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All right. So that might be a bit dramatic.

I doubt he had any nefarious purpose in mind.

In fact, he probably thought he was doing me a favor by choosing me from all the other available church women to bless with his attention.

What woman wouldn't love to spend time with the handsomest man in town, after all?

Me, for one. But he seemed to think I was joking when I made that particular comment.

The man not only insinuated himself between me and the lady I'd been speaking to, but he had the audacity to commandeer my arm and place it within his as if we were not only well-acquainted, but courting!

Then he started dragging me off toward the street, spouting some kind of nonsense about treating me to a fine lunch at the hotel.

As if I would consent to dining alone with a man I barely know!

A fact I would have shared with him had he possessed the courtesy to ask me to join him instead of simply assuming I'd be delighted.

Thankfully, Mr. Lightfoot recognized my predicament and came to my rescue before I was forced to turn the sword of the Spirit into a cudgel of a more material nature.

I doubt Mr. Batton will continue his pursuit of me after today.

Mr. Lightfoot tried his best not to cause a scene, but there were plenty of onlookers to witness the humbling moment, and the look on Mr. Batton's face made his displeasure clear.

The eavesdropping crowd included a large number of unattached females, however, who were quick to offer their sympathies along with invitations to Sunday dinner.

I didn't linger to discover which lady won his favor, but I'm sure the collective repaired any dents my refusal might have left in his pride.

The entire encounter made me grateful to be working for a man who appreciates the loveliness of a masterful painting or a delightfully descriptive literary phrase more than the fading beauty of a well-proportioned face.

Everett frowned at the sketch before him.

The proportions were off somewhere. Perhaps he'd drawn her eyes a bit too large.

They were certainly her most arresting feature, though, and deserved to be emphasized.

Maybe if he added more volume to her hair .

. . He swept his graphite over the page, recalling his bookbinder's glossy chestnut locks pinned up in simple, unadorned beauty that managed to capture his attention and imagination more than any elaborately curled and bejeweled coif that had floated around the society events he'd once attended.

A knock on his bedroom door jolted him from his artistic meditation and had him hurriedly flipping the pages of his large sketchbook to hide the evidence of a subject he had no right to depict.

Tugging the patch down over his injured eye, he straightened in his desk chair and turned to face the door. "Enter."

Lightfoot pushed open the portal and stepped inside, a tray of meat, cheese, and bread in his hands. "Mrs. Potter sends her regards and renews her insistence that you reconsider joining us for meals."

"A good host considers the comfort of his guests above his own convenience." Everett moved his sketchbook to make room on the corner of his desk for the food-laden tray. "I'd not want to upset Miss Rosenfeld's appetite by forcing her to behold my mangled face across the dinner table."

Lightfoot raised a brow at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you think Miss Rosenfeld the type of female to be put off by a few marks on a man's skin, you're a dimwit."

Taken aback by the insult, Everett rose from his chair to face his valet on equal footing. "I hardly think my courtesy deserves your scorn."

"It does when you're using it as an excuse to hide.

" Lightfoot sighed, then gave up his scowl and unknotted his arms. "She asks about you, you know.

Worries that her presence is keeping you from your normal routines.

If you really cared about her feelings, you'd quit making her feel like a trespasser and move about the house in a normal fashion.

Perhaps even have a conversation with her from time to time.

Two people so enamored by books are sure to find something meaningful to discuss. "

Engage her in conversation? His stomach twisted. Yes, he'd survived their initial design meeting. There'd even been a few moments where he'd forgotten about his face entirely as the two of them dug into artistic details. But casual conversation was a different animal. It was . . . personal.

Everett camouflaged his unease with a scoffing sound. "I'm hardly the charmer I used to be. She'd likely find me tedious."

Lightfoot's eyebrow inched back up into the you're a dimwit position. "If she was interested in handsome, charming men she wouldn't have fought so hard to free herself from that buffoon who tried to make off with her this morning after church."

Something surprisingly primal surged though Everett's chest. "What buffoon?"

If some man had laid hands on her . . .

"Called himself Ambrose Batton. Visiting the area on some kind of hunting expedition. Has one of those faces women swoon over and struts around like he owns everything he sees. Tall, muscular, oozing confidence."

Everett hated him already.

"I didn't see where he came from, but I saw the flock of females hovering around him as he entered the churchyard and approached Miss Rosenfeld.

The blighter had the nerve to take her arm and lead her away as if she belonged to him.

I spotted her tugging to free herself from his clutches and hurried over to intervene.

Batton didn't take too kindly to my interference, but too many people watched for him to take a swing at me, so we made it away unscathed. "

Lightfoot chuckled. "You should have heard her scathing opinions on the man during the wagon ride home.

Not once did she mention his handsome face or manly physique.

She was too busy complaining about his rudeness, presumption, and arrogance.

" Lightfoot peered at Everett with a look that punctured his defenses.

"She expressed how thankful she was to be working for a man who treated her with respect.

That even when you were at your most beastly, you were twice the gentleman as Mr. Batton. "

Everett had no words. His brain churned too slowly, struggling to process all that Lightfoot said.

His valet clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Your face does not define you, Griff. Your actions do. A woman of a discerning nature will see the man behind the scars. It's up to you to determine what type of man she will find when she does so."