Page 35

Collins reached out to accept Miss Coover’s cloak and gloves. He tried to take her shoulder bag, but she gripped the strap tighter. The struggle was brief and infinitesimal, but both parties gave their all. Collins retreated without the bag.

Anthony watched him go, dragging a long breath through his nose. Dammit. The butler’s scrutiny of his actions was bound to increase now that the house had been breached by a chit of a girl behaving for all the world as though she had some claim on his attention. When he’d mastered himself, he turned to Miss Coover. The words died on his lips.

No longer swathed in yards of dark wool, she seemed suddenly to burnish the marble hall with warmth and color. Her dress was a soft shade of brown, embroidered with red chrysanthemums, which brought out the coppery tint of her hair. The dress, although artistic as you please, wasn’t—thank God—entirely without structure. A bodice of pleated silk and a heavy sash at the waist kept him from seeing the natural curves of her belly and hips through the fabric.

The footmen were looking, too, from the corners of their eyes.

His scowl matched hers as he propelled her into the sitting room.

“Miss Coover,” he announced. “My painting teacher.”

He felt her startled twitch, the brush of her hip against his thigh.

“Allow me to present Mr. Yardley. And this is his daughter, Miss Yardley.”

Lavinia gawked at Miss Coover as she rose in greeting.

Yardley’s raised eyebrows were all for Anthony.

“Is this a new passion?” he asked Anthony after he’d taken Miss Coover’s hand.

“Pardon?” Anthony inched sideways, putting more distance between himself and Miss Coover, whose face was in the process of undermining his attempt to salvage the situation she’d created. Her eyes flicked from one person to the next, scrunched brows communicating her confusion.

Or maybe she’d caught a chill. The tip of her nose was bright pink. Her teeth chattered lightly until she gritted them. Whatever rictus contorted her features, it certainly didn’t pass as a smile.

He’d like to station her beneath the eves of the house, under a waterspout, and let nature take its course.

“I didn’t know you plied the brush.” Yardley smiled with open curiosity.

Anthony smiled back. “Oh, well. Yes, I’ve a mind to try my hand at painting horses.”

Lavinia resettled herself on the sofa, rolling her eyes. She made no move to pour out tea for the new visitor.

“Unless you mean painting on the horses, I don’t believe you.” She looked at Miss Coover. “He can’t possibly make a picture of horses.”

Anthony’s smile slipped. Lavinia saw competition everywhere and did not tolerate it kindly.

Miss Coover pushed a wet lock of hair behind her ear, a wary gesture.

Wariness at such a late stage struck Anthony as nearly obscene.

“I suppose he can, if he applies himself,” said Miss Coover slowly. “Just horses?” she asked Anthony. “Or do you mean to paint foxhunts and steeplechases? Polo perhaps?”

“Just horses,” said Anthony. “Please, have a seat.”

“That simplifies things,” said Miss Coover. Her eyes locked on his.

Could the others feel the air snap between them?

She set down her bag and perched on the sofa. Lavinia smiled a closed-lipped smile and edged away.

There was a communicable quality to Miss Coover’s dampness. Her bag appeared as muddy and battered as her shoes.

Anthony returned to his chair, trying to think of what to say. At least Miss Coover hadn’t contradicted him. He’d half expected a torrent of abuse.

When she’d exited the sculpture gallery, right after he told her he’d destroyed her picture, she’d looked as though he’d pulled her heart out with a rusty pair of fire tongs.

She did not think of him fondly. Her sketches had arrived addressed to The Philistine. Luckily, he had taken to having Humphreys lie in wait for the letter carriers and pluck out the important envelopes.