Chapter Sixteen
If only he hadn’t praised her drawing of Tresham Hall! Emma was certain she wouldn’t feel quite so vulnerable had he not brought up her beloved home. Now all she could do was wring her hands, fight the tears, and battle to speak around the huge lump in her throat.
“I’ve had bad news from home this morning. My father’s taken ill, and my family’s in increasing difficulties.”
“Oh, then you should go home to be with them! I’ll tell Charles to arrange it.”
He was right—she was needed at home. If Lord Tidworth could convince the Keanes to let her go for a visit, she’d forgive him anything. Maybe even begin to like him…a little.
Then she remembered. “But we’re going to Brighton, in hopes of reducing Willie’s cough.”
The viscount paused, drumming his fingers silently on his thigh. “A bit early in the year, but yes, I can see it might do him good.”
Emma was instantly arrested by the sight of his firm, strong hand with slight bruising on the knuckles. Hadn’t he said something once about boxing? She wondered what he’d been hitting lately—sparring with Gentleman Jackson? Practicing with a punching bag? Maybe he imagined her face every time he landed a blow. Or that of the woman who’d jilted him.
She couldn’t really blame him.
“I can’t see that you need to accompany Willie,” the viscount was saying. “He has his nurse, and if he’s poorly, he’ll be in no state for lessons. Even if he’s well, he’ll be too excited to concentrate on his studies because he’ll just want to go back to the beach. You shall go home, Emma. Don’t worry if Charles cuts up rough about it—I’ll deal with him, and I’ll intercede with his parents on your behalf, if needed. I’ll purchase your ticket for the stagecoach, and we’ll arrange everything as soon as the Keanes return.”
It was a handsome gesture—not at all what she’d expected from Tidworth. “You’re too kind,” she said. “But please don’t put yourself out for me.”
“It’s the least I can do. Now, how shall we occupy ourselves until Charles has recovered his temper? Shall we talk about art, perhaps? I hear the Elgin marbles at the British Museum are well worth a visit. Or if drawing is a topic you’re more comfortable with, we could discuss the relative merits of Blake and Turner. Or maybe you’d rather we just strolled and didn’t converse, at all?”
“I— Well, I…”
She couldn’t help being tongue-tied. Though the distance between herself and Tidworth was quite proper, she felt his presence as strongly as if he were bonded to her. It was a most peculiar sensation. She should retreat at once.
Only, there was nowhere she could retreat to, without being really obvious. Whatever it was about him that affected her, she’d no intention of making him aware of it.
“I know,” he said cheerfully. “We could do some sketching. When you see my paltry efforts, your melancholy will melt away.”
She laughed softly. Success!
He took up her sketchbook and pencil where they lay forgotten on the seat between them, licked the tip of the pencil in a very businesslike manner and, arranging the sketchpad on his knee, angled himself toward her.
“You are to be my model,” he said. “I beg you not to move a muscle, or my meager offering will be no better than one of young William’s stick figures.”
Her heart buoyed. No one had ever offered to sketch her before—not even Elias, and he’d tried to flatter her in any way he could think of. Even if the viscount made her look like Frankenstein’s monster, she would love that he’d tried.
Clasping her hands in her lap and gazing across toward the flowering hawthorn bushes between the pond and the field beyond, she attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts. Especially unpleasant ones about the sale of her family home.
The garden fell silent. There seemed to be no wind at all, no movement, no sensation other than the feel of Lord Tidworth’s gaze upon her face, noting every feature with such intensity it felt like a caress.
He gazed at her, he looked down at the book, he sketched, then looked up again—she could just see his movements from the corner of her eye. As she surreptitiously followed the deft strokes of his pencil, her breathing became more shallow, and her heartbeat more rapid.
No man had ever looked at her like this—as if he saw right through her flesh and into the very depths of her soul. She remained still, enclosed in the private universe that contained only herself and Tidworth, whose every action—good or bad—seemed to affect her on a deeper level than anyone else’s ever had. Which was extremely disturbing, because she’d sworn she would never again be taken in by the charms of a divinely handsome man.
