. She dipped her head in his direction, hiding those defiant lips from him momentarily. "Pardon granted."

He dusted off the manners that had once been second nature to him and bowed to her in return. "You're very kind."

She freed her smile and it stretched wide across her face.

"Oh, it's pure selfishness on my part. Holding onto an affront makes me grumpy.

So much better to let it go and enjoy my day.

" She twirled away from him—an actual twirl with belled out skirt and lifted foot—and led the way back to the worktable.

Like a rat hearing the music of a pied piper, he followed, too entranced by her joy-filled demeanor to do anything else.

"My father created some custom stamps that you might be interested in utilizing. They've not yet been employed for any of our other customers, so they could be unique to your collection should you desire exclusivity."

For a price. She didn't say it aloud, but her forthright eyes communicated as much.

He had no issue paying more for an exclusive design.

As an artist himself, he understood how much time, thought, and talent went into crafting a motif.

Should one of Rosenfeld's patterns strike his fancy, he'd gladly give the artist his due.

"Or I can fashion something based on your personal vision.

" She looked up from the table, admiration he couldn't possibly deserve radiating from her gaze.

"Mr. Lightfoot told me of your love of painting, and Mrs. Potter mentioned that you learned from your mother years ago.

I'm not a real artist, not like you are, but I excel at detail work.

Once we establish the style and patterns you prefer, I will execute the design to your precise specifications. "

"Don't sell yourself short, Miss Rosenfeld.

" Hearing her belittle her talents irked him far more than it should.

"I've seen the sample volume you provided my man upon your arrival.

You are as much an artist as I am. Perhaps more so, for your handiwork is on display in countless homes for people to see and enjoy, while most of my work is hidden away in an attic.

The few pieces that have made it into galleries typically hang about for several months before some patron takes pity on them and gives them a home. "

Her gaze widened as she inhaled an audible breath. "You've actually sold your paintings in galleries? Oh, how I'd love to see them."

Contaminate her natural light with his darkness? Not a chance.

Everett scowled. "They wouldn't be to your liking."

"Oh, I don't know about that." She smiled, too innocent for her own good. "I have very eclectic taste."

He bit back the sharp retort that sprang to his tongue. Snapping at her would make a hash of the fresh start they were both trying to forge. Ordering his jaw to unclench, he offered a placating smile. "Perhaps I'll paint a miniature for you as a parting gift when you leave us."

Surely he could slap some wildflowers on a card or something. Hold up his end of the bargain without letting her see inside his soul.

A tiny wrinkle appeared in her brow as she considered him, almost as if she'd been privy to the running dialog in his head. "That's a generous offer, Mr. Griffin. I'm sure my father would love to see an example of your work. We would treasure such a gift."

They would. He could see the sincerity shining in her eyes. Artist to artist.

All right. So maybe he'd take more care than just slapping some wildflowers on a card.

Though, he didn't have any idea what he could paint that she would like.

His style leaned into the morose, his palette muted and shadowy—none of which described the woman before him.

She exuded joy and wonder, kindness and humor.

Even her clothing manifested cheer. Sure, the cut of her dress was simple, the fabric plain and showing signs of wear, but it boasted the color of a summer sky.

A bright blue accented with a white collar and apron, capturing the glory of the heavens when dotted with peaceful clouds.

The kind of clouds children lie under and imagine to be bunnies or kittens or long-necked geese.

The only color that would suit her better would be yellow—the color of the sun itself.

Good grief, man. Quit mooning over the woman and get to business. Heaven knows she's not mooning over your ugly mug.

Everett dragged his gaze away from Miss Rosenfeld's face and turned to the worktable, perusing it with far more intensity than it warranted. "Let's see what we have here."

"I set out a few options with graduating levels of ornamentation to help me get a feel for your preferences. Individual volumes can have variations on the main theme, of course, though we do recommend keeping a singular base pattern running through all the books in a particular collection."