Page 121 of Courting the Wrong Duke

Rosalind’s gaze returned to the canvas.

“The freedom.”

“The freedom,” he agreed.

That was reason enough.

At least, it was the reason he could comfortably give her.

He did not mention that the painting now carried another memory for him entirely. He could no longer look at that sweep of countryside without remembering Rosalind standing beside him at the exhibition, nor the accidental brush of her fingers against his.

Apparently his mother was no longer the only person who had become sentimental about a bit of peach-colored sky.

Rosalind’s gaze remained upon the painted sky. “The color is familiar.”

William glanced at her. “Is it?”

She nodded thoughtfully, studying the soft wash of peach and gold. “It reminds me of your hair.”

That caught him entirely unprepared. “My hair?”

“In the afternoon light,” she explained, turning toward him with amusement already gathering in her expression. “That day we met for tea. The sun made it look almost this exact shade.”

William looked from her to the painting and laughed. “I confess that may be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“Then that makes it considerably worse.”

Her smile widened. “I merely observed that your hair looked peach-gold.”

“Peach-gold,” he repeated, wondering when, precisely, she had spent enough time looking at his hair to determine such a thing.

The thought pleased him far more than it ought to. “I shall have to remember that,” he said.

“For what purpose?”

“The next time we are somewhere sufficiently crowded for people to overhear us. Such detailed observations would do wonders for convincing London of your devotion.”

Rosalind laughed softly. “You are becoming far too dedicated to this performance.”

“I take my responsibilities seriously.” William leaned one shoulder against the wall, smiling at her. “Which reminds me, have you finished your manual yet?”

Recognition sparked in her eyes. “Not quite. I fear further research is required.”

“An alarming prospect.”

“It is proving more complicated than anticipated. There are certain things that simply refuse to fit the established rules.”

William’s amusement softened into curiosity. “Such as?”

For a moment, she did not answer. Her attention returned to the painting, lingering upon the solitary path and the enormous sweep of peach-colored sky above it.

“A gentleman reclaiming a painting from an exhibition because he finally understands why his mother loves it.”

Something in William went unexpectedly still.

Rosalind glanced at him again, and the teasing in her expression had softened.