Just like Elias, those men whom God had favored with looks that made women fall at their feet, became shallow and vain. The more conquests they made, the less they cared for any woman, it seemed. Even after having secured a good woman for her status, her fortune, and her ability to bear healthy children, such a man was liable to get bored and take a mistress.
Which meant that gentlemen like Viscount Tidworth needed to be kept at arm’s length. If not even farther away.
And yet, as he continued to draw her, she realized she was leaning toward him, pulled as if by an invisible cord or a magnetic force issuing from his body.
“Miss Hibbert!”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t fall asleep on me! I’m nearly done. I’m just trying to define your hair, to get the shine exactly right.”
He scratched away at the paper a few moments more, then said, “There. Done. But dare I show it to you?”
“Of course you must!” she exclaimed, coming back down to earth again. “Or what would be the reason for drawing it?”
“You might hate it. Or think it a caricature.”
“I won’t know until I see it, my lord.”
“No, I think I’d better keep it to myself.” He ripped the page smartly out of the sketchbook and pressed it, image inward, against his chest. “Perhaps you should go and see how your charges are faring. When all goes quiet is the most dangerous moment.”
Who’d have thought this man could be such a tease? “You can’t do that!” she protested. “You must show it to me.”
She put out a hand for it, but he flicked the drawing out of her reach. When she grabbed for the paper again, he stuffed it behind his back and sat there smirking at her.
She was almost breast to chest with him now—if she leaned over any farther, she’d tumble into his lap.
Her throat went dry, and she felt again that tug of recognition, that feeling of need, of bodily excitement, that he aroused in her. For a moment she wondered if he felt it, too, for he gazed soberly back at her, all humor suspended.
As her eyes held his, he raised the paper and interposed it between their faces. She edged back on the seat to see it better. And let out a slow breath. “Remarkable.”
He lowered his hand. “I’m assuming that’s a compliment,” he said with a lopsided grin.
“Yes, in all seriousness, it’s quite excellent.”
“I’ve surprised you—you didn’t expect me to have any skill.”
“I had no preconceptions either way. I am genuinely impressed.” Looking at his hands, she mused on the fact that fingers that had grasped a saber, fired a pistol, and punched adversaries in the boxing ring, could still make so fine a line, produce so poignant a portrait.
“Praise accepted. Now, I’d better find Charles, smooth his ruffled feathers, and see about getting you your release papers. Dare I hope you and I have now buried the hatchet?”
As one, they got to their feet, shook hands, and exchanged smiles. After a brief hesitation, Lord Tidworth released her and headed back toward the hall.
Transfixed, she watched his lithe figure as he strode away, then collapsed back onto the seat, sending her drawing things flying. While she couldn’t account for him, she’d felt again that extraordinary pulse of energy when they touched. It had rampaged through her body and stolen her breath. It took several long minutes before she felt fully composed again, and when she did, she hunted for the portrait, to admire it some more.
It wasn’t there. He must have taken it with him.
Whatever for?
Perhaps, she thought, her cheeks warming, he found her comely. Or he was just proud of his handiwork and wanted to show it to others.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It ought really to be their secret, or people would suppose…they’d suppose…well, they might imagine he admired her in some way. Which was ridiculous. He’d made his feelings about her perfectly clear. He’d apologized only because he was truly a gentleman. Not because he actually wished to be friends with her. The very idea.
Chewing at her lip, she fanned herself with her sketchbook and tried to marshal her foolish thoughts.
And concluded that perhaps James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, wasn’t a disobliging, ill-mannered boor, after all.
In fact, she had almost made up her mind to quite like him.
Until later that night. When she heard Miss Philippa’s voice drifting out from one of the bedrooms reserved for overnight guests.
The bedroom assigned to Viscount Tidworth.