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The mist was just starting to burn away, giving the water and surrounding grass a mysterious, otherworldly look, a mood she wanted to capture. Peering into the hazy morning mist, Theo tried to make out the cattails at the edge of the pond.
She squinted into the mist as a goose honked. Somewhere.
Theo refused to wear her spectacles when out in public, and this morning was no exception. Blythe still didn’t know how vision-impaired she was, and Theo had no intention of him finding out. Shehadworn them when she sketched out the pond the other day, butonlybecause Olivia had been beside her, promising to alert Theo if anyone of their acquaintance came by.
Settling herself on the blanket, Theo opened the lid and took out the easel, setting the small canvas against it. The palette was cleverly tucked away inside the lid of the box, and she placed it in front of her. Looking at the array of colors, each securely tucked in small glass tubes, filled Theo with a sort of giddy joy. Smoky greys. Pale pinks. Soft creams.
She loved,loved, colors. And pencils. Chalk. Pastels. All of it.
The tiny containers holding the paints were so clever. A fairly recent invention by Winsor and Newton, where Theo purchased most of her supplies. She supposed her adoration of the glass syringes was what had led her to decide not to use watercolors for this painting.
Carefully, she selected a glass tube, placing just a dab of cream—Flemish White,her mind whispered—on the palette. Next, a tiny drop ofCadmium Yellowwhich she swirled on the tip of her brush while watching the sun make its way above the horizon, bathing the pond with early morning light. Working quickly to capture the exact right hue, she hummed to herself, pausing only to squint at something she couldn’t see clearly, which was nearly everything. She told herself the details weren’t important. This painting was more about color.
“That’s not right.”
Startled, Theo’s brush slashed across the canvas.
Drat.
“You’ve forgotten the green tinge to the water,” the gravelly voice continued, acting as if he had any idea about art, which Theo sincerely doubted. “Pond scum.”
Dear God.Where had he come from? Only moments ago, Theo had been hoping she wouldn’t see him ever again. “Lord Haven, what an unexpected pleasure.”
“Isn’t it?” Haven’s voice always sounded as if he’d just woken up, every word sounding utterly decadent. “A pleasure, I mean.”
Theo turned to view him, noting the lovely coat he wore, the color of freshly ground nutmeg. Obviously new. She stifled the urge to flick paint in his direction. Paint was much more difficult to get out of a coat than ratafia.
“Can you even see what you’re painting?” He gave her an innocent look, the mossy green orbs of his eyes sparkling in the early morning light. “I’m terrified you might poke yourself in the eye with your brush or miss the canvas and ruin your dress, which is very pretty, by the way.”
Haven, despite his other faults, did have amazing eyes. She’d give him that. The color of moss clinging to river rock. Close toMitis Green, but a shade darker.
“I can see the pond perfectly well, my lord. It’s quite large.”
“So are servants. Candlesticks.Me. You’ve run into all of those with regularity, though I will admit, I did enjoy it when you stumbled my way.”
Theo had hoped Haven would never, ever mentionTheodosia’s Unfortunate Incident, as she had labeled the kiss in her mind, but she should have known better. As grateful as Theo was that he’d never told anyone else,especiallyBlythe, it still didn’t leave Theo feeling charitable toward him.
Pretending to misunderstand, she said, “I’ve apologized several times for spilling ratafia on your coat, my lord.”
“You have,” he agreed. Haven’s hair, much too long for a proper gentleman, looked like it had been cut by poorly sharpened scissors. The color of the strands, which Theo likened toBurntUmber, buffeted gently against his cheek. Strong jaw.Gloriouscheekbones, like the bold slash of a knife across his face. Patrician nose sporting that tiny bump. The scar in the shape of a half-moon on his chin. Haven had none of Blythe’s perfectly curated attractiveness nor an ounce of his friend’s charm.
Theo’s pulse fluttered madly at his presence, though she willed it not to.
Her fingers itched to paint him with all his delicious hollows and hues. But Theo would never ask him to sit for her. Haven was to be avoided.Especiallyby Theo. He needed to move along before anyone saw them together.
“Don’t let me keep you, Lord Haven. I’m sure you’d like to be on your way.” She turned back to the canvas and lifted her brush, hoping he would take the hint. “Good morning.”
Haven ignored her less-than-subtle suggestion to leave, plopping down next to her on the blanket without asking permission. He studied her artist kit and the tiny vials of paint contained within. A forefinger trailed over the rosewood box, pausing only to trace her initials.
“TLB. What does the L stand for?”
She caught a whiff of spice and attempted to slide away, trying to put some distance between them.
“Louise. My paternal grandmother’s name,” she answered.
Haven traced the edges of the rosewood box holding her supplies, his fingers gliding over the letters of her name. Almost a caress. The same way his fingers had skimmed the length of her back when he’d kissed her. Inappropriate things began to fill Theo’s mind.Nakedthings. Lips and mouths. Moans and whispers. All of them belonging to Haven.
The paintbrush she clutched in her fingers wobbled. She quickly pulled it from the canvas lest she ruin what little work she’d already done.
