Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The sun was barely up, the light shawl slipped from Tessa’s shoulder, and the pink on the tip of her paintbrush could not begin to do justice to the pink bleeding across the sky. What a riot of color.
And what a riot of emotion. After yesterday’s conversation with Remmy, she could barely pick through them. They were paints running together on a pallet, barely distinguishable. There was something squirmy and something shivery and something that felt like heat in the cheeks.
He’d watched her all night from a distance as if she were a play he was privileged to view alone and at his leisure.
His gaze had been a touch along her skin during dinner and a tingle up her spine when the gentlemen joined the women afterward.
He’d been lounging against the wall across from her new bedchamber when she’d retired for the night, and she’d ignored him as well as she could.
As if she’d conjured him, he appeared in the distance behind her canvas—trousers, shirt, shoes, nothing else. Shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows and collar flapping open, revealing what would be, she assumed, at a more intimate distance, the bare, muscled planes of his chest.
She picked up her chalk and began to sketch.
And he stomped down the path, bending over here and there, then standing to stomp off elsewhere. He was…
“Are you picking flowers?” she called out.
His head snapped in her direction, then he set his steps toward her until he was close enough for her to, first, see, yes, he was gathering flowers, then to become entirely distracted by that V of exposed chest. Her mouth went dry.
He stopped next to her easel, resting a forearm atop it.
His hand hung loose—the one not holding a wild and messy bouquet—and her fingers itched to keep sketching.
This time an anatomical drawing, not a landscape.
Long, lithe fingers, curled and relaxed, a sinewy forearm, muscled and veiny.
He slapped the poor flowers against his thigh, which was tightly encased in well-fitted trousers. “I am. These are not for you, though. Don’t get ideas.” He waved the wilting blooms at her face.
She batted them away. “I didn’t think they were. And I do not think the morning can be called good. It seems terribly hot to me.”
He grinned. “I do not think so. It’s rather mild right now.”
“You only think that because you’re so… scantily clad. You might as well be only in your smalls. Again.”
He swaggered away from her, winked. “A sight you’re eager to see.”
And she was too confounded to respond. Partly because of that wink. Partly because… he was right. And partly because the sight of his backside walking away made her a bit muddle-headed.
“Good morning!”
Tessa blinked and turned in the opposite direction. Daphne and Nora walked toward her from the house, waving.
“Do you mind if we join you?” Daphne asked.
Nora, who looked just like her older sister, yawned. “Can we walk? Otherwise, I might fall back to sleep.”
“Yes, I can walk.” Tessa looked back at Remmy, still rambling though the garden, snapping up flowers from every bush and tree.
“Excellent.” Nora looped her arm through one of Tessa’s, and Daphne looped through the other. They practically dragged her down a path that stretched between mirror rows of long-branched trees. “I am so glad we encountered you this morning.”
They pulled her farther down the path, glancing back toward Remmy, out in the open, still collecting flowers.
“He does it for mother’s friends. Widows,” Daphne said, still watching him.
“He’s a horrid flirt,” Nora added. “Smiling and complimenting them. They think the pitiful little blooms, still covered in dirt are better than hothouse roses.”
“What other romance do they have?” Daphne asked.
Nora nodded. “It’s what Remmy does.”
Daphne’s gaze heated Tessa’s cheeks. “He simply charms everyone he meets.”
“Ah… yes. He’s always been quite sweet.” The shade was not helping the heat, and Tessa fanned herself with her hand. “I do not remember the Ives being such early risers.”
Nora chuckled. “It happens when you have children. You learn to love the mornings.”
Daphne rested her hand on her round belly. “Tessa… have you ever been in love? Not with the mornings. I mean… with a man?”
“I… I…” Her head was a jumble, her heart a stuttering mess. She meant to say, No I have not had that pleasure, but what she said instead was, “I am not sure what love is.”
A bird sang in the limbs above. It must have stolen all the sound in the world for its song. Nora and Daphne certainly possessed none to respond.
Tessa felt suddenly and entirely naked. “I mean… it is only that my parents aren’t particularly demonstrative.
They have never told me they love me, but they must. It is only, perhaps, I do not understand what love is, and it is not soft looks and comfort and little kisses on the top of the head and showing pride and…
” Oh, she was rambling, but she couldn’t stop.
“It must look more like duty and lectures and expectations. Because if it does not then I can only assume that I… that I am the problem. That I may not be… entirely lovable.” She shook her head.
That wasn’t quite right. “Remmy used to love me. He said so once, and his was what I thought love should be, but he does not feel that way anymore. He offers no brotherly comfort. So it must be me, but—” She bit her tongue.
She wanted to hide. What a silly, humiliating confession to make, but the idea had been hovering on her periphery for days now, waiting, she knew now, for the right moment to jump out and reveal just how pitiful she was.
But Daphne and Nora did not shy away from her, gazes full of sorrow.
They hugged her, wrapped her up tightly in four comforting arms, and she felt… less naked than before, not so small, not so alone.
Thank you, she wanted to whisper, but she couldn’t, not without crying.
“You do know what love is like,” Nora said, patting Tessa’s back. “Remmy has shown you.”
Daphne held Tessa at arm’s length. “We did not think you were aware of his feelings.”
“Of course I am. He’s been a wonderful friend to me.”
“Friend?” Nora queried. “Just a friend?”
There was the heat again, blooming across Tessa’s cheeks and deeper, into her chest. No, he was more than a friend now. Friends did not kiss, did not touch, did not disappear beneath skirts.
“She’s blushing,” Daphne said. “We’ve pushed too far.”
