Page 55 of Lord Farleigh and Miss Frost

His smile turned more sincere. “It does. Though I admit, I prefer a larger palette of colors for most of my work. One of my paintings is hanging in the family gallery, you know. Her Grace, my aunt by marriage, was exceptionally kind when she requested it.”

“Which one is yours?”

“The duke’s dogs. Have you seen it?”

Isleen thought carefully. “I remember admiring it. Now that I know you have painted it, I must go look again.” She started to rise from the table.

“What? Now?” He put his brush down too.

Isleen made their excuses to the other ladies before saying to him. “What better time than the present?”

What poor Mr. Childwick didn’t know? Isleen intended to question him closely on all that Simon had said of her. As closely as she could while remaining discreet. Each day she spent in the castle, each moment in the company of Simon Dinard, she wished for another. Another day. Another moment.

The twists and turns in the castle corridors brought them to the family gallery, where the duke had cases displaying important historical finds on the land, including Roman coins and copper cuffs from the days of the druids. On the walls, stretching up perhaps twenty feet, were portraits and paintings by masters, each of them depicting the ducal family members stretching back into previous centuries, with representations of the castle and surrounding lands as well. And above it all, an arched glass ceiling with curtains meant to shield the priceless works from even the indirect sunlight during the summers.

If Isleen had seen this room alone, she would have declared the architect of the castle a genius. Natural light flooded from above, but with the slants and icing of the glass, the paintings were protected from fading. The room, long as well as tall, wasn’t the least bit stuff thanks to the way the doors opened into it on two sides, creating a natural breezeway for fresh air to travel through.

“Here we are. The duke’s prized dogs, right here.” Mr. Childwick stood before a large oil painting of two beautiful dogs at play, leaping through a field with woods in the background. One of the dogs looked to be a common English collie, while the other had thick, puffed-up fur of a breed she could not name.

“They are quite realistic.” Isleen leaned closer to peer at the strokes that made up the fur on the larger of the two. “You brought them to life with the expression in their eyes. They seem happy.”

“As two dogs frolicking through a meadow ought to be.” Mr. Childwick tilted his head and examined his work with a critical eye. “They are Minnie and Winter. The border collie is Minnie, of course. The duke wrote to me last year to say she had died. He adored her. I think Winter is enjoying retirement in the kennels. I painted this five years ago.”

“Would you do it differently now?”

Mr. Childwick slowly shook his head. “I try not to look at my completed work that way. As something to be improved upon after I’ve laid my brush down. Instead, I look for what I did well. I measure myself against it. Am I as pleased with the work I complete today as I was with this painting, the day I presented it to my uncle?” He smiled to himself. “I cannot hold a younger version of myself or my work to the standards I meet now. Though I will hold my present self to the pride and sense of accomplishment as I felt it in the past.”

Isleen regarded him with some surprise. Though not as strikingly handsome as his cousin, Mr. Childwick had an appeal of his own in his bearing and the way he spoke. She hadn’t noticed it until she stood with him before his painting. “You wish to feel now about your work as you did then.” She studied the dogs again, and the sky above them, the trees in the distance.

“I never want to lose the sense of accomplishment, or to lose the joy I feel when I paint.” The man nodded once at the painting, then turned on his heel to face her instead of the art. He grinned suddenly, breaking through the moment that had rested with a heavy peace on Isleen’s shoulders. “If you are not a dedicated artist, Miss Frost, how do you prefer to bend your talents and time? I am most curious about you, after all my cousin has said.”

The opening Isleen had hoped for, at last. “Whathasyour cousin said? I must know what misrepresentations need correcting, or what compliments I have already received, before I can list my own.”

Mr. Childwick crossed his arms over his chest and paced away from her, a playful smile on his face. “Here we come to the truth. You wanted to speak of Farleigh, not my painting.”

Her cheeks flooded with heat. “That isn’t entirely true. But…oh, fine. Maybe it was.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. “Will you forgive me, Mr. Childwick? I do admire your talent. We can return to speaking of art, if you wish. I have a dozen questions I could ask—”

He cut her off when he spun around, a laugh escaping him. “No, Miss Frost. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I understand you completely, and I take no offense. In truth, I am relieved you are as preoccupied with my cousin as he is with you.”

She lowered her gaze to the carpet, a swirl of black, red, and cream meeting her eyes. “I am entirely too presumptuous about our friendship. When you said he made mention of me, it intrigued me.” She sighed and lowered her hands to her side, gripping the fabric of her gown instead, the soft velvet folds of her winter dress grounding her in the moment. “I apologize. Truly. It is none of my business what you and Lord Farleigh discuss.”

The gentleman’s tone gentled as he stepped closer. “Here now, Miss Frost, don’t go turning into a missish puddle. One of the things Farleigh likes most is how often you stand your ground. I cannot have you showing me otherwise when he admires it so.”

She hadn’t felt capable of standing her ground of late. Her thoughts had been a muddle since the day they returned from the inn. Things she had never worried about crept into her dreams to torment her. Was she too prideful? Unbending? Should she stop debating? Perhaps her storytelling was too childish, too rustic.

Questioning who she was because of her sudden interest in a man made Isleen uncomfortable. When had she last felt so unsure?

She winced. Knowing exactly when. Years ago, when she had fallen in love with Sean, and she hadn’t discovered if he felt the same. The early days of her love had been both a misery and a joy as the newfound emotion took root in her heart.

The carpet beneath her swirled again, righting itself into a pattern of thorns and roses. She released a shaky breath, then drew in another to steady herself before lifting her chin. “There now. I am all right,” she said aloud. “Perhaps we should return to painting the lanterns?”

Mr. Childwick studied her, then withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. “You may wish to dry your eyes, Miss Frost.”

She hadn’t even known a few confused tears had escaped. She laughed, shakily, and accepted the linen square from him. “Thank you, sir.”

“It seems you have a riot of thought and feeling inside you, Miss Frost. I do hope my cousin, if he is the cause, will also be the cure.”

Her cheeks warmed as she wiped at them. “I did not expect our interview to be this tumultuous. I hope I have not made you uncomfortable.”

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