The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(75)

She all but skipped along the path to the orchard, forgetting what and who had tempted her outside in the first place. Once through the orchard door, she closed it and ran full tilt up the hill. She whirled around the biggest apple tree and spread her arms out to rush back down the hill, just as she’d used to with Frances and Gervaise when they were children.

Then, breathless and much happier, she rearranged her shawl and walked more sedately along the sun-dappled path through the trees toward the top gate from where she could reach the woods.

“Stop!” a voice commanded, freezing her instantly. “Don’t move.”

“Why ever not?” she demanded, her mind flitting around possible dangers like snakes, tree branches about to fall, and fox traps left where they shouldn’t be.

“Just hold very still,” the same, deep male voice said gently, as though he were speaking to a startled horse. But she could hear the quick tread and rustle of his approaching footsteps. Then he halted.

Serena waited. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Committing this to memory,” he said, and began to move again.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as he came closer. He brushed past, his face turned toward her and came to a halt once more in front of her.

His black hair gleamed in the sunlight. His gaze was rivetted to her face, his expression rapt, a faint, fascinating smile curving his lips. The interesting employee who’d first drawn her outside.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Do you work here?”

“I try to,” he replied. “Do you?”

“Not exactly.” He didn’t know who she was. Well, she’d dressed in her oldest, most comfortable dress, discovered with delight at the back of her wardrobe, and she didn’t really look like the daughter and sister of earls. For some reason, such anonymity felt truly liberating.

In fact, he didn’t seem remotely interested in names. Instead, he continued walking around her.

“This is marvelous,” he enthused. “And the light will never be quite like this again. No!” He seized her shoulder when she started to turn, shocking her into awareness. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Half-amused, half-annoyed, she subsided, and he released her to dash back the way he’d come. She heard the swishing of tree branches, the squeak of hinges, and his returning footfall, quick but slightly heavier, as though he was carrying something.

She waited for a few impatient moments. Then, unable to resist, she glanced back over her shoulder.

He stood a couple of yards behind her, an easel in front of him, painting with a small, narrow brush at what seemed a furious rate. His eyes darted constantly from his canvas to her, then he began to frown. “Look straight ahead. Don’t take a step. Please,” he added with a quick, distracted grin.

“Hurry, then, for I can’t stand here all day,” she retorted, slightly piqued that anyone should prefer the back of her head to the front. But she did face ahead again.

He didn’t speak, and she found herself wondering what it was about the light that so entranced him. Shining through the trees, it did have that pretty, dappled quality on the ground at least, and she could imagine the muted, autumn colors of the leaves and hills beyond as part of a fairy tale world.

“I always found it frustrating,” she remembered, “that I could never paint what I saw. Frances and Gillie were always better than me.”

“Did they paint what you saw?”

“No. I always itched to change them—or make them change them, for I’d just have spoiled their paintings—but they never knew what I was talking about.”

“So you’re never satisfied with anyone’s painting,” he observed.

“Well, I haven’t seen yours yet,” she pointed out, eager to see what he did with the red of the falling leaves.

“It will probably be a long wait.”

She sensed movement behind her and again her skin prickled in a way that was not remotely unpleasant. In fact, it was oddly exciting. He appeared in front of her, a sketch book and pencil in his hands, staring at her face until she felt a blush rise under his scrutiny. She could only suppose the view was better from the back. And then his pencil flew across the page. A faint smile played about his lips as he worked.

“There,” he said, lowering pencil and paper, and striding back to his easel.

She swung around to watch him pack his things into the satchel and the bundle she’d seen him carrying from the drawing room window. “May I not see?”

“If it turns into anything half-way good. Walk with me?”

Serena blinked. “Walk with you where?”

“Anywhere. I’d like to know something of the young lady behind the beautiful face.”

“It’s too late for flattery,” she said severely. “I already know you prefer the back of my head.”

He smiled. “It’s all you.”

Somehow, they’d fallen into step together, walking along the orchard path in the direction she’d meant to take before he stopped her.

“You don’t work here at all, do you?”

“Well, I do occasionally,” he insisted, patting his satchel. “But no, I am not employed in the Earl’s household. What’s your name?”

“Serena.” Now, surely, he would recognize the name and know she was the Earl’s sister. Inevitably, his over-casual manners would change, whatever class he came from, and that would be a shame. She rather liked him as he was.