I should have known.
His stomach clenched at the sight of Lady Verity curled up on a velvet blue settee that partially faced him as well as the nearbyfire. A sketchpad rested on her knees, her head bent over, a strand of her golden-brown hair falling loosely onto her cheek.
Tristan couldn’t breathe. He watched the firelight dance across her gentle features. Intrigued more than he cared to admit, he took a moment to study her angles and shadows. Minutes passed before he could gather his thoughts. He could not be caught like this.
Knowing he had to reveal himself first, he cleared his throat. “Do you ever rest, My Lady?”
She paused, never showing surprise, but she took her time to respond. “The house is loud now. I think the storm has begun again. Besides, it’s difficult to rest when your home becomes a temporary inn for grumpy aristocrats.”
That childish insult made his back stiffen. A vague memory flashed through his mind, of his friends telling him to relax, to smile, to enjoy himself. Then, a woman’s face followed. But he quickly pushed it away. There was only so much of the past that he wished to remember.
Tristan frowned and turned away, not wanting Lady Verity to know how she affected him. He went to the nearest bookshelf and noticed that it needed some dusting.
“You did not act so affected by my presence during supper.”
“I am practicing my indifference,” she explained. “An important skill, wouldn’t you agree?”
He trailed his fingers over the spine of a particularly intriguing book before pausing. When he looked back at her, he could swear the corner of her lips quirked up. So he asked in turn, “And how is that working out for you?”
Warmth spread across his chest when she finally looked up and met his gaze. “Not as well as I hoped.”
It almost felt like a smile. A connection.
He leaned forward, wavering on his feet, before he straightened up. Silence fell over them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.
Tristan nodded toward her charcoal-smeared hand. “What are you drawing this evening?”
“Do you assume that I draw every evening?”
“You are too comfortable here for me to believe otherwise. You sit there like you have always been here,” he observed.
Tristan couldn’t resist drawing closer. His feet wouldn’t stay still. Besides, he needed to see her work more closely. Vaguely, he reminded himself that the household was abed and that the door was open.
She showed him her sketch—a drawing of Redcliff Manor. He’d seen it hours ago in the dreary weather. Now, she drew it in a similar but rather haunting world. The worn stone and ivy had grown to consume much more of the building. One of the windows was hidden away, though there was plenty more to see.
He took another step forward to see it better. There was much more detail than what he would have expected. The sketch was only a glimpse into the manor, but he could see the life and the gaps.
Something was missing. Or rather, he sensed it for what it was—loneliness.
“I draw what I know.”
He blinked, looking at her before realizing he’d drawn close. He jerked up and took a step back.
He tried not to think about her words too much as he noted, “You’re very talented.”
Lady Verity squinted. “You sound surprised.”
His lips curled up. “Just because you prefer to be unsuspecting, My Lady, doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”
After a moment’s stare, she shook her head. “I should go.”
He moved back as she rose to her feet and closed her sketchbook. Charcoal streaked her hand, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Good night, Your Grace.”
The scent of lavender lingered in the air as she took her leave. He couldn’t bring himself to move for some time after she was gone.
Already the fire was dying. The room grew colder the longer he lingered. Time ticked by. Outside, he could hear the storm continue to rage. It had indeed picked up again; the quiet after supper must have been temporary because the winds promised absolute chaos.
