Page 10 of The Duke's Improper Bride
With her face washed in sun, she was nearly an angel. Those freckles dotting her cheekbones. He’d been an idiot to have missed them during their first meeting. Those would need to be added to the painting. It wouldn’t be complete without.
Miss MacAllen rose. She walked to the paintings resting against the wall, the few he had completed. She bent over them, selecting hers out of the lineup. He might have not started that painting for her, but somehow, including her in it, it had taken on a soul of its own.
Her fingers, elegant and long, brushed over the dried oil paint and stopped at the end of the fluttering ribbons, then looked up, locking eyes with Isaac.
Words sat on her lips—he could all but hear them, but she remained silent. His eyes were trained on her beautiful mouth, before sweeping up to note her furrowed brow.
He sat there, waiting, as if he were on a precipice. “I—”
She held up her hand on a sigh, reaching at her hip where she removed a small notepad and pencil from a concealed pocket. Her hand quickly moved over the paper, the corners of the notebook curling upward. Then she approached, holding it out for him to read.
Isaac blinked once, then twice, straining to put the words into focus.
I am mute,it said.
He cursed under his breath, bringing his hand up to his brow. The words were swimming on the page. More was written beneath, but it was too painful to read.
“I’m sorry, it’s difficult for me to read right now…” he trailed off. Her shoulders sank. He laid back, throwing his forearm over his eyes. “Please, may I paint you again?”
The bed rocked as she sat, the mattress dipping, causing him to roll toward her. He inhaled the heather, thinking back to her striding across the field at the base of the mountain in the early morning light. So fierce, so unyielding like Athena herself marching into battle.
Mrs. White mentioned her name was Nora.
“Nora,” he whispered, his eyelids growing heavy.
Her hand reached for his and squeezed. He forced his eyes open one last time as a sad smile slowly spread across her lips. She swept her fingers across his forehead and hummed.
It would be so nice to paint her again.
One day. There in the Scottish sun.
* * *
Nora kepther distance from Mrs. White after Mr. Barnes fell from the rafters. She couldn’t trust her friend not to bring her for a visit with the new tenant, so they exchanged letters asking after his health, but no visits or tea. Even Nora’s morning walks had changed. She no longer climbed the mountain to walk across the field.
She was a coward.
While waiting by his bedside as Mrs. White had fetched the doctor, Nora discovered Mr. Barnes was not only handsome but kind, and most likely a little lonely. That pain she could understand all too well.
She should have spoken to him. She should have been a good companion when he clearly needed someone in that moment.
It reopened a wound she thought her impending marriage to Stuart would solve. But marrying Stuart would only change her scenery. She had grown comfortable in her own company, until she sat there with Mr. Barnes, and suddenly she wished to speak.
Nora wished to tell him his painting was beautiful, as were the others. That perhaps they had started off their acquaintance on a disadvantage, and that she would like to start anew.
But the panic gripped her throat. Her heart raced as she scribbled her reply on the notepad. Then, when he sank defeated, something heavy collapsed around her too. Disappointment, maybe.
“Nora, stand up straight,” her mother snapped, nudging the small of Nora’s back.
Nora straightened, forcing a smile as Mrs. White stood in the hallway of Hawthorne Hall, welcoming her guests. It was a grand house, far larger than Esslemont by half, and entirely modern. There was no shortage of tapestries and antiques filling the eight reception rooms, and there were plenty of bedrooms to accommodate Mrs. White’s affinity for country house parties. Nora was always fond of the way the sun seemed drawn to this house unlike her own. And the walled gardens abutting the river.
But the sun and the gardens did little to help Nora avoid Mrs. White this evening or the dinner she was holding in honor of Mr. Barnes.
Only a few hours of her evening. Surely, Nora would survive.
Mrs. White and Nora’s mother exchanged greetings as maids divested them of their hats and cloaks. It was a small gathering, perhaps fifteen guests from the surrounding village, including Stuart and his parents.
Intimate dinners were intolerable. At least at balls, even if Nora was encouraged to enjoy them from the shadowed corners as a wallflower, she celebrated them as she wished. But here, with nowhere to hide, she would to be forced to stay present and amicable this evening. Conversation was frowned upon, as was her notepad. Her mother insisted women were meant to be seen, charming when needed, and not heard by the men—unless such attention was desired.
