On Monday I barely left my corner of the conservatory, stopping only long enough to consume a bowl of soup when Trevor came to pester me about my luncheon tray having returned to the kitchens untouched. I could not argue with him, for I’d not even noticed it being delivered or taken away. But beyond that, I was unaware of anyone’s presence.
That is, until early Monday evening, when shadows began to overtake the conservatory. I blinked to adjust my vision as the darkness settled around me, becoming conscious of the sun dropping behind the tree line outside the windows at my back, taking with it my sole source of light. I reached out to light one of my lanterns when I noticed a movement beyond my easel.
Gage leaned negligently against a table covered in potted plants, one ankle crossed over the other. His lips quirked in amusement. “You truly do lose yourself in your art. That wasn’t simply a saying.”
It took me a moment to find my voice after such intense concentration, and by the time I did so, he was already moving toward me with his long loose-legged stride. “How long were you standing there?” I murmured hoarsely, and then cleared my throat.
He shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. You’re fascinating to watch.”
“Oh?” I said stupidly.
I suddenly realized he was coming very close and I glanced at my easel, unwilling to let him see what I’d been painting there. I took a step away from my painting area, and pivoted to drop my brush in the jar of linseed oil I had sitting at the ready.
“D-Did you need something?” I stammered.
“Just your company.” He stopped half a step in front of me and stared down into my face, paint-smeared, no doubt. “Have you been hiding from me?” It was said in jest, but I could see the genuine concern reflected in the depths of his eyes.
“No,” I replied, even though that wasn’t strictly true. “Waiting for word from Lord Fleming is just . . .” I looked about me, at a loss for the right words. I sighed. “Frustrating.”
He nodded in understanding.
Feeling the warmth radiating from his body where he stood so close to mine, I realized how cold and stiff I was from standing for so many hours. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head against his chest and let him wrap his arms around me. Even standing amid all the fumes in my studio, I could smell the spiciness of his cologne and that lovely elusive scent that was purely him. But I knew I probably looked a fright, and smelled like one, too, so I resisted.
My gaze dropped to the paper in his hand. “What’s that?” I asked hopefully.
He lifted it to show me. “Just a letter from Mr. Tyler.”
I felt a jolt of interest. “And?”
Gage’s eyebrows rose in emphasis. “Mr. Stuart did visit them the weekend his father’s grave was disturbed.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this news, but I knew what it meant for our investigation. “Which only confirms our suspicions and makes him an even stronger suspect.”
“Yes.” One corner of his mouth rose in disgruntled chagrin. “So it appears we have Bonnie Brock to thank for pointing us in the right direction.” I could hear how much he hated admitting that.
“Well, maybe,” I added for his benefit. “Mr. Stuart’s guilt hasn’t been proven yet.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Are you trying to make me feel better when I was the one who was being stubborn?”
I bit my lip, staring up at his now healed and unmarred face. “Well, he didn’t give me a black eye.”
“True.” His eyes gleamed down at me, and I had to look away, feeling both a flush of pleasure and that same pressing weight of uncertainty.
“So what have you been working on?” He stepped to the side, trying to move past me, but I sidestepped with him and pressed a hand to his chest.
“I’d really rather you not see it. It isn’t finished.”
He tilted his head. “Oh, come now. Surely, you know I won’t judge you. I understand artwork has to go through many stages.”
He tried to move around me again, but I grabbed his arm.
“Please. It’s really not ready to be seen,” I pleaded.
His mouth curled upward in teasing. “Why, Kiera, are you hiding something? Perhaps you’re painting naughty pictures?”
I gasped in outrage at the very idea, but he merely laughed. Then picking me up by the waist, he spun me out of the way.
“Gage, no!”
But it was too late.
I stood by and watched helplessly as shock radiated across his features, draining his face of all amusement. It was replaced by a look of mute disbelief.
I studied his expression, trying to interpret what he was thinking. Was he angry? Repulsed? Disappointed?
I rubbed my hands anxiously on my apron. “I . . . I told you it’s not finished,” I repeated. “I . . . I’m not happy with it yet. You should have waited.” I could feel tears of frustration burning at the back of my eyes.
Gage stood silently a moment longer before finally taking a step backward. He blinked several times before his gaze swung to meet mine. His pupils were wide and penetrating. I felt stripped bare. “And you would have shown me?” he asked gently.