Page 14 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 6

Bentley watched his stout housekeeper tend to Miss Green’s wound. The wretched chicken had done a number on her arm, and he was surprised to find that the gash looked deeper than it had originally appeared. Mrs. Notley cleaned it thoroughly, though, and wrapped a small bandage around Miss Green’s arm. Lifting the discarded spencer, she clucked her tongue again. He wondered if she realized that she sounded much like the animal who had inflicted the wound on their trespasser.

For Hattie Green was no guest of his. He would not allow his mind to classify her so amiably.

“Nasty rip, dear,” Mrs. Notley said, her lips pinched as she inspected the torn sleeve. “Shall I have my girl sew it up for you?”

“No, I thank you.” Miss Green reached for the spencer, an easy smile resting on her pink lips. “My maid is fantastic with a needle. She’ll be able to do it justice, I am sure.”

“If she is able to remove the stain,” Mrs. Notley added.

Miss Green looked to the rust-colored blood stain drying on the frayed edges. “I do hope she might be successful. This is my favorite short jacket.”

Bentley cleared his throat, garnering attention from both women. “If not, you must allow me to replace it.”

Miss Green gave him a curious glance. “You needn’t concern yourself with this, Your Grace. My maid is quite skilled at removing stains.” She grimaced. “The poor thing should be, since I’ve given her ample practice.”

Mrs. Notley gathered the used rags and basin of water and busied herself with clearing them from the parlor.

“Removing stains from everything except gloves?” Bentley asked.

Miss Green’s sharp gaze flicked to him, confusion clouding her dark, speckled brow. She was so uniquely beautiful, Bentley had a mind, as he had many times since first meeting this woman, to paint her. He’d come close to asking if she would be willing to arrange a sitting, but reason took hold, and he refrained—if only just. She was remarkably handsome, done over in varying shades of brown from her hair, to her eyes, to her freckle-covered skin. The combination was striking in an unusual way.

But he could not ask her to sit for a portrait without giving her false ideas of his motives, surely. How was a man to kindly explain that he only wanted to capture her likeness, that he did not have any designs on her, without sounding rude? He couldn’t. He did not know how.

Her current confusion was entertaining. “My gloves? I do not know what you refer to.”

“That day we met in the milliner’s shop, she pressed you to purchase gloves on the basis of—”

“Oh, that.” Miss Green waved a hand dismissively. “My maid Agnes was able to remove the chocolate stain from my old gloves. Well, mostly. It is hardly noticeable, you understand. I’m certain no one shall inspect my inner elbow at the next ball I attend, so I am not overly concerned.”

“If your maid was able to remove the stain, why did you purchase the gloves?”

Miss Green blinked at him. He was no simpleton, but when she looked at him that way, he certainly felt like one. “Are you familiar with Mrs. Dawson?”

He shifted, recalling Egerton’s positive report of the woman. “I’ve visited her shop a small handful of times.”

“She has been forced to cope with losing a good portion of her clientele to Melbury the last few months. I would never offer the woman charity, for she is far too proud to accept it, but I can buy an extra set of gloves to help her, can I not?”

“You can.” And here Bentley had believed Miss Green had allowed herself to be swindled. He’d misjudged her, and it caused him to wonder what else about this woman he’d misunderstood.

Her gaze roamed back to the painting above the mantel, and pride swelled his chest. He’d caught her looking at it time and again while Mrs. Notley had tended to her arm, and anxious energy skittered through his limbs. He wanted to ask what she thought of it but could hardly manage to bear an unfavorable answer. The result was his own heightened nerves and a very dissatisfied feeling.

It was best if he changed the subject. No, scratch that. What was best would be to remove this woman from his house and his life forthwith. It was not wise to mix with the locals. Bentley had spent the better part of seven years avoiding this very thing. His desire to paint this woman and her different features did not—could not—override his wish for privacy.

“Do you know the artist?”

Bentley stilled. “Yes.”

Her eyes lit up, and he feared she would ask him to put her in touch with the man. What would he say then? He would not lie.

Bentley stood. “May I escort you home, Miss Green?” Rude, perhaps, but it was time to put an end to this visit. Though in truth, he hoped she would deny him the privilege of walking her home. Less time for conversation meant less time to grow interested in the things she spoke of. And he was already far too interested in what she had to say for his own good.

“I thank you, Your Grace, but you needn’t bother. My dogs are sufficient guardians. To be perfectly frank, I think it best if we are not seen together.” She stood before sliding her arms into her ripped spencer jacket. Pausing, she glanced around the room. “Please thank your housekeeper for me. I did not realize she left the room. I suppose I was just so taken by the painting to see much of anything else.”

Bentley fought the approval that burned within him, shoving it down and snuffing it out before it could grow. He looked about for a bonnet until he realized that she hadn’t been wearing one.

“I will most certainly let her know of your gratitude.” He motioned for her to precede him from the room, and she obliged, glancing over her shoulder when they reached the front door.

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