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“I am workin’, miss. I’m a gardener, and these here hedges need some attention.”
Isleen finally sneaked a look over her shoulder to see the man speaking with her maid. He wasn’t a large fellow, and looked young. Perhaps he had spotted Darrie and thought he would take the chance to flirt with a pretty girl. Approaching when the maid was with her mistress was quite bold, though.
She faced forward again. She peered over the top of her easel and froze.
Lord Farleigh was coming down the sloping green grass toward her, dressed for the weather, walking stick in hand, and frowning into the sunshine.
Botheration.
She hadn’t thought he’d come outside, even if he saw her through one of the castle’s many windows. Yet here he came, marching like a field marshal ready to do battle.
She ducked her head and painted faster, as though that might somehow defend her from what he might say next.
He stopped directly beside her. “Miss Frost.”
“My lord,” she said, narrowing her eyes and leaning closer to her painting, pretending to work on a minute detail atop one of the towers. It did have an exceptional stained glass window she wouldn’t mind seeing up close. “It cannot be time to visit Lambshorpe already.”
“Not quite yet, no.” He didn’t sound affronted. But then he asked, “Are you avoiding me?”
“If I were, I would be a fool to admit it.” She still didn’t look at him.
He sighed heavily and turned to face the opposite direction from her. “You there. Whorton, isn’t it? You are the stable master’s son.”
“Aye, my lord.” The gardener sounded sulky, even though Simon had addressed him civilly. Ah, perhaps he knew he had mis-stepped in coming so close to a guest. It impressed her that Simon knew the man’s surname at all.
“I’m told the gardeners are all at work at the pond today, getting it ready for the first freeze.”
“Aye, my lord. I was just headed there. Good day.”
That explained the sulkiness. He had been caught where he shouldn’t be. But who had bothered to tell the duke’s son what the gardeners were up to? She hadn’t imagined a family as highly placed as the duke’s would bother to know someone so lowly as a gardener.
“And you must be Miss Frost’s maid.” Simon’s tone completely changed when addressing Darrie. He sounded much kinder. “How good of you to accompany your mistress out into the cold. What is your name?”
“Darrie, your lordship.” She saw Darrie bob a curtsy, then twist her gloved hands together. But the maid appeared otherwise at ease.
“Darrie, that is a charming name. You know, Darrie, I had always thought using watercolors outdoors was more of a summer pursuit than an autumn undertaking.”
Isleen winced and dropped her brush into the little pot of water she had put on the stone wall she stood beside. “Darrie, would you be so kind as to take my things inside? I think I am finished for the day.”
“I will, miss.” Darrie curtsied, darted a quick look at Simon, then winked at Isleen.
Oh dear. Her maid had entirely the wrong idea about Simon Dinard if she was winking when he couldn’t see. Isleen would correct any false assumptions the moment they were alone in her quarters.
Simon remained standing still, eyes on the gardens stretching out and down the hill of the castle in a gentle slope. Isleen stood beside him, silent and a touch uncomfortable. Only when she heard Darrie’s steps leading away did she speak.
She tried to sound bold. Airy. Careless. Anything but nervous. “No purple waistcoat today, my lord? What a pity. The color suits you so.”
“Did you think so?” The question sounded light. Perhaps even amused. She dared look at him from the corner of her eye, and she caught the edge of his smile.
Asmile. Not a smirk, or scowl, or wince. Just as she had thought before, his looks only improved when his lips turned upward. What else could anyone expect, given the handsomeness of his parents? Some things truly weren’t fair.
She caught him looking back at her, his smile curving higher, and she hurried to avert her gaze to a distant treetop. “Perhaps a dark blue would be more favorable.”
“Royal blue is my favorite color.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.”
