Page 25 of A Shore Thing

“Often.” He shrugged again. “Also, not of late.”

“Do you lack for subjects?” This wasn’t London, after all. Cornish women were Methodist, too pious to pose in dishabille. And modeling might strike his lovers as dangerously indiscreet.

Discretion meant nothing to her. She was poised to depart the continent.

The idea sprang from her mind to her lips with scarcely a moment’s friction.

“If you take the commission,” she said, “and paint the seaweeds, I’ll let you paint me too. Nude. However you like.”

She raised her chin, blushing fiercely.

Only his eyes moved, flicking over her.

“I cannot accept the commission,” he said slowly. “Or your generous offer.”

His refusal hit her like a slap.

“Well, then.” She jerked a nod. “I will have to find another artist.”

“There are plenty in St. Ives.” His voice was polite.

Hers was trembling. “And you, sir, will have to find another intrepid lady.”

Surprise flashed across his face. It made her angrier still. Had he thought she still intended to ride with him? That she’d do it for the pleasure of his company? The privilege of gazing upon his handsome form?

The tour was a waste of time without his collaboration.

She didn’t care if he lost his bicycle shop.

In fact, she rather hoped he would.

She narrowed her eyes. “Good luck choosing amongst the Muriels and Margarets.”

A crease notched his brow.

“Penny,” he began, but she spun on her heel. This meant plodding up the hill, but it was better than returning to the road at his side, awkward and humiliated and crushingly disappointed.

How had it gone so wrong?

She wasn’t being strictly reasonable, or fair. She’d pegged all her hopes on Kit Griffith, but he hadn’t been party to her plan. He’d made her no promises. He owed her nothing.

Still, his bewildering reaction stung, more than stung. He’d spited both of them, for what? For his arrogant masculine pride.

She didn’t want to dwell on the wound to her own pride, why it burned like fire, why the rejection touched such a tender place inside her.

She watched the grass bend beneath her feet and concentrated on putting more and more distance between herself and Griff.

—

“Griff!”

Kit watched Muriel’s tiny, tense figure as she climbed the hill, shoulders rigid, a lock of penny-bright hair curling in the center of her back, like an upside-down question mark.

She had a temper. And she was stubborn, marching off in the most strenuous direction, which would also extend her walk back to St. Ives. Did she even know which way she was headed? His muscles twitched. He could overtake her before she reached the summit.

“Griff!”

He turned. Ponsonby was legging it toward him, stride matched with that of his companion, a lanky, dark-haired man in a sharply tailored white flannel suit. The doctor, Raleigh. Ponsonby stopped, but Raleigh passed Kit by, sparing him a quick, keen glance. Inquiring, not adversarial.