Fredrick gave him an amused look. “You are in for a treat, but I should warn you that my sister is no Michelangelo.”
She swatted at her brother’s sleeve. “You are one to talk. I have seen your paintings, as well.”
“I never claimed to be talented at painting,” Fredrick said. “It is the one thing I am not good at.”
“One thing?” Octavia repeated. “I can think of many things you are not good at.”
The room went silent as a young lady approached the pianoforte. As she began to play, the music filled the air and Harred found himself relaxing against his seat.
He noticed that Octavia had opened her reticule and retrieved a biscuit. She extended it towards him. “Biscuit?” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he replied as he accepted it.
Fredrick gave his sister a disapproving look. “Why did you bring biscuits to the soiree?” he asked. “There is a refreshment table in the corner.”
“But I wanted a biscuit,” Octavia replied before retrieving another one and taking a bite of it.
Harred resisted the urge to laugh. He didn’t know why he found Octavia’s antics to be so amusing. He just did.
Octavia held up two paintings for her mother’s inspection. “Which one do you like best?” she asked.
Her mother, who was sitting up in her bed, replied, “They are both nice, dear.”
“But which one is better?” she pressed.
A smile came to her mother’s lips. “May I ask why it matters so much to you?”
Lowering the paintings, Octavia explained, “Harred has requested one of my paintings and I want to ensure that I give him my best piece.”
“I am sure that Harred will love whichever painting you decide to give to him,” her mother remarked.
Octavia blew out a puff of air. Her mother was being of no use to her. “This is your fault, you know,” she joked. “You should have insisted I spend more time on painting so I was proficient at it.”
With a laugh, her mother responded, “You were far more interested in jumping hedges on your horses than painting.”
A thought came to her. “Perhaps I will purchase a painting from Lady Lizette.”
“But won’t Harred be disappointed since it won’t be from you?” her mother asked.
Octavia sat down and rested the paintings against the edges of the chair. “Maybe I am just overthinking this.”
“I believe you are. Your husband will cherish any painting you give him,” her mother reasoned.
She reached down and picked up one of the paintings. “I will give him this one since it is a painting of our country estate.”
“That one is lovely.”
Octavia shook her head. “I daresay you are far too complimentary of me.”
“That is a job of any good mother.” Her mother closed her eyes for a moment before asking, “Will you help me write a letter to Fredrick this afternoon? I do worry about him being on the Continent.”
In a gentle voice, Octavia reminded her mother, “Fredrick is home from the war so there is no need to write him a letter.”
Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “When did he return?”
“He arrived a short time ago,” Octavia replied.
“And he didn’t think to visit?” her mother asked, her voice rising.
