Chapter 11
“Miss Bell.”
“Your Grace.” No attempt at a poor curtsey today, which was fine since he didn’t find it necessary, particularly from her.
But there was an edge to her pretty features that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Also, she’d avoided him last night after a sumptuous supper.
Had the kiss they’d shared…unsettled her to such a degree?
Her eyes snapped at him, daring him to speak.
Annoyed. Hugh had no idea why.
“Am I late for our appointment, Miss Bell?” he asked.
She sailed past him, careful to pull back her skirts. “No, Your Grace. You are punctual, as always.” Motioning for him to sit, she picked up a brush, dabbing at the small mounds of paint on the palette she held.
Hugh walked past, prepared to take a seat on the bench, wondering at her sudden anger towards him, but stopped. “What have you done to my…nose, Miss Bell?”
The portrait bore a striking likeness to him, even with tomatoes for cheeks, leaves for hair and lemons for ears but—the nose was deformed. Not at all like a radish. More a carrot that had been sitting in a root cellar for far too long.
She shrugged and pointed at the bench. “I merely paint what I see in my mind, Your Grace. A radish was far too small for such a protuberance; thus, I decided on a carrot.”
Not annoyance. Anger.
Last night, there had been a grand announcement of Todson’s betrothal to a blushing Miss Phipps, which had filled the drawing room with toasts, laughter, and hearty congratulations.
Miss Bell had disappeared from the festivities after refusing to look once in Hugh’s direction.
He’d lost sight of her during the final toast and later overheard Lady Allred mention Miss Bell had retired early, exhausted from painting his portrait.
“A carrot?”
“Yes,” she snapped back. “Lady Lavinia has mentioned how much she enjoys”—she stabbed at the canvas with the brush—“carrots.”
Lavinia likely didn’t even know what a carrot looked like if it wasn’t slivered or cut into tiny cubes. “What has upset you, Miss Bell?” he asked carefully.
“The house party will end tomorrow.” Her words were brittle as he took up his pose. “I have considered what tale to concoct to explain your sudden withdrawal of interest once I return to London. Don’t move your arm.”
Hugh intentionally moved his arm, which earned him a pained sound from her.
“If it is convenient, I think it best for you to call upon me, but only once. After which you will leave, and I will burst into tears. Perhaps fall to the floor in a fit of weeping. I haven’t quite decided.
If you cannot call, possibly you could send a note proclaiming your desire to never see me again.
” Every word was punctuated by a stab of the brush.
“Perhaps say you’ve had a change of heart, in Lady Lavinia’s direction, and thus end our association—”
“Muriel,” Hugh said softly.
“Which everyone will understand, Your”—Stab—“Grace.” Stab. Stab. “Since I am hardly the sort of young lady who—”
“That’s quite enough.” He came to his feet.
“Sit, Your Grace,” she barked. “I’m not finished.”
Hugh ignored her, walking towards the canvas and attempted to pull the brush from her hand. “Muriel,” he said again. How did she not comprehend what had bloomed between them? Or would she continue to ignore their attraction because she wasn’t interested in marriage, even if it was to Hugh?
She tugged at the brush. “Give that back to me, Your Grace. So that I can finish…” She took a shaky breath.
“Your bloody portrait. Then we can end this pretense. I just ask—” Her voice cracked a bit.
“That you allow me to end things in a way that won’t result in my being tossed at—” Her wrist jerked, splattering paint across Hugh’s coat and cheek.
“Give me the brush.” She took a step back, tripping over her skirts, the palette dropping from her fingers.
Hugh immediately wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. “I did as you asked, Muriel. I dissuaded Todson.”
“I’m grateful.”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” he snapped. “Can you not see it? Or has your disdain for having a husband blinded you to all else? Including me.”
“I am intimately aware of you, Your Grace. And I’m not…not interested in marriage.”
Muriel spun about, heel catching on the fallen paint palette.
The palette flew into the air and landed on her bosom before clattering to the floor while her foot caught Hugh’s shin, causing him to lose his balance.
Afraid Muriel would hurt herself, he took a firm hold of her before both landed on the floor of the greenhouse, managing to roll over the paint palette and several brushes.
“Then stop this nonsense,” Hugh growled as he rested half on top of her, hand on her wrist to keep Muriel from stabbing him with the brush she still clasped in her fingers. “For an intelligent woman, you are oddly obtuse.”
“Obtuse?” Her eyes widened at him. “Wait,” she choked. “You meant the kiss? It wasn’t to soothe your ego?”
“No.” Hugh’s brows drew together. “Well, perhaps a little. Women are rarely upset after I kiss them. You are the first.” His mouth brushed softly over hers. “I’m not sure why you’re annoyed. I thought you enjoyed being kissed.”
“I overheard you. With Lavinia. She claimed your interest in me, while chivalrous, was merely to make her jealous. Because of Albert. You did not deny it.”
“Lord Alpert,” he corrected. “And I do deny it. I could not care less about whom Lavinia bestows her charms upon. You, on the other hand, have my complete attention.”
If the situation hadn’t been so important, Hugh would have burst out laughing at the look on Muriel’s face.
“You’re joking.”
“I am not. Do you think I want to be at this bloody house party? When you found me at the inn, my dear Miss Bell, I was about to hop back into my coach and return to London. As it turns out, I followed you here, which in hindsight worked out perfectly because Savorton needed my help.” He shook his head. “That isn’t of import at the moment.”
“You came for me?”
Paint had splattered over her cheeks, like dozens of tiny, radish-colored freckles, and Hugh dabbed at one with the tip of a finger. “Yes.”
His mouth fell on hers, his lips trying to convey to this wonderfully odd creature how much he desired her.
There was a desperation in his kiss, the need for Muriel to acknowledge their feeling for each other, no matter how unlikely it may have come about.
The press of her mouth sent shockwaves down the length of Hugh’s body.
“Kiss me back.”
Muriel sighed and wrapped her arms around Hugh’s neck. “Buxton.”