Page 46 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

“You don’t mean to paint me with my hair down, do you?”

He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, shaking his head. “I am teaching you color, am I not?”

“Yes,” she said dubiously.

“Well, take the colors in your hair.” He hesitated only a brief moment before reaching for a lock of hair from her shoulder and holding it out into the light. Spreading it between his fingers, the silky-smooth strands dripped over his skin. The sun was hidden behind clouds, but the bright, white light pouring through the windows perfectly highlighted the multitude of colors in her hair. “What do you see?”

She looked up at him, her brown eyes confused. “Brown.”

“Yes, there’s brown. But look closer at the individual strands. What else do you see?”

She tilted her head further, her neck elongating as she peered at the hair he splayed in his fingertips. Glancing up, she held his gaze. “Gold?”

Bentley couldn’t help but smile. “Indeed. I see gold. There is a soft reddish-brown too, just there.” He pointed and she looked back toward the hair he held. “I think you’ll see that things often look much more colorful on closer inspection. It is important not to take everything at its initial appearance but to look deeper. You will be more satisfied, I think.”

She nodded. “Which colors do you intend to mix for the painting?”

“Well, a soft brown and a reddish-brown to start.”

“And the gold?”

He looked into her eyes, brown with gold flecks that shone brightly as they soaked in everything he said and did. They were so round, so full of expression. “I will mix the gold too, yes. It will be useful when we get to your eyes.”

She blinked. “Let me guess. You see more than just brown in my eyes as well?”

“I see so much more,” he said, his voice low.

Hattie’s eyes widened, and she stepped back, her hair sliding from his hand and falling limply against her shoulder. “Agnes,” she said, louder than necessary. “We’ve finished analyzing the color in my hair. Will you put it up for me again?”

Bentley crossed the room to put more space between them. He needed to steady his breathing. “I’ll begin to mix the paints. We oughtn’t to waste this time.”

“Do you have another engagement today?”

“No, but I am uncertain if my cousin will return early.”

“Oh, that. You’ve no cause for concern,” Hattie said, her head turned away from him as she handed her maid the hairpins. “He plans to return on Thursday.”

“Yes, but…” Bentley paused, looking at her over his shoulder. “How did you come by that information?”

Agnes gathered Hattie’s hair, twisting it and deftly slipping the pins back into place. She crossed the room toward him, patting her hair to check it. “Mr. Warren told me of his plans himself.”

Bentley startled, pouring far more linseed oil onto the mixing stone than he intended to. Well, that just meant he would have to make a larger batch. It appeared that he would be tackling both her hair and eyes today. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.”

“Mr. Warren was at the ball I attended last night,” she explained, her voice soft and matter-of-fact. “We were introduced, and when I asked him of his plans, he explained that he will return to Wolfeton House on Thursday. So you needn’t fear that he’ll return early. We have all day at our disposal.”

“I see. You met Warren at the ball. Did you…enjoy his company?” Bentley would have grimaced at the awkwardness of his question if his body was not pulsing with the need to learn of what Hattie thought of his cousin.

She nodded, her brown eyes bright. “He is a most excellent dancer, is he not?”

They’d danced. Why did the image of Warren and Hattie dancing send a surge of revulsion through Bentley’s stomach? He turned his attention back to the paints, eager to give his eyes something to focus on so they would not betray him. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had the pleasure of partnering the man myself.”

Hattie grinned, a chuckle slipping through her lips, and she leaned against the sideboard, watching him mix pigment with oil and then transferring it onto a palette. “I can attest to his talent, then. Truly though, I wonder…”

Bentley told himself not to inquire. Whatever it was that the woman wondered certainly could not be something he had an interest in. It would be better for him not to question her, to allow her unfinished sentence to die. Clenching his teeth, he fought curiosity as it reared and grew, clawing up his chest until the words were out of his mouth regardless of his intent. “What is it you wonder?”

She turned, her hand resting on his upper arm. “You recall the story I told you of Midsummer’s Eve and how I saw a fox? I wonder…well, your cousin has such red hair, I wonder if it could mean something.”

Bentley’s body stilled under her touch, and then further hardened beneath her words. She believed her ritual from a few months previous was enough to signify that Warren was the man she was meant to marry? The idea was sickening, but Bentley could not decipher exactly why it made him feel that way. Warren was a good man, if not somewhat narrow-minded at times. He would make any young woman a decent husband, surely, though his lengthy absences overseas could be seen as a hardship.

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