Page 59 of Romancing the Artist

With several feet between them, she turned and glared at him. “No, Edward.” She spoke with a firmness she had never used before. Not on anyone. Vaguely, she realized this was what her mother had sounded like a time or two when Caroline had stepped too far out of bounds. “Nothing happened. We were playing a childish game and things went awry. It will not ruin our friendship, or our plans, or our arrangement. Promise me.”

He slowly took the wig off his head and looked down at it, studying the white curls as though they would explain things to him. “I am making a lot of promises of late. They almost never work in my favor, I think.”

She swallowed, though the tightness in her throat made it difficult. “Nevertheless,” she whispered. “Nothing happened. Nothing has changed. Promise?” The word came out as a plea this time.

He released a humorless chuckle, then removed his cape with a sigh. “Very well, Cara. I promise.”

He turned away without seeing her reaction to the shortened form of her name, the one she had only ever allowed her family to use for her. The familiarity of those two simple syllables, said in such a bleak tone, almost made her wish to take the promise back.

But she couldn’t. Not now. Everything she dreamed of and had worked for would be ruined. Wouldn’t it? He didn’t want to marry. Marriage was a trap. Edward had said as much. And she didn’t want the distraction of whatever else this thing between them could be. A harmless flirtation? No. It wouldn’t be harmless. She couldn’t kiss someone like that and not risk herself. Her heart. Her future.

Even if he did want to marry, she wasn’t ready. She wanted to see the world. She wanted to paint, to create art and share the joy of that creation with others. Either through teaching or hanging her work in their homes and galleries. She started twisted her fingers together, chewing on her bottom lip. Her mind and heart raced, dipping and rising.

She couldn’t do this. She had to bend her will, all her thoughts and feelings, toward her work. That was the only reason she had come to Inglewood.

Edward went to a large trunk and lifted the latch, rifling through it before closing the wig inside. “Do you really think we will find Greek-inspired sandals up here?” He sounded almost normal again.

“I haven’t given up hope yet,” she answered, turning away.

She pretended she didn’t hear him whisper, “Neither have I.”

Chapter 18

Days after the event in the attic, Caroline woke with her lips tingling from the memory of that kiss and the dream that had brought it back to her in exquisite detail. Trying to forget a thing as searing as Edward’s kiss was more difficult than anything Caroline had ever done before. And the harder she tried, the more the memory of his lips pressed to hers filled her thoughts.

What had come over him?

With a groan, Caroline rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head in a failed attempt to smother her blush.

Throwing all the blame on Edward wasn’t right. Every time she tried, her heart sped, and her traitorous mind teased her with the memory of rising up on her toes to kiss him. Perhaps she’d even been the one to start it?

She’d been playful, of course. He’d been ridiculous. No more so than two children playing at tag or make-believe Robin Hood games.

Everything had changed between them, too. Though she’d pretended it hadn’t. They hadn’t worked on the painting again, after finding the pieces they needed in the attic, shuffling about in the dust and boxes in an awkward silence. He’d had family obligations. She’d visited neighbors with the countess.

The time apart ought to have helped things, really.

But then there had been a dinner the night before that Mrs. Barnes had invited Caroline to attend. And she had. She liked Grace Barnes excessively. The woman was gentle, intelligent, and had a dry wit that surprised people around her quite often.

Edward had been there, too.

Grace Barnes was playing matchmaker. To a match that was already made. Or, at least as made as it would ever be. Those circular thoughts muddled Caroline all the more.

“You will not think of him,” she muttered aloud, her voice muffled by the pillow still pressed to her face. “Not today, Caroline.”

She removed the pillow from her head and stared at the growing light between the curtains. The maid would be in soon to wake her, dress her for the day ahead, and share the gossip from the servants’ hall.

They’d become friends, of a sort. Perhaps one could never truly befriend a servant. Caroline wasn’t certain. It was something she had asked her mother in the last letter she sent home, along with descriptions of all she was doing and the people she met.

She’d even written of Edward, in terms as plain and spare as possible.

Even while she’d strived to create a picture with no more than black ink on cream-colored paper, memory of the lightness in her chest and the fluttering sensation that had spread throughout her body brought a smile to her lips. All the things she didn’t tell her family took up more words and lines than what she did tell them.

But she could hardly tell them about the man who made her heart race with both apprehension and excitement. What would her mother think of Caroline’s kiss in the attic? Of Edward as a pretend suitor?

That horrid word, pretend, made her stomach tighten.

Would her mother, her papa, understand why she had come up with the plan to help Mariah? To do what she had? They trusted her. They said that often enough. Perhaps if they knew about Edward, they would trust her less.