The Stepsister's Triumph by Darcie Wilde Page B

salon had come from, and the supper party and the alligator and the cat and . . .
    â€œMiss Valmeyer!”
    â€œWhat? Yes? Oh.”
    â€œYou were dozing off.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. Only the sunlight is so warm.”
    A muscle high in Lord Benedict’s cheek twitched. He looked from her to his sketchbook. “It happens sometimes. Many subjects find it dull to sit still for so long.”
    â€œSo what do you generally do with your subjects?” The instant Madelene spoke the words, a fresh blush rose in her. Her words sounded insinuating, almost flirtatious.
    Thankfully Lord Benedict didn’t seem to notice. “Talk can help.”
    â€œTalk about what?”
    He paused rather longer than necessary, and Madelene had the feeling of something being hidden away. In the end, however, Lord Benedict merely shrugged. “Anything, as long as you keep your eyes on the flowers.”
    She dutifully lowered her gaze toward the primroses. “I’m not very good at small talk.”
Especially to potted plants.
    â€œWhat do you talk about in the drawing rooms when you’re paying calls?”
    â€œNothing, really.”
    â€œBut you must say something.”
    Madelene wound the string around her fingers. “No one cares to hear what I have to say.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?” This time there was no mistaking his tone. He was annoyed, and that annoyance sent a strange liquid thrill sliding through her veins. She’d touched him, and it felt like a success. It made her ever so slightly bold.
    â€œDo you want to hear what I have to say, Lord Benedict?” she asked softly.
    For a moment, she thought he had not heard her, but his pencil stilled once more. “And if I said yes?” he said huskily. Lord Benedict raised his dark eyes to meet hers. “What then?”
    â€œI . . . I’m not sure,” she stammered, and had to suppress a groan.
I sound like such a child!
“I mean, that is, the usual topics of polite conversation are the weather and the roads and everybody’s health.”
    Suddenly, unexpectedly, Benedict began to chuckle. Madelene blanched. “What have I said?”
    â€œI’m sorry.” He shook his head and brushed the one stray lock of hair back from his shoulder. “I can’t help thinking that if those are our possible topics,
I’m
going to doze off.”
    Madelene smiled and instantly covered her mouth with her hand. “I think that would be most detrimental to our progress.”
    â€œThere, we agree.” He stared hard at the page, and then at her.
    â€œI wonder,” he said quietly. “What you would say if no one was listening?”
    Madelene at once shifted her gaze toward the false reins in her hands and the flowers she was beginning to hate. She had to look at something, because she could not look at him. The gentle, thoughtful expression on his face threatened to make her blush, badly.
    â€œI don’t understand you. Are you teasing me?”
    â€œNo. I’m not. I just . . .” She heard Benedict set his pencil down. “You don’t like to talk, but your face . . . your expression speaks volumes. I can see it, but I can’t understand it. I can’t read it.” He was talking more to the page than to her. “I don’t understand
you
, Miss Valmeyer.”
    â€œBut you painted that other picture.”
    He waved a hand dismissively. “I painted a frightened girl. I understand fear. That’s simple. But that’s not . . . you.” He stopped and glared at the page. “The longer I sit here, the longer I look, the more contradictions I see and the less I understand them.” He stopped and he swallowed. Madelene had the sudden impression he was literally swallowing the words he’d meant to speak. “You want to be seen, but you’re afraid to be seen. You don’t like to