Page 6 of The Marquess Method
She wished he’d go away. Whywashe in the park so early? Haven didn’t strike Theo as someone who embraced the morning. She pictured him quite clearly in a smoky tavern at night.
Her eyes flitted to the left and right. No horse, though admittedly there might be one near and Theo just couldn’t see it. Nearly everything beyond the small cluster of trees a short distance away was fuzzy about the edges.
“I feel certain, my lord,” Theo tried to keep the exasperation out of her words, “you’ve much better things to do than watch me paint. I don’t want to keep you from your morning stroll.” She threw another hint in his direction.
“I’ve a bit of time before meeting a young lady for a walk.”
The color of his eyes deepened to emerald as he peered at her from beneath his lashes. It was difficult to discern if Haven was being truthful or not, though if he were meeting a young lady, it would explain the coat. But if that were Haven’s purpose, he should have taken the time to have his hair cut properly.
Theo raised a brow, curious. “I know few young ladies who would be interested in such an early morning stroll, my lord.”
“You’re here.”
“I’mpainting.” Really, he was infuriating. “At least, I’m trying to,” she said pointedly.
“Are you acquainted with Miss Violet Emerson?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Cousin Winnie was correct, as usual. Havenwaspursuing the adored daughter of Viscount Emerson. Petite, raven-haired with porcelain skin, Violet was renowned for her beauty and ladylike manner. She doubtless also possessed perfect eyesight.
Something curdled in Theo’s stomach.
“I doubt you two would get on,” Haven said casually as he drew a circle on the blanket with his forefinger.
Theo had no idea what he meant exactly, but it sounded like an insult.
“Besides,” Haven said before she could speak again. “I find your creative process to be fascinating.”
“You’ve no idea what my creative process entails. Or anyone’s creative process. I’m doubtful of your appreciation for artistic endeavors.” She dabbed her brush in another circle of paint, intent on capturing the glistening of the water as the light rippled across the surface, and deliberately turned her back.
The skin behind her ear tickled as Haven breathed over her shoulder. “I sense you don’t like the thought of me walking with Miss Emerson.”
Theo’s entire back arched in his direction. To her utter horror.
“Relieve yourself of such a notion, my lord. With whom you walk in the park is none of my affair.” Her brush hovered; she was more annoyed than she had been previously, and it would surely influence her work. Because Theodidn’tcare for the thought of Haven kissing Miss Emerson as he had her.
Turning her head to once more urge him to move along, Theo found his face mere inches from her own. If Haven so much as tipped his chin, their lips would touch.
“You forgot the green.” His voice was a low hum against her skin.
“I didn’t forget anything. Will youpleasego? I can’t concentrate with you chattering away next to me, Lord Haven. I’m sure Miss Emerson is impatient for your company.”
“But I wish to see you work on your painting. It is a painting, isn’t it? Despite the smaller size? Though not small enough to be a miniature. I understand you are quite good at those.”
“I am.” She nearly smiled back at him, thinking of Blythe’s gift. Daring was what the miniature was. Bold. Painted to showcase both her talent and affection. It was meant to compel Blythe to announce his intentions. She refused to believe it would not work.
“Must have been what ruined your eyesight. All that tiny painting.”
Theo’s lips tightened. She came very close to stabbing Haven with the end of her paintbrush. “I’m experimenting with a larger canvas.”
“You are? How interesting,” he purred.
Haven probably sprang from the womb mildly debauched and rumpled, with a cheroot in one hand and the other reaching for a glass of scotch. But if he thought forone momentthat Theo would be taken aback by his blatant attempt to insert impropriety into their discussion, he was sorely mistaken. She had two older brothers, both of whom were far more masterful at innuendo than the marquess sitting next to her.
“Where does one hang such a thing?” Haven finally said after pretending to study her canvas with great interest. “It’s barely larger than a book.”
“It ismuchlarger than a book,” she snapped, concerned with the stretch of Haven’s fingers next to her skirts. “One hangs a picture such as this in their home. Perfect for a nook in the foyer or a study. Possibly a parlor.”
“A nook?” Haven made a small grunt. “I can’t imagine art specifically for a secluded, dark corner. Why would you bother? If one is in such a place,” his voice lowered, “their intent is not to observe a painting.” He leaned close again, the edge of his chin brushing lightly atop her shoulder. “Though the strokes are very fine.”
