I worked quietly that way for some time, conscious of every nuance of my brushstrokes. I couldn’t seem to help myself from keeping tally of every stroke I got right, and every time my touch had been too heavy or too light, the wrong angle, the wrong depth of pigment. In the past when I painted portraits, I simply lost myself in the process, reveling in the beauty of each touch, each layer, each bit of shading as the subject’s image began to take shape, to unfold before my eyes. I was barely conscious of each step, knowing instinctively from many years of practice exactly what to do.
But now I could not block out these intrusive thoughts. I could not find that space I went to inside myself, the place I so desperately wanted to locate again. I felt barraged with doubts, and the internal tally of things I’d done wrong versus things I’d done right seemed to be tipping heavily to the negative. I tried to forget that, to ignore it. Yet it was ever at the back of my mind, nagging me, driving me to make the next brushstroke perfect. But it so rarely was.
And then my hand began to shake, and no matter how many deep breaths I took, I could not force it to stop. My fingers quavered, smudging a fold of the little girl’s skirt, and I snapped.
I tossed the palette and the brush down on my worktable with a cry of frustrated disgust. Breathing heavily, I planted my hands on my hips, trying to control the urge I felt to lash out at the offending canvas. It was either that or I would begin to cry.
Then I heard a footstep shift behind me and a deep voice tsked. “Temper, temper.”
I gasped and whirled around to find Sebastian Gage standing there, looking as handsome as ever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What are you doing here?” I demanded in shock when I could find my voice.
He arched a single eyebrow and crossed the remaining distance between us. “You wrote to me and asked me to come.”
“Yes, I know,” I stammered, wiping my paint-smeared hands on my apron. “But what are you doing here? That is to say . . . my studio.”
His winter blue eyes twinkled, and the corner of his lips quirked into a crooked grin, telling me he was enjoying my flustered state.
“I . . . I wasn’t expecting you yet.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Crabtree, my brother’s butler, wheezed, hurrying across the conservatory. “I would have announced Mr. Gage, but the gentleman simply would not wait.” He glared at Gage’s back.
“It’s all right,” I told Crabtree, arching my eyebrows at Gage in gentle reproach. “Mr. Gage often doesn’t stand on ceremony.”
Gage grinned at me unrepentantly.
“Please tell my brother our guest has arrived when he returns from his business.”
Crabtree nodded and retreated, disappearing behind a stand of ferns.
Gage stood watching me with his hands clasped behind his back and that gleam still in his eyes. He looked very well in his riding attire—the navy blue coat and tight buff pantaloons. His golden hair was ruffled from the wind, and his boots were still covered with the dust of the road, making me suspect he’d ridden here on horseback.
“I suppose I should offer you tea and a chance to freshen up.” I glanced about me. “But I’m afraid my art studio is not exactly the ideal place for such a thing.” I brushed a hand down the sides of my drab brown kerseymere gown where it showed at the edges of the apron. “Had I known you would arrive so soon, I would have been better ready to receive you.”
Gage’s smile softened at my fidgeting and he stepped closer, crowding into my space. “You look charming.”
“I . . . I do?”
“Yes.”
I felt my cheeks begin to flush with color under his regard, but I couldn’t stop it. Nor could I look away. I knew I had missed him, but I hadn’t really let myself admit that until now. It had somehow been easier to deny it than acknowledge that I longed to see his face. He’d distanced himself from me twice now, though, admittedly, the second time had been as much my doing as his. There was still so much I didn’t know about him, so much I didn’t understand. It had seemed foolhardy to long for him, and yet I had. I could feel the truth of that now in the racing of my heart and the ridiculous urge to giggle.
He reached up to touch my face, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, but his callused thumb rubbed along my jawline instead. “You have a little something . . .”
“Oh,” I gasped and used my fingers to swipe at the offending dab of paint myself.
He smiled at my embarrassment and then glanced down at our feet, where the cat was winding its way around his legs. “And who is this?”
“That’s Earl Grey,” I answered absently as I yanked the kerchief from my head, having forgotten it was there, and tried to smooth my unruly hair back from my forehead.
Gage laughed. “You named your cat after the Prime Minister?”
I turned to see he had squatted down to scratch behind the cat’s ears, who was lapping up the attention.
“He’s not my cat,” I protested. “He’s just a mouser from the kitchen.”
“And yet you named him.”
I frowned. “Well, he wouldn’t stop pestering me, and eventually I decided I had to call him something. He’s a gray tabby and quite imperious.” I shrugged. “The name seemed to fit him.”
Gage rose to his feet, shaking his head as he smiled a rather secretive little smile.
“What?” I demanded as I paused in untying my apron strings.
“You.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Me, what?”