Page 22 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

“Tea?” she asked, smoothing one hand over her skirts and stepping toward the kitchen.

“You needn’t—” he began, but she seemed to want something to occupy herself. A few short moments later, she approached the table beside which he was standing, a cup of tea in her uninjured hand, a thick slice of buttered bread balanced on the saucer.

He refused the chair. “I have something for you. An—an—” An apology, he wanted to say. “A peace offering,” he said instead.

Now she glanced up into his face, a golden glimmer in her hazel eyes. “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“War?” Warmth crept into his cheeks. “Well, no . . . That is—” He laid the package on the table beside the teacup and took an overlarge bite of bread and butter to keep himself from saying anything more.

She approached a step closer and plucked uncertainly at the string that held the brown paper in place around the rather crumpled package, but she did not slip the knot. “From the shape, I gather it’s not a bonnet.”

“A bonnet? Er, no. That would have been—”

Improper.

Intimate.

Such would have been his answer just two days earlier. But given their present circumstances, the old rules for gift-giving, the conventional excuses, hardly seemed relevant.

“I was going to say that such a purchase would certainly have been practical,” he lied, mortified. “A pity I didn’t think of it. But I’m not accustomed . . . that is, my sisters would protest the notion of me picking out their headgear. I haven’t much sense for such things, you see.” She was studying the movement of her own hand as she wound a loose end of string around her forefinger. “You might have a look for yourself, though. The shop’s just past the Jolly Gander—”

“The Jolly Gander?”

“The pub across the way.”

“Jem’s place, you mean.”

“Well, now, we don’t really—”

She sent him a sidelong glance, full of amusement. Teasing again.

At that, his lungs couldn’t seem to decide whether to heave a sigh of relief—she wasn’t furious with him, then, though she had every right to be—or to suck in a breath of . . . well, not surprise, exactly. Wonderment, perhaps? She really was quite clever.

And lovely.

Unable to both inhale and exhale at once, he sputtered and coughed instead, a predicament which only served to amuse her further. “It isn’t far,” he managed when he had recovered. “And we’ve ample time, I’m afraid. John Coachman says it will be midday at least before the carriage is repaired.”

“Oh.” Once more, the bit of string, now frayed, occupied all her attention. Clearly, the delay distressed her. “I’ve never really been one for frittering the hours away with shopping. But I suppose it will be something to do.”

He was struck with an idea. “Open it,” he urged, with a nod toward the package.

With a decisive tug, she slipped the knot free. One-handed, she peeled back the wrappings to reveal what was inside. She lifted the lid of the box to inspect its contents, then dragged a fingertip over the pad of paper, as if judging its quality. “You—you bought me art supplies.”

He did not know how to interpret the tone in which those words were spoken.

They wore an air of displeasure.

“I’m sorry if they’re the wrong thing. Or, or not the quality to which you’re accustomed. I only thought—”

Her chin rose, though she did not quite meet his eye. “You thought it would be easier to perpetuate the ruse of my being your sisters’ art teacher if I possessed at least some of the accoutrements of an artist.”

He’d considered the matter along those lines, it was true.

But in the end, just as he’d said, the purchase had not been inspired by practicality.

“There’s a church in the village.” The seeming non sequitur made her tip her head in his direction. Perhaps she was expecting an offer of marriage after his shocking conduct this morning—though not, the sharpness of her movement made clear, with anything like enthusiasm. “Quaint,” he pressed on. “Not far to walk. The girl in the shop said that people come to this village expressly to make sketches of it.” He paused again, weighing the many explanations for his conduct he could offer, up to and including the truth. “I thought it might make you feel better—more yourself—to draw.”

“More . . . myself,” she repeated. “You thought it might jog my memory, you mean.”

It wasn’t at all what he’d meant. He’d momentarily forgotten that she was still claiming not to know her own name, rather than simply keeping it from him.

“Surely you must wish that too?” he prompted.

“I—” Then she bit off whatever she had been about to say, sinking her upper teeth into the curve of her lower lip until the peach-pink color leached to white. “Of course,” she went on, once she had mastered whatever wayward thought had almost crossed her lips. “I’ll just fetch my pelisse.” She walked away, still moving stiffly—which might, he supposed, have as much to do with her feelings toward him as with her injuries.

She was back a few moments later wearing the aforementioned garment, shabby with the signs of her fall and too thin for the raw weather. No bonnet, of course, and no gloves either. They’d been shredded on the cobblestone street in front of his house, and what scraps had remained had been cut away by the physician to inspect her injuries. His plan, such as it was, seemed suddenly more likely to give her pneumonia than pleasure.

He’d intended to fetch his own hat and gloves before going back outside. Instead, he picked up the paper and box of crayons, tucking them in the breast of his greatcoat to protect them from the elements—and, perhaps, to keep himself from stretching out an arm to her and inviting her touch. Then he opened the door and bowed. “After you.”