Page 49 of The Untamed Heart

He watched her lovely profile as she turned away from him, gazing out at the view over the sea. Was that why she had sought him out? She rarely came down to the garden when he was working. He felt certain she viewed his time here as medicine, though he had to admit the fresh air and activity were doing wonders for his fitness and stamina. He could breathe easier up here and though his muscles were protesting the sudden activity, it was a good ache, and he felt stronger every day. The only serious coughing fits he’d had of late were upon waking, when he got out of bed.

She turned back at last with a smile. “Nothing serious. Not really. It’s just this silly feud Seb has with Wilbert Averythe.”

“Averythe? The writer?”

Eustacia nodded but wrapped her arms around herself as a chill breeze blew across the garden. It tugged at her dark curls and made the ribbons of her bonnet fly about her face. She batted them away impatiently.

“I know it’s far earlier than you usually come inside, but… would you care to have a cup of tea with me? Seb is in his study and refuses to speak to me about it, and I should be glad of some company.”

“Of course,” Marcus said at once, aware that he was leaping at the chance to be alone with her. No, no. He was concerned, that was all. She was troubled and wished to talk. She wished to talk to him. Alone. His pulse kicked.

Pack it in, he told himself sternly. If he was anything, he was her friend. And a gentleman. And he would do nothing to jeopardise their relationship whilst she was working upon his portrait.

But what about when the portrait was finished?

He pushed the thought away, too aware of the effect it had upon his body. He’d felt nothing resembling desire since that bloody day when his life had changed for good, but it was not difficult to identify.

Eustacia waited while he gathered his tools, but he turned to look at her. “Don’t wait for me, go in out of the wind before you grow chilled. I must tidy the tools and myself, but I shall be there directly.”

“Very well,” she said, but had there been reluctance in those words as she smiled and walked away?

Marcus watched her go, his gaze lingering on the sway of her lovely behind until he cursed once more and gave himself a stern lecture on the proper way a gentleman treated a female friend.

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 28th September 1816

Eustacia forced herself to sit patiently and not get up to check her appearance in the looking glass. Marcus did not care how she looked, she reminded herself… except that was not entirely true. She knew well enough how men appreciated her figure. Some appreciated it a good deal too much and thought an intimate squeeze or pinch the most eloquent form of flattery. Those men usually discovered the error of their ways swiftly and painfully.

She had escaped all that since they had swapped the metropolis for the solitude and peace of Seagull Heights. They had also left behind many chances for her to meet eligible men, nice men, ones who did not see her as mistress material, but as something else.

But when Marcus looked at her, she saw admiration and respect, and that was a heady combination coming from a man like him.

Yet why would he look her way? He may not have a title, but his family were of the upper ranks. He had gone to school with the Duke of Hawkney and the Earl of Sheringham, and she… she was no one. The daughter of two ramshackle artists who had died in poverty and obscurity. They’d been respectable enough, certainly. Her paternal grandfather had been a solicitor, a good one, too. But she was not a fine lady, and she did not doubt that the handsome and gallant Colonel Hamilton could take his pick of those.

The growing intimacy between them was leading her down a path she had no right to travel. He was here for the portrait, and because working in their garden was the best medicine any doctor could have prescribed for him. He was unrecognisable from the man she had first met, who had been so tightly wound with pain and fury, and so very lost. She knew he enjoyed being a part of their household, which he found both dreadfully chaotic and appealingly warm and welcoming, but it was only that. He was a man taking a holiday from life, but reality would reassert itself and once the portrait was done, he would leave and return to his previous existence.

A sharp little stab of misery pierced her heart, taking her breath for a moment before she shook it off. His portrait would be the talk of Horse Guards, supposing it wasn’t thrown out for being too unconventional. It may not be loved, but it would be noticed, and it would make her famous. Her name would be impossible to ignore. That would be enough.

It had to be.

Eustacia jumped as he strode into the room, bringing with him the scent of the fresh autumn day outside, and the masculine, earthy aroma that always seemed to cling to him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, frowning at the tea tray. “I hope it’s not cold?”

“No, not at all. I only just brought it up,” she said, setting about preparing a cup for him, grateful to have something to do other than gaze at his ruggedly handsome face like a nitwit.

“Now then, you said something about a feud?” he asked, accepting the cup from her.

Eustacia sighed. “Well, yes, though only from Seb’s point of view. I am quite certain Mr Averythe hasn’t the slightest notion it is happening.”

“Ah, I see. Artistic rivalry.” He frowned down at his teacup for a moment. “I read one of Averythe’s books a couple of years ago. Rather a tedious story as I recall. Certainly, I have never bought another.”

“Yes, exactly,” Eustacia said with relief. “And Sebastian outsells the man by thousands of copies. Yet Mr Averythe’s last three titles have been very well received, and Seb recently saw an article which compared his work to that of Mrs Wildblood. Apparently, the comparison wasn’t very complimentary. Well, you know now how sensitive my brother is about his writing, and he’s taken it very much to heart.”

“I can well imagine,” Marcus said, frowning. “But it’s only one man’s opinion, after all.”

“Yes, but this morning it’s become far worse.”

“How so?”