Nora made a humming noise.
Staring up into the trees, Daphne said, “You are right about love. It is soft looks and comfort and head kisses. But being in love is hotter than that.”
“It is frustrating and… wild at times,” Nora added. “At times, decidedly uncomfortable.”
“But it never makes you feel small.”
“And it is not a duty but a privilege.”
“It is in a way like having your dearest friend by your side.”
“And also wanting them naked.”
Daphne laughed. “And that is why you have so very many children, Nora.” To Tessa she said with the softest smile, “You are lovable.”
On the other side of the row of trees, she heard Remmy’s humming, loud and dramatic then soft and soulful then terribly off-key. He barged through the tree line and onto their path, blinking at them.
“A plague of women,” he said. “I’d best retreat.”
“No, do not go.” Daphne pulled Nora back toward the house. “Keep Tessa company while she draws.” They disappeared down the shady lane, leaving Tessa suddenly… shy.
“I’m at your service,” he drawled, his voice a shiver up her spine.
“Would you sit for me?” she asked.
“You want to draw me?”
“Yes.” She might, then, be able to see if he still loved her in some small way. “I should very much like to draw you.”
“Course you would. But be quick.” He waved the flowers. “I have business to attend to.”
They returned to her easel together, and she positioned her chair on the other side, then positioned herself before her canvas as he slouched into the seat. She cleaned her brush and put away her paints and pulled her sketchbook from a leather satchel nearby.
She drew the angle of his nose, the sweep of his hair, and the small cut on his smooth jaw, a razor’s bite.
“You haven’t drawn me in years,” he drawled. “Six to be precise. I’m the best model you’ve ever had, admit it.”
“You’re the wiggliest model, which means you’ve much to be desired in that area. I would not recommend you to other artists.”
“Good,” he said, his gaze still on her and somehow hotter than the air, “I do not particularly desire to sit for any other artist. Just you.”
The tip of her pencil snapped against the paper. “Curses.” She shook her head, took a breath. “Why the Folly?”
“Uncle Dudley willed it to me. I wanted to prove myself, and—”
“And you like the dramatic.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. She drew it.
“What was your favorite thing to do in France?” he asked.
“Shop.”
“Really? I would have guessed art museums.”
“I like pretty things, it seems. Art, clothing, sunsets”—him—“doesn’t matter what.”
“You are a pretty thing.” Her pencil skipped. She cleared her throat. “Do you still prefer summer to winter?”
“Yes. Do you still eat peppermints?”
He nodded. “And you?”
“There’s one in my pocket now.”
“Same Tessa,” he sighed. “And yet… I think you’ve become more you than you used to be.” A bird flew between them, and he swatted a bug off his shoulder then slung one arm over the back of the chair. “Have you seen your sister yet?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help a smile. “I got to see her a few days ago, while you were playing Lady Godiva.”
“I daresay that’s worth missing the spectacle. How is she?”
“Grown tall and lanky. No longer the baby sister I used to know. She’s also so… so very bright.”
“I told Timothy to look out for her.”
“I must know how he reacted.”
“Not well.”
“Then he’s not harboring any unrequited feelings for her. That’s a relief.”
She expected Remmy to laugh, but when he did not, she peeked at him, not as an artist but as a friend, a woman.
His brows were lower than before, and his jaw worked from side to side. “Did she say something to you?”
“She called your brother an arse.”
He laughed. “Young Verity takes after her sister, then.”
Tessa shook her head. “She’s stronger than me. I was scared. She’s been alone and I thought she’d be… rather sad… like I was.”
“Not too sad, I hope. Not too alone.”
He wasn’t talking about Verity.
“No.”
“Tessa…”
“Hmm?” The curl of his hair across his temple wasn’t quite right. She angled the sketchbook differently.
She heard the footsteps across the gravel, but she didn’t look up. Neither did she look up when she saw the tip of his shoes below her sketchbook, near her skirts, felt the heat of his body.
He crouched beside her and lifted her chin. “I want everything to be right between us. I want you to tell me what you want.”
She didn’t know anymore. She wanted her freedom. Her sister’s happiness. Her parents’ love. And she wanted Remmy, but she didn’t quite know how.
And she couldn’t have all of that.
He smoothed a thumb up the line of her jaw. “You’re stewing, sweetheart. I don’t recommend it. Should I kiss you? Will that make it better? You do seem to like kisses.”
She nudged his hand away. “Don’t you play the rake with me, Remmy.”
“I’m not playing the rake,” he said, standing, grinning with wolf’s teeth, “I’m playing the suitor.” He strode for the house. More precisely, he swaggered.
She ran after him, abandoning her sketchbook. “Just what does that mean?”
“I’m going to break my fast. Join me?” The look he gave her made her belly flip.
“Only because I’m hungry.”
“Ha. Very well. After that I’m going to practice on the pianoforte for a few hours. Set up your easel in the music room.”
“I will, but only because the light is good there.”
He turned on his toe and walked backward. “Tonight, after dinner, be my partner for cards?”
“It’s the only way I’m guaranteed to win.”
He spun back around. “Excellent. The entire day planned, you and I. I’ll have to talk with Mother about the seating arrangements at dinner, though.”
“Why?”
He stopped just before the door, and his gaze felt like the most intimate caress. That flip in her belly had become a volley of fireworks.
He winked then disappeared inside.
And only once she’d caught her breath again, did she realize he hadn’t answered.
I’m not playing the rake. I’m playing the suitor.
He didn’t intend… He couldn’t…
But if he did…
She ran after him, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years.