Chapter Twelve
“I’m going to go for a little walk to stretch my legs.” After placing her paintbrush on the small ledge of the easel, Arabella stood up from her stool.
And try as she might, Amelia couldn’t ignore the sly wink that Arabella shot in her direction.
God, that girl was determined. And of course she just had to go and be right about how Benedict would move to save Amelia first if both girls were in trouble.
But what did that silly little experiment prove? Nothing. Not a thing. He had been standing a few inches closer to Amelia, so it only made sense to reach for her first.
Not that she could make sense of him not going to Arabella’s side after he had ensured she was alright.
It was all a bit of a muddled mess.
About as muddled of a mess as the muddy mess on her canvas.
“It’s rare to see a man willing to paint. Even to impress a woman. You must be motivated.”
Benedict straightened his legs and stretched his arms up overhead. He let out a small groan as he twisted to each side. The movements and sounds pinched something in Amelia’s chest.
“You did insist that I be on my best behavior.”
“Well, if I had known my words would carry such weight, I might have given more instructions.”
“The advice you provided was sufficient.”
“Apparently…” she mumbled, for no known reason. Just to get the last word in maybe.
“What’s that?” He aimed his feet in her direction.
“Oh, nothing.” Drat. She didn’t want him coming over here. Nothing would be more embarrassing than for him to see her horrendous watercolor skills.
Ugh. She inwardly groaned. Could she do nothing right in front of this man?
Couldn’t go for a ride in a carriage without needing his help (needing, but not really needing).
Couldn’t go for a ride on a horse that she rode every day without requiring him to rescue her (requiring, but not really requiring).
Couldn’t stand still in one spot with having him save her…
from herself. And now, couldn’t paint a picture without making a fool of herself.
Hopping to her feet, she used her body to block her canvas.
The smirk on his face told her he knew what she was doing.
“What a lovely afternoon to paint though, isn’t it?” he asked in an attempt to deflect her attention.
“Yes. Quite.” Following his gaze, she shifted to the left.
“And such inspiration to take from the nature around us. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Mmm. Yes. Quite.” It was imperative that she stay focused on her mission to deter him, but he was using random conversation to distract her.
“Arabella is quite the accomplished painter.” Without thinking, she dashed forward, snaked her arm through his, and led them both to stand and marvel in front of Arabella’s masterpiece.
Speechless, the two stood arm in arm.
A few minutes passed before he spoke.
“She’s really quite inspiring.” Ostensibly in awe, his voice was low.
It shouldn’t be so but the compliment deflated her just a touch, for she knew how lacking her skills were in this department.
“Yes. I particularly like how she’s captured the leaves here. I can almost see them moving.” And in that small gesture, the one where she pointed to the trees, she knew she had made a dastardly mistake.
Benedict made quick work around her, dodged her flailing grasp, and swung her out of the way.
He took off and plopped himself in front of her work.
“Hmmm,” he uttered, one hand stroking his jaw as the other propped up his elbow.
She waited for censure to strike.
“Yes, I can see what you did with the…erm…brown.” Languidly, his hand stroked his jaw several times before he settled on whatever thought he had been trying to lock down. Then he finally announced, “This might be the nicest muddy puddle I’ve ever seen.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” And that’s when she saw the corner of his lips struggling to stay down. His fingers massaging his jaw in an attempt not to laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh. I know I’m the worst painter here.” Drifting nearer to his canvas, she knew the gig was up.
“Wait!” Benedict’s hand was in the air, as if he could still her steps from a few feet away.
“I don’t know why I bother hiding it—” she gasped.
Or more accurately, she drew in the quickest breath of her life in the shortest span of time possible.
“What? Is this?” One hand covered her mouth while the other shakily extended toward the canvas.
Benedict appeared at her side. Or rather, he angled his body to prevent her from seeing the horror.
“I can explain.”
“Benedict,” she voiced in chastisement. “I think you must.”
“I was painting the three of us.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I thought it would be simple enough.”
“Mmm. No. That painting is not simple. Is that…a third leg?”
His hands covered his face and she thought perhaps she saw a slight blush on the perimeter of his face.
“May I…just…fix this part?” She leaned forward to take a brush at the same time Benedict carelessly dropped his hands from his face.
“No, it’s alright, I was going to throw it—”
“Oops.” Amelia pulled back, eyes wide in horror. “Oh. Benedict. I’m so sorry.”
“You did that on purpose.” His eyes locked on hers. Not in anger. No, in something much more dangerous.
“I didn’t mean to paint your sleeve. I’m sorry. Let me just fix the painting though before anyone else sees this. I’ll just—”
But he snagged her around her waist.
“Don’t touch my artwork, woman.”
She wriggled against the hold he had on her, arms flailing. One with a brush, the other wrapped around his neck.
“I just need to—”
“Don’t do it.”
Her brush made contact, thankfully.
But his fingertips were digging into her sides to produce peals of laughter.
“I told you not to do that, Amelia.”
Between bouts of laughter, she panted, “I had to. I just had to fix it.”
“Drop the brush.” He tickled her again, forcing her to loosen her grip in a vain attempt to still his hands on her ribs.
“Benedict,” she gasped.
From a few feet away, a throat cleared.
“That was a nice little walk,” Arabella said guilelessly, yet eyeing them in a very meaningful way.
Benedict chose that moment to let Amelia slide down his chest. The slow descent made her body tingle as every inch of her burned against him.
They stood too close. His feet caged her in on either side.
It wasn’t much of an escape to merely step back, but for some reason it took her brain a minute to find that escape route.
Arabella was occupying herself by wandering over to Amelia’s painting.
“A muddy puddle is it?” Arabella smiled. “Well done, sister.”
Of course Arabella would know how to mix just the right amount of teasing with praise.
But then she walked over to Benedict’s painting, where the three now stood shoulder to shoulder. “Oh my. What happened?” Her voice cracked.
“—Paint spill!”
“—Rain!”
They said simultaneously. Arabella tipped her head up to look at the clear sky with the bright shining sun. There was that one cloud, though.
“It was an accident,” Amelia confessed.
“Yes. Quite so.” Benedict supported her.
“All of this to show that, unfortunately, I do not have a painting bone in my body. I shall never paint again.” He was looking right at Amelia as he said it, and his face bore the goofiest grin she had ever before seen on a stuck up, arrogant duke. Or really, anyone.
“Never say never,” she said simply and then walked away.
How could one need air when one was already in the outdoors? She didn’t know. But she needed it. Now.