Page 14 of The Untamed Heart

“Good heavens. It cannot be nine already. I swear I only sat down for a moment. Oh, of all the dreadful things to do! What a ramshackle creature you must think me,” she exclaimed, clearly mortified at having been caught in such a state of dishabille.

“Think nothing of it,” Marcus said stiffly, still standing to attention, his gaze fixed ahead of him.

“Oh, I don’t,” she said dolefully. “But I have been trying so hard to put you at ease and this is likely to set me back months. I will run and dress and be perfectly respectable in a matter of moments, I promise. Please excuse me.”

“Of course,” he said, still staring at the portrait of the dog. He did not relax until he heard the patter of her footsteps leave the room. Only then did he turn.

Curiously, he looked down at the large charcoal sketches covering the floor, rather startled to discover it was his own image that had her so absorbed she had forgotten the time.

The little sketchbook she had taken to the beach was open beside them, and as he craned his head, he saw that the charcoal sketches were larger versions of the drawings she’d done the previous day. Though he ought not be surprised, having seen the quality of the portrait she had done, it was still a little unsettling to see his own image so cleverly described, using such a sparse yet eloquent language of quick, confident strokes. With only a few lines, she had captured him, his likeness, with such precision that it unsettled him. How long had that taken her yesterday? Half an hour, three quarters? What might she record over the coming weeks?

The urge to slip quietly out of the house again might have been irresistible, if not for the bloody letter. Contrary creature that he was, it only took someone telling him he must not sit for the portrait to make him determined to go through with the wretched thing.

What would be, would be. He’d survived the Hollow Road by enduring. If he was disgraced, he’d endure that too.

“There! I’m perfectly respectable again.”

Marcus turned, his gaze travelling over Eustacia, who was now dressed in what she likely believed to be a modest gown of a colour somewhere between blue and grey. Yet the way it clung to her lush, voluptuous figure made him suspect she could wear sackcloth and still look alluring.

Annoyed with himself for thinking of her in such inappropriate terms, he nodded at the pictures. “Have you enough to get started, then?”

She looked at him as if he had asked if she intended to sprout wings and fly from the balcony. “Of course not. I did hundreds of sketches of Clara before I knew what it was I wished to capture. Oh, don’t look so horrified, I won’t put you through such an ordeal, but I need more than I have at present.”

“Here we are, coffee and scones as promised.”

They both turned as the housekeeper entered the room.

“Ah, Mrs Wainwright, you are a dear, but I wish you had told me what time it was. Poor Colonel Hamilton is most put out with me, for I was not suitably dressed for our meeting,” Eustacia chastised the woman, though there was no heat in the words.

“Oh, aye?” the woman said, a twinkle in her eye that Marcus intensely disliked. “Well, if you remember, miss. I told you not to dilly-dally as you had an hour. But I suppose you picked up your pencils and forgot the time. She’d forget her head, and that’s a fact,” she added, before setting the tray down and making her way out again.

Marcus watched her go and frowned. “Is she your only servant?”

“Her son Neil works for us too,” Eustacia replied absently, busying herself with pouring the coffee.

“Do you know she walked off, leaving me to close the door behind me and come up to you without a word? What if I’d….”

“What if you’d what?” she asked in confusion, glancing up at him.

“Had nefarious intentions,” he finished grimly.

Eustacia’s lips quirked upwards. “I think anyone with nefarious intentions would have long since abandoned them after climbing that hill. Don’t you?”

Marcus glowered at her. “It’s no laughing matter.”

He saw the moment she realised he was perfectly serious and not a little irritated. Her expression softened, and she smiled up at him, a sweet curve of her lips that only made him crosser.

“You are kind to worry so for me. I apologise if the house seems to be ill run. It’s really not, well, not compared to how my parents lived. We are the model of organisation and propriety compared to them, I assure you.”

This information did nothing to ease his mind.

Eustacia, having prepared his cup, handed it to him. “Do sit down and stop glowering at me so. You make me feel as if I am about to be court-martialled.”

Despite himself, Marcus gave a huff of amusement and accepted the cup, watching her slender, clever hands as she prepared a scone with butter, jam, and a generous dollop of thick cream. She handed him the plate.

“I thought that was yours,” he said, scowling.

“No, but I shall have the same, fear not. Breakfast seems to have been a long time ago,” she said cheerfully.