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“My art.”And my estate, and my memories.
“You have only your art?”
“Mostly.”
He was beginning to enjoy the game. She was clearly trying to get some sense of him, of his habits and his hobbies, as well as his social tendencies and connections. For all that he was enjoying frustrating her while still seeming to offer the answers he had agreed to give, he had to wonder what her purpose was. Both with the ruse of being a model—which she clearly wasn’t—and her incessant questions.
She might yet be another young unattached woman seeking a rich husband and an elevation of her status. And there might yet be an angry father or sibling entering the picture. But as the time passed, he felt tentatively hopeful that it might not be the case.
I dearly hope it isnotthe case.He’d not had so much inspiration nor such amusement in a very long time, Jackson’s visits notwithstanding. And he simply could not think of the last time the marble felt so responsive to his tools. Indeed, he had made quite a bit of progress. The stone seemed to chip and flake in exactly the right places, and already he had a passingly good representation of her face shaped out. It was more on the level of a silhouette rather than the lifelike image he desired, but it was farther than he had thought to get.
Hetty was relaxing as well, too fiercely caught up in her questions to be conscious of her modesty. Perhaps her near-impropriety in the subject of her questions was in part engendered by the admittedly immodest state of dress she was in.
In any case, she had relaxed, her shoulders settling into a more natural line, the curves and lines of her arms softening. She had begun unconsciously rearranging the sheet as well, shifting the folds and gathering it in a bit in certain places, to better fasten it and relieve the pressure of her grip. Her stance had softened into more natural lines, tipped slightly back on one foot, sometimes shifting for a more comfortable position.
The result was a much better view of her form and figure. The gathered and tucked sheet settled naturally to show the curve of her hips, the slender waist under a well-shaped bosom, and the long line of her legs, graceful like those of a dancer.
He had thought himself too jaded to appreciate a woman’s figure properly anymore, hardened by war and wearied by the seemingly endless stream of unwanted and unasked for interruptions. But watching Hetty as they spoke, as she continued her questions, he had to admit that, at least for this particular woman, he was wrong.
“Your lordship?”
He blinked. He’d gotten caught up in his thoughts. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you had a favorite dessert.” He vaguely recalled that she had asked about his favorite foods a few moments earlier.
“Yes.”
He considered giving her a more descriptive answer, but he was loath to end the game and even less inclined to concede it.
She seemed to sense his mood, or else she was as invested in continuing their dance of words as he was. “And what might your favorite dessert be?”
“Fruit tarts.” His mother had been fond of them, he recalled. But desserts of any kind were scarce upon the fields of battle, and fruit was far too dear to be spent in delicacies. It had been a rare enough addition to his diet in any case, often a matter of finding wild plantings, which was hardly an easy task under the circumstances of combat, or even those rare times of rest.
“Fruit tarts. Have you a particular fruit you enjoy?”
“Peaches.” And lemons, but those were more expensive. Unless he was feeling particularly indulgent, he generally chose apple, strawberry, or whatever happened to be in season.
He wondered if she would ask another food-related question, but she seemed to be weary of that topic. Indeed, he began to wonder if her questions had finally run dry and was halfway back into the familiar trance-like state of his labor when her voice sounded again.
“Lord Salisbury, you have said you do not care so much for the socializing among the ton…but surely, you do not spend so much time alone?”
“I do.”
“But why would a man such as yourself choose such solitude? Surely, it would be a simple matter to find lodgings to suit your preferences in the city?”
“No.”
“But...why?”
“The quiet.” He stopped and took a deep breath, forcing back the memories that hovered on the edge of his mind.
Her question had no doubt been innocent, and its effect on him entirely unintended. But he had no intention of telling her the full truth of the matter.Because I spent years in the company of men whom I came to know rather too well, both the noble and the despicable.
And he’d watched too many of them fall in battle, held too many comrades as they breathed their last breath, and fell asleep too many nights to the clamor of distant fires, and woke to the sounds of cannon fire and more. He chose solitude because he could not abide the idea of enduring much more noise; he could not abide the thought of life in the city, where it was never quiet, and where there were too many voices to echo with his memories. He knew there was a good chance he would shoot out his own windows were he to be rudely awakened by a passing carriage in the street or the clatter of wagon wheels.
“Do you never wish for company?”
“At times.”
