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Finally she had it smooth. Her arms ached. Plaiting it seemed like too much trouble. She reached for the beaker of wine, found it empty and refilled it. As though she had called to him, Theo picked the beaker off his chest, sat up and pushed the hat back out of his eyes. ‘Finished?’
‘I have to plait it yet.’ The late afternoon sun was warm and the burgundy, unaccustomed at this hour, ran heavy in her veins. Sleep seemed tempting; Elinor straightened her spine and tipped the unfinished half of her wine out on the grass.
‘I’ll do that.’ Theo was behind her before she could protest, the weight of her hair lifting to lie heavy in his hands. ‘Give me the comb.’
He seemed to know what he was doing. Elinor reached up and passed the comb back over her shoulder, then wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and rested her forehead on them. It was curiously soothing, the sweep of the comb through her hair from crown to almost her waist. Soothing to sit there in the warmth with the birds chattering and the river splashing and her own pulse beating…
Chapter Four
‘Time to go.’
‘Mmpff?’ Elinor woke up with a start to find the shadows lengthening over the meadows and Theo on his feet, stretching hugely. ‘I’ve been asleep?’
‘For about half an hour. Me too.’
As she moved her head, the weight of her plait swung across her shoulders and curls tickled her cheeks. ‘What have you done to my hair?’ Reaching up, she found he had braided it, not from the nape, but elaborately all the way down from the crown, leaving wisps and curls around her forehead and cheeks.
‘Plaited it. Isn’t it right? I did it like I would a horse’s tail.’ Elinor eyed him, unsure whether this was the truth or whether she had just been given some other woman’s hairstyle.
‘Thank you,’ she said at last, settling for brief courtesy and wishing she had a mirror to check it in. She ran a cautious hand over her head, half-expecting to find he had woven in buttercups while he was at it.
Theo was moving about now, stooping to pick up the wine bottle and the beakers, fastening the satchel. He moved beautifully, Elinor realised, the image of his body elongated in that luxurious stretch proving hard to dislodge from her mind. Long legs, long back tapering from broad shoulders to narrow hips—all those markers of perfect classical proportion it was acceptable for a lady to admire, provided they were depicted in chaste white marble.
She seemed to have spent the past few months surrounded by men acknowledged to be the best looking in society—some of them her cousins, one Bel’s new husband—and she could honestly say she had felt not the faintest stirring of interest in anything other than their conversation. Why she was noticing now that Theo’s boots clung to his muscular calves in quite that way was a mystery. It was not as though he was good looking.
Elinor got to her feet, brushed off her skirts and catalogued all the ways in which he was not good looking. His nose, though large and masculine, was undistinguished. His jaw line was strong, but his chin had the suspicion of a dimple which somewhat diminished its authority. His eyebrows were much darker than his hair and he showed no tendency to raise one in an elegant manner. His mouth was wide and mobile and he seemed more prone to cheerful grins than smoothly sophisticated smiles. Yes, she could quite see why Cousin Theo would not fit in to London society.
He was ducking under the treacherous brambles again, holding them up for her with one hand, the other outstretched. Elinor took it, crouched lower and was safely through. Somehow her hand remained in his as they turned back along the path towards St Père and somehow it felt remarkably normal to have those warm fingers wrapped companionably around hers.
‘I will come at ten tomorrow and see if Aunt Louisa would like to call on the Count.’
‘It is her writing day tomorrow, it may not be convenient. She will probably wish to make it the day after.’ And tomorrow would be a free day for Elinor, unless she was required to redraw her basilica sketches. If Theo was not going to make his call…
‘It is, however, the day on which I am calling on him, so I am afraid your dear mama will just have to fit in with someone else’s convenience for once.’ She blinked, startled by the thread of steel in Theo’s tone. ‘I will come in with you when we get back, if you would prefer not to pass on that message.’
‘No, no, please do not trouble yourself. I will make sure she understands that any other day would not be possible.’ His chin, elusive dimple or not, suddenly looked really rather determined. Elinor shrank from the thought of finding herself in the middle of a confrontation between her mother and Theo.
‘Does she bully you?’
‘No. Not at all.’ He made no response to that. Elinor walked in silence, well aware that her mother did not bully her for the simple reason she never had any occasion to stand up to her. Given that she was on the shelf, and the alternative ways of life were so unappealing, she simply went along with whatever Mama wanted. What would happen if she ever did find herself in opposition?
‘We are nearly back; you had best put on your bonnet again.’ Theo fished another lace from his satchel and gathered her prickly roses into a bunch so she could tie on the flat straw hat again.
&n
bsp; ‘That,’ he remarked, flipping the brim, ‘suits you. We will save it from the bonfire.’
‘What bonfire?’
‘The one for your gowns and any other garment you possess that is sludge coloured.’
‘You are just as much a bully as Mama,’ Elinor remarked, climbing into the gig and waving away his offer of the reins.
‘Am I?’ Theo’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Say no to me, then, and see what happens.’
‘Very well. I will not burn my old gowns.’
‘What will you do with them?’
