Page 15 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Her forehead was creased in thought. “I can understand why you feel you are an expert on matters regarding painting and colors if that is the sort of example you have to study.” She chuckled. “I was rather put off by your commentary on my colors the other day, but even I can recognize such immense talent as that.”

How would she feel if she knew that it was his talent of which she spoke? He swallowed against a dry throat.

Egerton stepped forward and opened the front door for them, and Miss Green moved past him and down the steps. Her dogs were running about the grass to their right, but no chickens appeared, and neither did that pesky cat.

When had his home become so overrun with obstinate animals?

“Perhaps I will even forgive you now.”

Bentley nearly missed his footing on the front steps. “I hadn’t realized I was in jeopardy of remaining unforgiven.” The truth was that he hadn’t even known she harbored ill feelings toward him at all. She had seemed perfectly at ease in his presence for the last half-hour.

Her nose wrinkled. “Can you blame me? It isn’t pleasant to be told you didn’t do something well.”

Bentley closed the door behind him, stepping down until he paused on the gravel beside her. He might not be interested in a friendship with this woman, but he did not want to anger her, and being rude had never been his intent. He cleared his throat, hoping to convey his feelings without divulging too much personal information. “I have an…obsession, if you will, with colors. I’ve taken an interest in the process of blending paints, and my only intention was to help, not to criticize. I found your painting quite stunning.”

“Except for the shadows beneath the house.”

A chuckle rumbled his chest and slipped from his lips. Her quick responses caught him off guard but were not unpleasant. “They looked…fine.”

“Yes,” she said, grinning. “Fine. Not great.”

He fought a smile. For someone who harbored ill will toward him, Miss Green certainly did not seem perturbed. Quite the opposite, in fact. She appeared amused. “I will keep my opinions to myself in future.”

A breeze drew over them, lifting a lock of her brown hair and drawing it over her forehead. She tucked it away. “In future, you shall not have the opportunity to give opinions on my work, I should think.”

He clutched his chest. “I am in your black books?”

“No, Your Grace. I’ll forgive you with time, I’m sure.” Her teasing eyes belied her grudge, and Bentley was nearly positive that she was saying it in jest. Nearly. “But we shan’t have occasion to meet again, surely. Not unless my dogs take a shining to your chicken once more. I hadn’t intended to return to your property.”

He believed her. A week had passed since he’d come upon her in the woods, and his daily walks hadn’t procured any more visits from neighbors straying from their land.

“Daisy!” she called. “Rosie, come!”

The dogs obeyed at once, crossing the lawn toward them. “They listen well.”

“Sometimes,” she said, her smile wide. “Only when it suits them, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

She turned to walk away, and Bentley fought the desire to lengthen their conversation. Miss Green was quite willing to not press an acquaintance with him, and while it somewhat baffled him, he was grateful for it. Though learning her reasons wouldn’t be amiss, he did not need more information about her. He was teetering dangerously on the edge of wrecking his perfectly situated life as it was.

“Good day, then,” he called.

Miss Green dipped in a curtsy, throwing a smile over her shoulder. “Good day, Your Grace. And remember, you shan’t eat that chicken. You promised.”

“No, I shall not.”’

Absently rubbing the brown head of one of the flower-named dogs—he didn’t know which—Miss Green took off across the lawn without looking back. Her silhouette disappeared into the line of trees, the playful dogs flanking her until they could no longer be seen. Bentley fought the urge to call out to her, for he had no inclination why he should do so, or what he would even say to her.

Returning to his house, he encountered Egerton in the entryway.

“Do you plan to resume your activities in the blue room, Your Grace?”

“Yes, Egerton. I will need extra candles, for the light will soon be fading.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Passing Egerton, Bentley rolled up his shirtsleeves and let himself into the blue room. The tall, wide windows along the far wall were sparse of light now that the sun was beginning its descent, and he was momentarily irritated that he’d be forced to rely on lamplight now. Firelight was of a warm hue and tended to jump about, neither of which were ideal for painting. Perhaps he would be better off drawing for the rest of the afternoon.

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