Pent anger shimmered the air until Ernest replaced his glasses, spun on his heal and stormed for the door, on this occasion slamming it with such force that it recoiled to open.
The miniature of Mother toppled forward once more.
Heaving a breath, Casper strode over to firmly shut the door, then returned to his seat, opened the uppermost desk drawer, removed a book and flicked through to find his silver mark.
The adorable, but prone to swooning, Emily had just been threatened by Signor Montoni and he refused to allow any more interruptions.
Not a moment later, he scowled, distracted by a shadow that paced back and forth across his closed curtain.
No doubt Ernest venting his frustration on the garden path or Uncle awaiting some tryst.
Or perhaps…
Evelyn Swift, come for some fresh air. Without chaperone or sister to shield her.
He placed the book back in the drawer.
Mrs Swift had appeared healthier at dinner tonight – fewer black shadows shrouding her eyes and a blush of rose to her cheeks. He’d requested the chef to prepare a magnificent feast but with hindsight it might have been too rich, and maybe the pudding had been somewhat flamboyant.
Surreptitiously, he strolled to the French doors that led direct to the garden and drew back the curtain a slither.
The sunset this eve was magnificent, a crimson that lit the sky to fire. And haloed in its glorious burn stomped Mrs Swift.
What was he to do with her?
She twisted him in knots with her forest-green gaze, sharp tongue and beguiling lips. He enjoyed her wit and appreciation of art, her compassion and bravado, and yet he knew naught about her. Mrs Swift could be a thief’s daughter or a gambler’s whore, a fallen lady or a destitute widow.
And none of it mattered.
How galling that after having many a woman offer liaisons in the past, it should be she who tempted him. A conniving liar with lips of sweet ripeness who’d not offered any liaison whatsoever.
Unlocking the French door, he took a breath. “You’ll catch your death, Mrs Swift, for the night air still holds winter in its grasp.”
She turned and ye gods, he ached.
As at dinner, her lilac silk gown enhanced her shape although the bodice was a little too high for current fashion and the hem too low – that knowledge had come from Ernest as she could wear a coal sack and Casper would only notice her generous bosom, nipped waist and fine skin.
“I’ve never seen a sunset such as this,” she declared. “It’s crimson, flame and vermillion.”
An artist’s words.
“Do you long to paint it?”
A smile flitted. “You bestow me with skill I do not possess. I can paint, ’tis true, but I do not have the muse. I have seen artists at work and they have an inner light, a craving to render emotion upon canvas.”
With a delicate tread, she drifted towards him, her back to the magnificent sky, and he knew that if he could paint just one picture of one moment, it would be this, here and now, nature’s greenery framing her body – hair and sky melding to scorch the unwary. And how he longed to thrust his fingers through those fiery locks, to drag them free from confine and sift the strands, to clench them around his fist and pull her near.
To smother her lying lips with his.
“What age has Lord Ernest?” she enquired, marching through the door, her faded shawl brushing his chest.
It was immensely irritating to discover that whilst his thoughts had been filled with passion, she’d been speculating on his brother, and he persuaded his fervent pulse to slow.
“Five and twenty.” It surprised even he. Where had the years gone? Casper recollected a twelve-year-old Ernest crying in his arms at Father’s funeral, himself a mere five years older, expected to comfort and provide.
“And what properties is he responsible for?”
Casper snorted, trailing her into the study and closing the French doors, snuffing out that sunset with the curtain – he had all the colour a man could wish for.
