Page 7 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 4

Hattie stiffened, her hand pausing just before the freshly dipped yellow brush could meet the thick paper. A man had just spoken behind her, and if she was correct, it sounded exactly like the man who’d stopped her from crashing into Mrs. Dawson’s mirror the day before. The same smooth, low voice that reminded her of a hot cup of chocolate. But it couldn’t be. What in heaven’s name would he be doing here?

Lowering the brush, Hattie rested it on her messy palette. Her shoulders were tense as she turned to face her critic, and she did her best not to flinch when she met his piercing, gray eyes.

Though their color was stormy, it was their depth and steadiness that made Hattie feel as though the man was looking straight through her. Though if he was, then he would likely take a step back, for he would know precisely how much she disliked him in that moment.

“Pardon me?” she asked. “I do not think I heard you correctly.”

Shifting to lean on his other leg, he indicated her painting. “I believe the color for the foliage underneath the house could have been made richer had you added a touch of blue.”

Gazing up at him from her location on the forest floor was not ideal. Moving to stand, she fell onto her rear, unaware that her legs had gone wholly numb. Well, this was entirely the opposite of how she wanted to appear before this regal, well put together headmaster.

“More blue, you say?” She pulled her legs out before her, shooting a dazzling smile at the man to cover her frustration and waiting for the pin pricks to subside as the blood returned to her limbs.

“Well, yes,” he said, as though he’d made a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “Your color is well-chosen, but the tone is not quite right. There are varying degrees within each color, you see, and sometimes the most minimal addition can make all the difference.”

Clenching her teeth, Hattie decided that Agnes was correct in her earlier assumption: this gentleman clearly had no soul. She got to her feet on wobbly legs, straightening her skirt as pin pricks surged up her calves. There. Now she could meet him on more equal footing. Though he still towered unfairly above her.

“And are you an expert on matters of painting and color?”

He held her gaze. “I have studied the masters.”

“Ah, well. It is rather ridiculous to critique others when you haven’t tried to accomplish the thing yourself, do you not agree?”

He paused, shifting back to the other leg. “Yes, I would agree with that.”

So he had some sense, at least. “Good. Then perhaps we shall postpone this discussion. I can see how late it’s gotten, and I should be returning home. My father will wonder where I am.”

“Of course.”

She waited for him to leave, but he didn’t comply. Watching her, he merely clasped his gloved hands behind his back. His throat, she noticed, was bare underneath his coat. Had the man truly ventured outside without a cravat?

She tore her gaze away from his exposed sliver of skin, and a shiver swept over her. How long had she been out here? And when had it grown so cold? Pulling at the chain of the watch she always wore around her neck, Hattie checked the time. Drat. It had been hours. She knelt, not daring to put her back to a stranger, and began to gather her things together. She would need to carry her brushes, palette, and painting back to the house somehow, but she hadn’t planned to juggle all her things before an audience.

“May I be of any assistance?” the man asked.

As though she would take him up on such an offer. Hattie recalled belatedly how scatter-brained she’d tried to appear in the shop—so much for that. She considered raising her voice an octave and pretending to not understand him, but she could see that he would not believe her. His eyes were too knowing, his expression too studious. “How kind of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to soil your fine coat with my poorly-mixed paints.” Her voice held an edge to it, but she couldn’t help it.

“I can see that I’ve offended you.”

And she would likely be less so had he sounded any more penitent. “Think nothing of it. You are entitled to your opinion, however false it might be.”

“I was only trying to be of some help. The rest of your painting is magnificent.”

Her heart squeezed from the praise before she promptly squashed the warm feeling. “May I offer you some advice, then?”

“Please do.”

Oh, it was so grating how cool and level he seemed. If only she could rile him up the way he did her. “The next time you wish to offer advice to a complete stranger—particularly when you lack any experience in the matter—you may want to lead with the compliment. Learning whether the person in question welcomes your advice may be helpful, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Consider it noted. For what it’s worth, I did not mean to offend.”

“No one usually does, do they?”

A smile flickered over his lips, and Hattie thought it was something of an accomplishment that she had caused it. Oh, heavens, she needed to not feel that way.

Rising, she slung her satchel over her shoulder before bending to lift the wet painting and the palette, the brushes resting precariously atop it.

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