Page 135 of Oddity of the Ton
“Except, perhaps, in the case of Mrs. Fulford, where, I fear, one cannot help but see a nose—and little else.”
Eleanor suppressed a giggle. “Honestly, reverend, I should reprimand you for such uncharitable thoughts.”
“Or commend me for my honesty.”
“Then I’ll be honest in turn, and tell you the reason I sketch you so much,” she said. “It’s because you have the most interesting face in Sandcombe.”
His eyes widened, and a flare of regret rippled through her at the desire in his expression.
“Ought I to be flattered?”
“Forgive me, but no,” she said. “I’m afraid a flaw of mine is my inability to say the right thing without giving offense. I was merely remarking, from an artistic point of view, that you have an interesting bone structure—the way the shadows play across your cheekbones…”
He took her hand, his fingers warm to the touch.
“Heavens! You’re cold,” he said. “We must get you inside.”
He leaned closer, and her heart somersaulted in her chest.
What have I done?
“I would hope you see me as more than a mere subject. I should like you to see me as a friend.”
Panic swelled inside her, and she withdrew her hand.
Disappointment flared in his eyes, followed by resignation.
“And now it is I who must beg forgiveness,” he said. “Though you are out of mourning, it’s thoughtless of me to assume that you no longer grieve for your late husband. Here…” He picked up the easel. “Let’s get your things inside before you catch cold. There’s tea waiting in the parlor—with some of my cook’s leftover Christmas cake.”
“How can I refuse an offer of leftover Christmas cake?”
Eleanor followed him inside to the parlor, where tea had been set out. He escorted her to a chair, then poured the tea. When he returned with her cup, stirring the contents, she caught the faint aroma of cinnamon and honey.
Perfect.
He gave a soft smile. “Your maid told me how you like your tea. The cinnamon arrived shortly after Christmas. Have I made it right?”
She nodded, returning the smile, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“I know tea is a poor substitute for the late Mr. Riley, but perhaps it will be enough to enable you to forgive my crassness of earlier.”
She met his warm brown gaze, and her conscience pricked at her heart. This good, kind man did not deserve to be deceived.
“I fear I’m the one who must beg forgiveness,” she said.
“What for?”
“I’ve not been entirely honest. I-I’m not—” She hesitated. “I mean—I’m not a widow.”
“Your husband’s alive?”
She looked away, her cheeks warming as she felt his gaze on her. “I am unmarried.”
“I see,” he said after a pause.
“B-but therewasa man.”
He drew in a sharp breath, and she fixed her gaze on the window, anticipating admonishment. The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the air, together with the steady sound of his breathing.
