And this morning, in nothing but her chemise, she’d stared into the mirror and…smiled.
Not that all of a sudden she didn’t see the ugliness or believe a man could ignore it, but Jack was right: the scars were a part of her now and so she had traced the lines, remembering her blissful nights with her delicate flying creatures.
She was another conquest, she admitted. Jack didn’t necessarily have her heart – how foolish it would be to fall for a rogue – but she admired him immensely. It would be all too easy to fall deeply and passionately in lo–
“It’s too hot,” shrieked Mrs Tresize, throwing her painting apron to the maid and revealing a yellow satin gown more suited to a Helston bawdy house. “Surely, my lord, you would also prefer to disrobe another item? We don’t want you drooping and as ladies of the world, a bared throat won’t induce the vapours.”
Tamsyn smirked and added a splotch of grey for the castle – there was no point gilding the creation.
“Au contraire, my flock of innocent doves,” Lord Winterbourne countered, throwing his arms wide. “I am blessed with much stamina and could comply with your demands the whole day through should it be deemed necessary.”
Lowdy paused and studied her canvas, brush rested.
The Earl of Fowlmere had advocated that ladies should only paint still life, but Lowdy had always preferred the wide-open skies and unrestrained nature of landscapes.
Hence, unlike the rest of the Ladies League who huddled in a circle before the castle, she’d looked outward to the rugged coast, scrubby land and industrial mines.
She’d mixed shades, surveyed the terrain, delicately rendered the diverse greens – bottle, emerald and Saxon.
But today she mumbled in disappointment at her watercolour. “It lacks…”
“Emotion.”
Her brush plunged, splattering jade paint on her apron. “Mr Miggens, what can I do for you?”
She twisted to encounter that same jade colour in his eyes.
With heart thumping at quite an alarming pace, she willed a breeze to appear, to cool her brow and palms.
Mr Miggens towered over her, face pallid and eyelids a little red this morning. In the dead of night, she’d been convinced his voice had murmured outside her door, a soft crooning, but a thump, shuffle and then silence had persuaded her it must have been the household cat.
“I’m serving all the ladies their refreshments.”
“Oh.” And glancing down, she spied the hamper of cordial, water and glasses at his sizeable feet. “Why are you doing that? You’re valet to his lordship.”
He shrugged those broad shoulders dressed in immaculate black cotton, cravat a sculptured masterpiece and waistcoat of Devonshire brown. In fact, he wouldn’t look amiss in a glittering ballroom.
“It was his lordship who sent me.”
“Well, thank you, Mr Miggens.”
“You called me Oliver on the beach.”
Yes, she had. She’d gone collecting mussels and when a particularly stubborn one had refused to part from the rock, he’d suddenly been there, plucking it with nary a strain, and then taking her hand, he’d placed the mussel within her palm.
He was so…knowledgeable and agreeable and strong and kind and she’d stared up at him and…sighed his name.
Oliver.
And then he’d bent down and… She blushed. Such a delicate brush of lips as though she were the finest china. He’d whispered words of admiration, of respect.
But he mustn’t and shouldn’t because she was nothing, had nothing, not even her virtue. He should marry an intact maid who could boil tea and cook potatoes. Or a woman who could keep house and earn a wage. Or a saintly governess who could educate.
All she could do was be a companion.
And not a very good one at that.
Oh, she loved Tam to bits and knew she’d always have a home here, but when the earl had declared her surplus to the household and she’d searched for employment, she’d come to understand how truly useless she was.
