Chapter Twelve The Watercolour Romance #2
"But I do not want the flame, Anne." His voice softened, catching slightly on her name. "The flame is exhausting, requiring constant tending. The flame wants to debate philosophy while walking at a brisk pace over uneven terrain."
Richard reached out, his hand hovering over the table, not quite touching her painting materials.
"I want the person who sits in the quiet room," Richard continued, his eyes tracing the line of her cheekbone, the smudge of paint she had failed to wash from her knuckle.
"I want the person who sees right through my noise and tells me to shut up.
I want the person who fakes a respiratory illness to avoid playing the pianoforte, because it is the most cunning tactical retreat I have ever witnessed. "
Anne's heart, which was usually a well-behaved organ, began to batter hard.
She was acutely aware of how close he was.
She could smell the crisp scent of his soap, the wool of his uniform, and the faint masculine scents of leather and horses.
The smooth, charming soldier was gone. In his place was a man who was vulnerable and sincere.
"Richard," she whispered, her voice trembling. She tried to deploy her dry wit, but her brain was refusing. "You are... you are being ridiculous."
"I know," he agreed instantly, nodding his head. "I am a ridiculous man. But I am trying very hard not to be right now. I am trying to execute a courtship manoeuvre."
"A courtship manoeuvre," Anne repeated, a hysterical laugh building in her throat.
"Yes." Richard sat up straighter, adjusting his collar as if preparing to address a battalion. He cleared his throat again. He looked at her painting of the smug elm tree she had just painted.
"That," Richard declared, pointing at the green blob with conviction, "is the finest tree I have ever seen in my life."
Anne stared at him, then at the painting. The elm tree resembled a diseased cabbage.
"It is a cabbage, Richard," Anne said flatly.
"It is a magnificent cabbage!" Richard pivoted seamlessly, his voice rising. "It is a leafy, robust cabbage! It commands the landscape! It says to the world, 'I am a vegetable of substance, and I shall not be ignored!'"
The laugh broke free. Anne slapped a hand over her mouth, but the sound escaped—a very un-sickly snort of amusement.
Richard stopped, his eyes widening as he watched her laugh. The panic in his demeanour began to melt, replaced by a look of adoration that made Anne's breath hitch.
"And your sheep," Richard rushed on, abandoning all pretence of dignity, riding the wave of her laughter.
"Good God, Anne, your sheep. They are masterpieces.
That one you painted the other day—Boudicca?
I have thought of her constantly. The hostility in her eye!
The clump of thistles! I would follow that sheep into battle against the French Imperial Guard. I would promote her to corporal."
Anne was laughing so hard now that her sides ached.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead on her hand, her shoulders shaking.
She had spent her life surrounded by people who spoke in hushed tones about the exquisite beauty of Rosings Park, about the elegance of her mother's taste, and about the solemn duty of her lineage.
No one had ever, in her twenty-six years, told her that they wanted to promote her angry watercolour sheep to the rank of corporal.
"You are a lunatic," she gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her guard irrevocably dropped. "You are a loud lunatic."
"I am," Richard agreed, sliding his chair a fraction of an inch closer, his knees almost brushing her skirts. His voice dropped to a soft rumble that made the hairs on the back of Anne's neck stand on end. "But I am your lunatic, Anne. If you will have me."
The laughter died in her throat. The air in the parlour became very thick, very warm, and very charged.
He was not joking. The man who could have his pick of any heiress in London, any sparkling diamond of the first water, was looking at her as though she were the only treasure he had ever wanted to claim.
Richard tentatively reached out across the small table, but he did not grab her hand. He offered his own, palm upwards, resting it on the wood beside her paint water, leaving the choice to her. His fingers were trembling slightly.
"I know I am a second son," he said quietly, the raw honesty in his voice stripping away the last of her defences.
"I know I do not have a great estate or ten thousand a year like Darcy.
I know my aunt will likely try to have me hanged from the battlements for insubordination.
But Anne... I have never met a mind like yours.
I have never felt this... this quietness in my own head before.
You ground me. You see right through me, and you do not look away. Please do not look away."
Anne stared at his hand. She thought of her mother's plans. She thought of the chaise longue, the rhubarb tonic, and the endless, stretching years of fading into the wallpaper of Rosings Park while Darcy politely ignored her from the other end of the dining table.
She looked up into Richard's eyes. They were wide, hopeful, and so blue.
For the first time in her life, Anne de Bourgh decided to be brave.
She slowly reached out, and her fingers brushed his.
The contrast was startling—her small, delicate hand against his large, sun-browned one.
As soon as she made contact, Richard exhaled a shaky breath and firmly closed his fingers around hers.
The warmth of his grip shot straight up her arm and lodged in her heart.
"I am immune to your charm, Richard," Anne whispered with a smile.
Richard's face broke into a grin so brilliant that it could have rivalled the sun. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles, directly over the smudge of paint.
"Thank God," he murmured against her skin. "I was running out of poetry."
It was a perfect moment. It was quiet, it was sweet, and it was theirs.
Naturally, it was destroyed.
"ANNE DE BOURGH!"
The double doors of the morning room did not merely open; they were violently thrown wide, rebounding off the walls with the crack of a musket shot.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood in the doorway.
She was wearing a gown of plum silk and a turban that looked as though it had been constructed for the express purpose of intimidating lesser mortals.
She was an imperial Man-of-War preparing to unleash a broadside.
Behind her hovered Mrs Jenkinson, clutching a small glass bottle filled with an opaque pink liquid.
"I have been looking for you for twenty minutes!
" Lady Catherine bellowed, marching into the room with the force of an advancing army.
"Mrs Hodges informed me that you had skipped your morning bouillon!
And what do I find? You are sitting in the direct path of a draught, engaging in this... this vulgar, eye-ruining activity!"
Lady Catherine gestured at the watercolour paints as though they were a lit powder keg.
Richard instantly dropped Anne's hand and shot to his feet, executing a crisp, instinctive military bow. "Aunt! Good morning!"
Lady Catherine ignored him. She marched straight to the table, her eyes fixed on Anne with maternal authority.
Usually, this was the moment Anne's survival instincts would take over.
She would slump her shoulders and let out a rattling cough.
Then she would allow Mrs Jenkinson to drape a woollen shawl over her shoulders and lead her away to the chaise longue, retreating into the invisibility of her supposed illness.
Anne's lungs contracted, preparing for the fake cough.
But before she could make a sound, a large, blue-clad figure stepped into Lady Catherine's path.
Richard did not just stand in the way; he planted his boots shoulder-width apart, squared his frame, and created a human barricade between the Gorgon of Rosings and her daughter.
"Stand aside, Richard," Lady Catherine barked, looking at her nephew as though he were a slow-witted piece of furniture. "Anne is pale. The fumes of the paint are collapsing her left lung! Mrs Jenkinson, bring the rhubarb and senna tonic immediately! We must purge the poison!"