Page 52 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

She waited to see if he was once again joking, but it did not appear so. She lifted her charcoal pencil again. “I am trying to take down your likeness.”

“Yes, but must you stare in that way? It is unnerving.”

Hattie grinned. “I must. I don’t have the ability to remember things for long. Pictures and the like. I must paint or draw what is directly in front of me.”

His eyes were wide. “And memorize it within an inch of its life?”

“Yes.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Carry on, then.”

“Do you have a favorite animal?” she asked.

Bentley’s lips turned down at the ends. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

Her gaze was trained on the image as she tried to get the right proportions of Bentley’s neck. “Well, Jeffrey always had a fondness for one of our pigs, Betsy, when we were children, and I’m wondering if there’s a correlation between that affection and his portrait.”

“The only animal I can claim to like is Romeo. If you make me look like a cat, however, I’m bound to think you did it on purpose.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “I shan’t, I promise. Not on purpose, at least. Besides, now that you’ve shaved you’re far less hairy.”

Shaking his head, Bentley crossed his ankle over the other knee. “I never quite know what to make of you, Hattie Green.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”

“Trust me,” he said quietly. “It was meant as one.”

Hattie returned her attention to the drawing, taking her time to get the curve of his ear just so while her heart pattered hard against her breastbone. The duke’s words, his tone, had gone straight to her chest, hitting her as though with a physical force. No one had ever had such an effect on her, and it was as frightening as it was exhilarating.

But it was not wise to allow herself to enjoy the feeling, either. Not when the man was wholly unavailable: his status as a duke alone was proof of that, to say nothing for his unwillingness to leave his house. Swallowing down her confusion over the warmth that was spreading over her body, Hattie stared hard at the face she was sketching. It did not resemble Bentley in even the slightest way, but it was still very preliminary. Though Hattie had a feeling she would only be proving Bentley wrong with this exercise, she continued anyway.

“Do you ever intend to go into town?” she asked, emboldened by the intimacy of their lesson, Bentley casually sitting across from her and lulling her with a comfortable repartee.

“I have not been to London in ages, and I don’t plan to return anytime soon.”

“No, not that town. Graton. The people might not be what one is used to in high Society, but they are good and kind, and there is a lovely sense of community—”

“The very last thing I want is a sense of community,” Bentley said, his words steady but laced with an edge. “My isolated life is exactly the way I want it to be, and I do not intend to make any changes.”

Hattie looked up, holding his gaze. She wanted to ask about their lessons, their meetings, their exchanging of letters—were those actions not changing his isolated life? Broadening it? But the steel in his gray eyes was enough to stop her argument in its tracks, allowing it to die a swift, fruitless death.

She continued to draw in silence for a few minutes longer, her body tense and the strokes too hard, not coming out as she wanted them to. Finally, she put down the pencil.

“I did not mean to be harsh,” Bentley said quietly. “My privacy is immensely important to me. It is about more than comfort, Hattie. It is imperative.”

What reason could he possibly have for remaining so alone? “I take a lot of value in the comfort of others, so I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“You need not understand. Suffice it to say that if I was to come to church and join this community you love so dearly, I would be putting my family name in jeopardy. The only way to keep the past behind me and protect my father is to remain hidden away.”

“Your father? Is he not…”

“Dead?” he asked curtly. “Yes. But his name shall live on forever. He served diligently in parliament and spent many years closely advising the king. He has done much for our nation, and I owe him everything. I owe him my life.”

“You are certainly giving him that.”

“And I will continue to do so. It is the least I can do.”

Hattie set the canvas and pencil on the cushion beside her. “I rather think it is quite a bit more than that.”

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