had the effect of diverting him from whatever assessing comment he meant to make. Instead, Braden smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Very nice, Miss Calder. I suppose you think susceptibility to flattery is a family trait? But having observed your technique with my sister, I am wise to your ways. You will not persuade me that my sister's well-being depends more on my finishing a painting than straightening out her finances. No, no!" He raised his hand, laughing. "Don't volunteer to do it for me. We have presumed on you enough already."
Was he implying that she took too much on herself, pushed to help where she wasn't needed? Her aid had never been turned down before. In fact, most recipients were all too happy to take advantage of her talents. But Lord Braden was probably used to minding his own affairs and expected others to mind theirs. His reluctance to join her little lunch, his challenging comment about her number of suitors—perhaps he felt pursued and was warning her off.
In the moment or two it took to reach this supposition, Charity had climbed nimbly in beside Jem. She just wanted to be gone from this difficult man who regarded her so coolly out of those burning eyes, who suspected motives she didn't quite have, who let her have only tantalizing glimpses of his thoughts. Even as she welcomed her own painful disorientation—surely it indicated intense emotion!—she felt cheated. She had always known that falling in love would hurt. But she had not reckoned that it would be humiliating, too.
Rejection was new to her. So she retreated into a familiar role, holding her hand out to him with a smile. "It was a lovely lunch. Thank you. Tell Anna I hope she will let me return her hospitality very soon."
"But you provided the lunch."
She withdrew her hand from his and nodded to Jem, who urged the horse on before Lord Braden could complete his objection.
Chapter Six
Steadying his hand with a long-held breath, Tristan etched a fine black line along the charred mainmast. Then quickly, before he ruined it, he stepped back from the ship. Tomorrow he would begin filling in the background that he had so far neglected.
He emerged from his creative trance to the sounds of a household in operation. His studio, opening onto the long south balcony, was entirely too noisy on such a warm day, when every window in the house was open to the light breeze. But for a change the noise was pleasant. The new gardener below whistled a popular tune in counterpoint to the birdsongs; the foreman borrowed from Calder shouted instructions to his workers in a nearby field. A maid sang to herself in the hallway. The boys, taking their lessons on the terrace below, chanted their spelling words vigorously, Mrs. Cameron murmuring praise occasionally, corrections more frequently.
And Tristan thought if he listened hard enough he could hear his sister in the nearby drawing room, chatting with a few church ladies as they sewed rag dolls for the Midsummer prize booth. The great day was less than three weeks away, and Anna was sewing rag dolls as if her life depended on it.
But one voice he didn't hear—the cheerful one belonging to the girl who had organized all this humming activity. Today Charity's voice was silent. In the past week, Tristan had heard her brisk instructions to a new downstairs maid, her confidential whisper to the gossip-hungry Anna, even a trace of her laughter amidst the boys' gleeful shouts.
Never, however, did he hear a friendly greeting directed his way or a sudden observation that made him suspect she had read his mind. He never got close enough to her for that. Her visits always coincided with the early afternoon hours, when the light was so white and gold it seemed almost Italian, when Tristan surrendered himself to painting.
In fact, her visits were so perfectly timed that Tristan suspected she was avoiding him. And now, as he soaked his brushes and scrubbed his hands, he thought he knew why.
He had offended her
Was he implying that she took too much on herself, pushed to help where she wasn't needed? Her aid had never been turned down before. In fact, most recipients were all too happy to take advantage of her talents. But Lord Braden was probably used to minding his own affairs and expected others to mind theirs. His reluctance to join her little lunch, his challenging comment about her number of suitors—perhaps he felt pursued and was warning her off.
In the moment or two it took to reach this supposition, Charity had climbed nimbly in beside Jem. She just wanted to be gone from this difficult man who regarded her so coolly out of those burning eyes, who suspected motives she didn't quite have, who let her have only tantalizing glimpses of his thoughts. Even as she welcomed her own painful disorientation—surely it indicated intense emotion!—she felt cheated. She had always known that falling in love would hurt. But she had not reckoned that it would be humiliating, too.
Rejection was new to her. So she retreated into a familiar role, holding her hand out to him with a smile. "It was a lovely lunch. Thank you. Tell Anna I hope she will let me return her hospitality very soon."
"But you provided the lunch."
She withdrew her hand from his and nodded to Jem, who urged the horse on before Lord Braden could complete his objection.
Chapter Six
Steadying his hand with a long-held breath, Tristan etched a fine black line along the charred mainmast. Then quickly, before he ruined it, he stepped back from the ship. Tomorrow he would begin filling in the background that he had so far neglected.
He emerged from his creative trance to the sounds of a household in operation. His studio, opening onto the long south balcony, was entirely too noisy on such a warm day, when every window in the house was open to the light breeze. But for a change the noise was pleasant. The new gardener below whistled a popular tune in counterpoint to the birdsongs; the foreman borrowed from Calder shouted instructions to his workers in a nearby field. A maid sang to herself in the hallway. The boys, taking their lessons on the terrace below, chanted their spelling words vigorously, Mrs. Cameron murmuring praise occasionally, corrections more frequently.
And Tristan thought if he listened hard enough he could hear his sister in the nearby drawing room, chatting with a few church ladies as they sewed rag dolls for the Midsummer prize booth. The great day was less than three weeks away, and Anna was sewing rag dolls as if her life depended on it.
But one voice he didn't hear—the cheerful one belonging to the girl who had organized all this humming activity. Today Charity's voice was silent. In the past week, Tristan had heard her brisk instructions to a new downstairs maid, her confidential whisper to the gossip-hungry Anna, even a trace of her laughter amidst the boys' gleeful shouts.
Never, however, did he hear a friendly greeting directed his way or a sudden observation that made him suspect she had read his mind. He never got close enough to her for that. Her visits always coincided with the early afternoon hours, when the light was so white and gold it seemed almost Italian, when Tristan surrendered himself to painting.
In fact, her visits were so perfectly timed that Tristan suspected she was avoiding him. And now, as he soaked his brushes and scrubbed his hands, he thought he knew why.
He had offended her
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