Page 55 of The Untamed Heart

But that was just her overwrought imagination and the tricks those lonely hours of the morning played on everyone, making everything seem darker and bleaker than it did once the dawn broke.

Yet he was troubled this afternoon. He had seemed light-hearted when he had arrived and, during the morning, she had called out to him from the terrace and waved. Marcus had laughed and waved back, and she had been struck by how happy he looked.

Now, though, he was preoccupied, and whenever she looked up, he was watching her, his gaze solemn. She looked up again, intent on capturing the light and the way it caught the firm line of his jaw, only to discover he had lost the pose again.

Eustacia set down her brush and moved out from behind the enormous canvas. He did not notice her until she stood directly in front of him.

“A penny for them, Colonel Hamilton? Or should I ask for more, will that stop you from looking all brooding and heroic? I shall add extra gold to your medals if you don’t have a care.”

He grimaced and gave a snort, shifting in his seat. “I beg your pardon. I am a trial to you today, I think.”

“Never that,” she said softly, troubled by the way he avoided her gaze.

What was it that made him look so far away?

“Like this, was it?” he asked, adopting the pose once more.

Eustacia studied him, aching with the desire to reach out and touch his cheek, to stroke his hair. Hardly knowing how she dared, she touched his jaw with a finger, lifting it slightly.

“More like this,” she said, staring down into his handsome face. His eyes grew wide with surprise, and she glimpsed the heat of desire there. It flashed, hot and urgent, there and gone in a moment before he cleared his throat, but she had seen it.

Her breath caught, and she dropped her hand.

“I have it,” he said gruffly, and sat exactly as she had directed.

She nodded, too aware of the way her heart thundered behind her ribs as she made her way back to the easel, glad to hide behind the canvas for a moment while she gathered her wits.

Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, Marcus.

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 29th September 1816

Marcus assured himself he’d been mistaken. The look in her eyes had just been that of an artist studying her model. Nothing more.

The touch of her hand had galvanised his body to such a degree that he’d had all he could do to keep still, but he knew she had seen his reaction. Her beautiful eyes had widened, darkened, and… no.

He had imagined it. He must have done.

And yet, uncertainty nagged at him.

He was never uncertain. Even when he’d been stuck in the bloody Hollow Road that had brought him to this place, he had known what to do. The only thing he could do. Endure. Now though…

Should he say something?

He glanced around at her once more, hurrying to recapture the pose before she caught him gazing at her like a besotted mooncalf again.

Racking his brain, he tried to think of a conversational gambit that might lighten the strangely heavy atmosphere.

“How is Sebastian getting on with his Christmas story?” he asked in desperation.

Eustacia snorted. “I haven’t the faintest idea. He refuses to speak to me on the subject.”

“Ah, a pity.” Dammit. Something else, then. “I planted those cabbages, by the way. They’re only tiny but they’ll make good strong plants.”

Marcus almost groaned with exasperation. Cabbages. Really?

“Yes, it was very good of the duke’s gardener to be so generous with his seedlings. In thanks, Mrs Wainwright has sent him a half dozen jars of the apple butter she made.”

“Excellent,” Marcus replied, fervently wishing he could dash his brains out on the coffee table.