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“Not even a little bit,” he said lazily. “My sister is the artist.”
He fell silent and I looked up from my drawing. His voice had turned soft, and almost protective. As if he’d do anything to keep her safe.
“This is where you tell me all about her,” I said, mixing paints on a spare sheet.
“Is it?”
I waited, quite used to his diversionary tactics, and arched a brow.
He laughed. “Her name is Arabella, you curious fiend.”
My brow remained exactly in place.
“She’s a wonderful person. Endlessly curious, like you,” Whit said,rolling his eyes. “And we’re very close. She loves her watercolors. I suspect she’d rather remain in the country to paint than have a season in London.”
“I’ve heard of those.” I paused. “The dancing sounds fun.”
“They’re absolutely not. Starchy clothing, deplorable small talk, and determined mothers foisting their equally determined offspring onto every known eligible bachelor in the country. And there is nothing interesting about the quadrille.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds like a section of meat.” At his confused expression, I added, “In Argentina, my favorite cut of meat is the cuadril.”
“Oh, well in England, a quadrille is a horrifyingly boring dance.”
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never danced it.”
“I’d rather have the steak. You can trust my word.”
That brought me up short. “No, I can’t.”
He lowered his lashes and gave me an inscrutable look. “Smart girl.”
The air between us caught, as if on an electrical current that zipped between our breaths. His eyes lowered to my mouth. Warmth spread to my cheeks. I was seized with a desire to tip my chin upward, my lips closer to his. But I stayed rooted, the blood roaring in my ears. Whit wrenched his face away, the line of his jaw tightening.
The moment passed, disappointment crashing against me like a battering ram. Whitford Hayes was a terrible, preposterous idea. He worked for my uncle. He knew more about my parents, truths he wouldn’t share. He drank too much and probably flirted with every woman he met. It was hard to feel special if I was just a drop in the bucket.
But he had saved my life. Cared to make sure if I was comfortable. Took my side in arguments with my uncle.
Whit shifted away, closing himself off.
“I suppose,” I began, wanting to draw him into conversation. I lifted my brush and began painting the top of one of the columns a lush, soft green that reminded me of the sea. “You are such abachelorEnglish mothers are constantly throwing their daughters at, hoping for an engagement.”
Whit regarded me for a beat without speaking. Then he twisted hismouth in distaste. “I used the wordeligible,remember? You are confusing my oldest brother with me.”
“You also have a brother.”
“Correct.” His expression twisted into one of exasperation. “Porter.”
“So, no young ladies for you?” I pressed.
“Has anyone told you that you’re unspeakably irritating?”
“They’ve said I’m unspeakably curious.”
He laughed. “All right, Olivera. I was a cadet by the age of fifteen, my commission purchased practically when I was still in the nursery. I haven’t seen an Englishwoman in years.” He lifted his gaze from my work in order to meet mine. “And you? Do you have a beau courting you?”
“Not really, but I suppose thereissomeone if I want there to be.”
Whit stiffened, and his lips pinched slightly. An interesting reaction that both thrilled and terrified me.
