frustration. Instead she vented, using paper and charcoal as her weapons. The mindless state of creation was all she desired.
Minutes passed. Longer even. She could not tell, so lost in the world of her art. Page after page. Sketch after sketch. Only when the clock chimed four did she jerk out of that haze. Her backside was numb and her neck stiff.
After a few blinks, licking dry lips, she looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. Oliver’s eyes stared back. She uttered a little gasp.
She had captured him exactly—so exactly that a shiver of awareness trailed down her back. His eyes were slightly narrowed, the line of his brow tugged down in that unnerving way. Scrutinizing. The arrogant jut of his chin contrasted with the hint of a wig she had sketched away from his temples.
Greta smoothed a thumb over the top of his cheek. Rather than reveal heat, her caress only fouled the cool paper. The charcoal smudged, rubbing into her dry skin. She thrust the sketchbook aside and wiped her hands along her apron.
She was obsessed, acting a fool. There was no future in even a playful, harmless infatuation. And if she delayed speaking with her uncle, she would suffer the consequences of Oliver’s keen intuition.
The sketchbook landed at an awkward angle, its pages bent. She stooped to retrieve it and return it to a high shelf, but another drawing caught her attention. She carefully studied her portrait of Baron Hoffer. Yes, the brow was just right, as was the set of his dark eyes—a little too close together and a little too narrow to be considered handsome. The sneer, too, touched her with that ethereal sense of life she was sometimes able to give her creations. The sneer was genuine.
And familiar.
She framed the drawing with her hands, angling the L-shapes of her thumbs and index fingers. The same niggling tickle of recognition slithered over her senses. She understood the impulse to place a name, face and moment of acquaintance, but she could not fathom her unease.
Baron Hoffer. No matter the deep push into her memories, she could not remember having heard of him before her cousins’ conversation. They considered him a fine catch—by rumor, mostly, because they had not met him before the ball.
The mantel clock chimed half past four. She exhaled, no longer able to delay the inevitable. The mystery of Baron Hoffer would simply have to wait.
After removing her apron and tidying her appearance, she traversed the manor’s many halls until she found Thaddeus in his study. She huffed a tight breath. If she had found him at two as she planned, this would all be over and done, accomplished in the garden rather than in his study. Books, dark furniture and the lingering scents of leather and pipe smoke marked his territory. The whole manor was his, but no room more so. Even her cousins never dared conversation with him there.
Whether that made Greta brave or foolish she did not know.
She rapped gently on the open door. “Uncle? May I speak with you?”
He looked up from a ledger and nodded. “Of course. Come in.”
She closed the door behind her, quickly sending up a prayer as it snapped shut. The seat of her chair sank deeply under her weight, making her feel even less significant in the presence of her uncle’s intimidating demeanor. She laced her fingers together in her lap, looking down at her stained cuticles, searching for the voice that would not come.
“Margaret?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Why are you here?”
She screwed up her courage along with her mouth. When paint dried on the hairs of her arms, she simply yanked it off. Painful. Necessary. Quick. This was no different.
“My lord, did you sell my copy of Casteels’ Peacocks to Lady Venner?”
“Yes.” He set aside his quill. “Am I to take it that you disapprove again?”
“My lord, yes, but for a different reason.”
“And what is that?”
Oliver, her brain shouted. He found me out. He sees me and he sees what I do.
Why was he the only
Minutes passed. Longer even. She could not tell, so lost in the world of her art. Page after page. Sketch after sketch. Only when the clock chimed four did she jerk out of that haze. Her backside was numb and her neck stiff.
After a few blinks, licking dry lips, she looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. Oliver’s eyes stared back. She uttered a little gasp.
She had captured him exactly—so exactly that a shiver of awareness trailed down her back. His eyes were slightly narrowed, the line of his brow tugged down in that unnerving way. Scrutinizing. The arrogant jut of his chin contrasted with the hint of a wig she had sketched away from his temples.
Greta smoothed a thumb over the top of his cheek. Rather than reveal heat, her caress only fouled the cool paper. The charcoal smudged, rubbing into her dry skin. She thrust the sketchbook aside and wiped her hands along her apron.
She was obsessed, acting a fool. There was no future in even a playful, harmless infatuation. And if she delayed speaking with her uncle, she would suffer the consequences of Oliver’s keen intuition.
The sketchbook landed at an awkward angle, its pages bent. She stooped to retrieve it and return it to a high shelf, but another drawing caught her attention. She carefully studied her portrait of Baron Hoffer. Yes, the brow was just right, as was the set of his dark eyes—a little too close together and a little too narrow to be considered handsome. The sneer, too, touched her with that ethereal sense of life she was sometimes able to give her creations. The sneer was genuine.
And familiar.
She framed the drawing with her hands, angling the L-shapes of her thumbs and index fingers. The same niggling tickle of recognition slithered over her senses. She understood the impulse to place a name, face and moment of acquaintance, but she could not fathom her unease.
Baron Hoffer. No matter the deep push into her memories, she could not remember having heard of him before her cousins’ conversation. They considered him a fine catch—by rumor, mostly, because they had not met him before the ball.
The mantel clock chimed half past four. She exhaled, no longer able to delay the inevitable. The mystery of Baron Hoffer would simply have to wait.
After removing her apron and tidying her appearance, she traversed the manor’s many halls until she found Thaddeus in his study. She huffed a tight breath. If she had found him at two as she planned, this would all be over and done, accomplished in the garden rather than in his study. Books, dark furniture and the lingering scents of leather and pipe smoke marked his territory. The whole manor was his, but no room more so. Even her cousins never dared conversation with him there.
Whether that made Greta brave or foolish she did not know.
She rapped gently on the open door. “Uncle? May I speak with you?”
He looked up from a ledger and nodded. “Of course. Come in.”
She closed the door behind her, quickly sending up a prayer as it snapped shut. The seat of her chair sank deeply under her weight, making her feel even less significant in the presence of her uncle’s intimidating demeanor. She laced her fingers together in her lap, looking down at her stained cuticles, searching for the voice that would not come.
“Margaret?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Why are you here?”
She screwed up her courage along with her mouth. When paint dried on the hairs of her arms, she simply yanked it off. Painful. Necessary. Quick. This was no different.
“My lord, did you sell my copy of Casteels’ Peacocks to Lady Venner?”
“Yes.” He set aside his quill. “Am I to take it that you disapprove again?”
“My lord, yes, but for a different reason.”
“And what is that?”
Oliver, her brain shouted. He found me out. He sees me and he sees what I do.
Why was he the only
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