Page 19 of A Spinster's Guide to Landing a Lyon

It was all a bit of a muddled mess.

About as muddled of a mess as the muddy mess on her canvas.

“It’s rare to see a man willing to paint. Even to impress a woman. You must be motivated.”

Benedict straightened his legs and stretched his arms up overhead. He let out a small groan as he twisted to each side. The movements and sounds pinched something in Amelia’s chest.

“You did insist that I be on my best behavior.”

“Well, if I had known my words would carry such weight, I might have given more instructions.”

“The advice you provided was sufficient.”

“Apparently…” she mumbled, for no known reason. Just to get the last word in maybe.

“What’s that?” He aimed his feet in her direction.

“Oh, nothing.” Drat. She didn’t want him coming over here. Nothing would be more embarrassing than for him to see her horrendous watercolor skills.

Ugh. She inwardly groaned. Could she do nothing right in front of this man? Couldn’t go for a ride in a carriage without needing his help (needing, but not really needing). Couldn’t go for a ride on a horse that she rode every day without requiring him to rescue her (requiring, but not really requiring). Couldn’t stand still in one spot with having him save her…from herself. And now, couldn’t paint a picture without making a fool of herself.

Hopping to her feet, she used her body to block her canvas.

The smirk on his face told her he knew what she was doing.

“What a lovely afternoon to paint though, isn’t it?” he asked in an attempt to deflect her attention.

“Yes. Quite.” Following his gaze, she shifted to the left.

“And such inspiration to take from the nature around us. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmm. Yes. Quite.” It was imperative that she stay focused on her mission to deter him, but he was using random conversation to distract her.

“Arabella is quite the accomplished painter.” Without thinking, she dashed forward, snaked her arm through his, and led them both to stand and marvel in front of Arabella’s masterpiece.

Speechless, the two stood arm in arm.

A few minutes passed before he spoke.

“She’s really quite inspiring.” Ostensibly in awe, his voice was low.

It shouldn’t be so but the compliment deflated her just a touch, for she knew how lacking her skills were in this department.

“Yes. I particularly like how she’s captured the leaves here. I can almost see them moving.” And in that small gesture, the one where she pointed to the trees, she knew she had made a dastardly mistake.

Benedict made quick work around her, dodged her flailing grasp, and swung her out of the way.

He took off and plopped himself in front of her work.

“Hmmm,” he uttered, one hand stroking his jaw as the other propped up his elbow.

She waited for censure to strike.

“Yes, I can see what you did with the…erm…brown.” Languidly, his hand stroked his jaw several times before he settled on whatever thought he had been trying to lock down. Then he finally announced, “This might be the nicest muddy puddle I’ve ever seen.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” And that’s when she saw the corner of his lips struggling to stay down. His fingers massaging his jaw in an attempt not to laugh.

“Go ahead and laugh. I know I’m the worst painter here.” Drifting nearer to his canvas, she knew the gig was up.