Page 19 of The Work of Art

“I met him at the ball.” Her expression was troubled. “He partnered me in the waltz.”

“The waltz?” The very idea that the Collector had partnered her in a dance so intimate unsettled Arthur deeply. He couldn’t think why. His own feelings for Miss Satterthwaite—if they could even be called that—were far from romantic. He was drawn to her, it was true, but only because of the way he felt in her presence. It was a selfish attraction and nothing more.

“The Worthings allowed one waltz for the evening, and my uncle said I must save it. I didn’t know who I was saving it for until the moment I was introduced to the duke. And now he’s arranged with my uncle to call on me this afternoon and take me driving. I think he means to court me, but I…” She trailed off, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I should not have presumed to—”

“You needn’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Indeed, I have. I seem to find myself confiding in you about all sorts of things each time we meet. It’s an inexcusable behavior. All I can say in my defense is that since I’ve come to London, you’re the only person I’ve met that I feel at ease with. I suppose it sounds rather silly, since I hardly know you.”

Arthur’s fingers clenched the handle of his cane. He wasn’t an eloquent man. He never had been. He’d been a man of brutal action. Of rare physical skill. Words didn’t come easily to him. “Miss Satterthwaite, I beg you, don’t distress yourself. What you’ve just described…” He hesitated. “It’s no different than how I feel myself when I’m in your company.”

She turned to look at him. “Do you, sir?”

Something deep within Arthur’s chest tightened almost painfully as Phyllida Satterthwaite rested her blue and amber gaze softly on his face. “Yes. I do. And I’m honored to listen to anything you’d like to tell me. Anything at all.”

She exhaled. “Thank you, Captain Heywood. You’re very kind.”

“Not kind. Rather selfish, in fact.”

She looked as if she might question his remark, but had no chance to do so. At that precise moment, her dogs came bounding up to them. Sara, the little maid, was close behind. Any chance at conversation was at an end. Whatever Miss Satterthwaite had meant to tell him about Moreland would have to wait until another day.

“What do you call them?” he asked as one of the dogs came toward him.

“This one is Basil.” She reached to scratch the wolfhound’s wiry ears. “The red one is Jasper, and the spotted one is Dash. They’re not usually so friendly toward strangers.”

Arthur stroked Basil’s head, his gloved fingers brushing against Miss Satterthwaite’s. She didn’t pull away.

“Miss!” Sara cried as she approached them. “We’ve no more time to spare. Mrs. Vale says you mustn’t forget—”

“Thank you, Sara.” Miss Satterthwaite gathered up Fox and rose from the bench.

Despite the pain in his leg, Arthur stood. He failed to suppress a grimace.

“Captain Heywood…” She began, sounding very formal toward him in the presence of her maid.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“This is the second time I’ve seen you on this bench. Perhaps you have a preference for it? If not, might I recommend the bench just there? Not far from that cluster of trees? I pass it as soon as I enter the park each day, and have always thought it seemed a rather pretty location.”

The cluster of trees she indicated was near the edge of the park, so close to the entrance that he’d be able to reach it in less than half the distance it took him to walk to the bench where they were now.

He looked at her face, expecting to find some hint of pity in her expression, but there was no such emotion. “It’s certainly not as remote a location as this,” he said carefully.

The maid’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and disapproval etched into her sharp little features.

“No. It isn’t,” Mrs. Satterthwaite agreed. “But if you intend to come to the park often… That is, if you expect to come in the mornings…”

“The mornings,” Arthur repeated, not certain he fully comprehended her meaning.

“The park is always much less crowded then.” Miss Satterthwaite glanced at her maid before taking her leave of him with a subtle inclination of her head. “Good day, Captain Heywood.”

Arthur touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Satterthwaite.”

He watched as she walked off with her maid and her dogs, her amber sarsnet pelisse catching the light with every step she took.

The Work of Art.

The Duke of Moreland had waltzed with her on Saturday and was taking her for a drive in the park this very afternoon. Darly had wagered they’d be engaged in a fortnight, and at the rate Moreland was progressing, it wasn’t too far from the mark.