I studied her closely. “Your brother acted as leader?”
Her silence stretched, heavy with uncertainty. “I don’t know. I only know he’s in grave danger. Can we even rescue him? Or is all hope lost?”
She had trusted me with a painful secret. I did not take that action lightly. And she had come asking for my advice.
“I cannot tell a lie, Miss Littleton. The situation is grave. Would you like me to make a request on your behalf? Of course, I can’t promise anything will result from my efforts, but I will do my best to assist your brother. If possible.”
“Would you?” In her excitement, she placed her free hand on my arm only to snatch it back to her chest. “Lord Hawthorn, I—”
I found myself caught in those green eyes. Warmth thawed any lingering reserve I had held as a protective shield.
Thunder cracked right above the abbey, followed by a flash of lightning sizzling outside the window. She jumped at the sound, and the sketchbook once trapped beneath her arm tumbled to the floor. It fell open with a flutter of pages.
22:Bridget
The great art of life is sensation,
to feel that we exist, even in pain.
LORD BYRON
Lord Hawthorn stooped to pick up my sketchbook just as another crack of thunder boomed. In my clumsiness I had dropped the book, and my secret art lay bare. He stared at the page, his brows slanting downward. I realized, too late, the cause of his silence—he held my sketch of him. My breath froze.
“Is this how you see me?” he demanded in a strangled tone.
I tried not to flinch, my gaze no longer able to bear his. “In the beginning. Maybe. You were rather grim.”
“I look irascible.”
I wasn’t sure if his voice held a touch of humor.
“I haven’t apologized for that unfortunate evening when Chaucer frightened you. Or was it me? Forgive my bad manners,” he said.
“You have had your moments, as have I, but...” In an effort to lighten the mood, I leaned forward, pretending to study him even though I had most of his features memorized. “But when you smile, I believe your eyes lighten a shade. From mahogany to something almost amber. It’s really quite a pleasant shade.”
He stared at me. And his eyes did not lighten. Instead, they darkened. I resettled back to my original position, not realizing just how close I tipped toward him.
“My lord, begging your pardon for intruding...”
Mr. Whittle stood in the hall, his gaze darting between the viscount and me. Flustered, I stepped back, self-conscious at how we must appear.
“Yes, Mr. Whittle, get on with it.” He sounded harsher than usual.
Mr. Whittle licked his lips. “It’s just that we’ve gotten word that Cobb has been digging holes throughout the fields near his cottage. I daresay he thinks he’ll find something of value. Who knows if he has found others to join him or not? I thought you ought to know before more of the tenants take to his example and all the Hawthorn Abbey estates are pitted beyond repair.”
A low curse. Lord Hawthorn snapped the sketchbook closed and handed it to me.
“Excuse me, Miss Littleton. Apparently my tenant thinks he is an antiquarian these days. Rest assured, I won’t let anyone touch your artifacts, nor muddle with my land,” he said as he brushed past to join Mr. Whittle. I watched him stalk out of the hallway and into the courtyard, following the groundskeeper.
I hugged the sketchbook to my chest, regretting my impulsive words and actions once again. How utterly forward. Closing my eyes tightly, I gave myself a stern scolding that would rival any lecture given by Mrs. Herriot.
On the other hand, his offer to help Daniel brought a renewed warmth, rendering me like melted butter.
I found the Ming vase perched on a pedestal in the library and did my best to sketch the piece, but my mind wandered far away. Instead of thinking of Rome and artifacts, or even the vase in front of me, I could only see the viscount who worked side by side with his men and who, without judgment, had offered a sliver of hope to reach my brother.
As I rendered the Ming vase, a gathering wind pushed against the abbey. The heavens opened up and rain splashed against the windows. Gentle at first, then a steady downpour, the roar echoing as it hit the slate roof. Mrs. Whittle brought me refreshments in the library as I detailed the trim on the vase.
“La, such weather. You won’t be going anywhere for some time, Miss Littleton.”
