Page 39 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

“You will notice that your skin has a pink tone to it, so the sprinkle of red will give us that extra bit needed to make the color look exactly right.”

“But will that not create pink?”

Shaking his head, Bentley reached for the taller bottle. “The oil has a yellow tint to it, so you must always take that into consideration. Though, you are correct. We likely need to add some yellow.”

He proceeded to do so before lifting a long, slightly bell-shaped stone and further grounding the mound of powders. The powders mixed together, melting from incongruous pigments into the color of Hattie’s forearm—the underneath, of course, which was mostly void of freckles.

Uncapping the oil, he let a few drops fall onto the powder. “You want to begin with a small amount and work it in with the muller, slowly adding more as you go until you obtain the right consistency.”

“Surely if you know how much liquid you might need though you can add more than a few drops,” Hattie argued. “You can quicken the process.”

Bentley’s gaze flicked to her. “It is easier to mix the powders without lumps if you start with less oil. Too much liquid makes the lumps difficult to work out. Once you have a sort of paste though, you can add more oil in. You’ll have a much smoother paint that way.”

She nodded, understanding. Hattie had spent enough time with her cook in the kitchen as a young girl to grasp this concept of mixing out lumps. Of course, her focus had been the biscuits’ end result, but Cook always had her help through the whole process, and she’d enjoyed it. Though that was many years ago now.

Offering her the bell-shaped stone, Bentley raised his eyebrows. “Would you like to try?”

“Yes.” She pulled at the fingers of her gloves, removing them and laying the pair on the bureau before wrapping her hand around the muller, the rough stone warm where Bentley had held it.

“Now move it in sort of a circular motion…yes, exactly like that.”

Her chest warmed from his praise, and she continued to mix the paint as Bentley added drops of oil. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a paintbrush, and Hattie paused to allow him to dip it in the paint.

“Shall we test it against my skin?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “I think it is close enough. Even with all of my years of practice, I’m certain I could not get an exact match.”

“Let us see how close you came.” Hattie let the muller rest against the slab and pulled her sleeve up to her elbow, exposing her forearm.

Bentley lightly grasped her arm, lifting it so light from the tall windows lining the wall rested on it. He pointed to the bruise spread up the side of her wrist. “What is that?”

“It’s only minor. I fell the other day and caught my fall wrong with my wrist.”

“Does it pain you?”

She shrugged. “Not really. You won’t paint it into my portrait, will you?’

His gray eyes crinkled. “No, I won’t.” His gaze fell to the thin red line, mostly faded, where the chicken had scratched her arm. His finger brushed over it lightly before he pulled away, clearing his throat. “Are you ready?”

A shiver swooped over her arm, but she swallowed and smiled. “But first, we test the paint.” She took the brush from where he’d laid it against the stone and lightly dotted it on the inside of her arm. She set the brush down again and rubbed in the small section, angling her arm toward the light again. Bentley was correct; it was not a perfect match. But it was pretty close.

“Not too bad,” he said. “But don’t get it on your gown. You’ll ruin it.”

She looked up sharply. “This is not my first experience with paint, Bentley.”

His body stilled, his gray eyes searching hers. The air between them seemed heavy and fraught with energy until he turned away, snapping the tension. He retrieved a cloth from another drawer and wiped it over her arm, folding it and wiping again until the paint had all but disappeared. Her arm in his large, warm fingers was causing an odd sensation to run through her body, and she didn’t know if she liked it or hated it.

Lightening her voice and hoping to sound unaffected, she shot him a bright smile. “Where shall I sit?”

Bentley gestured to a leather armchair set before an easel near the windows. It looked to be the same one in which her cat had been painted. That was fitting. “I was considering a pale blue for the background. Do you have a favorite color?”

“Yes, all of them,” she replied, settling herself into the leather chair while he moved about, swiftly pulling things from the cupboards, pouring powders into the stone, and using the muller to make his paint.

“Why does that not surprise me?” he asked, sending a soft smile over his shoulder.

Hattie watched him move with surety and grace, quickly mixing the various paints. She wondered briefly if she should go watch over his shoulder, but she needed a bit of space to breathe for a moment. “You know, I made my requests when we devised this scheme, but I never asked if you have any conditions. Do you?”

“Only the one, and you mentioned it, so I did not feel the need to do so.”

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