Amelia stared in silence at Drew.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. To have her gaze on him was to want to have her hands on him. Hell. He was hard.
“Mrs. Dart,” he said, needing distraction, “shall Bernard sit for you now?”
“Oh no, my lord.” Bernard snapped his jacket edges straight. “I’ve more work to do. I’ve been organizing the kitchen the way we have it organized in Manchester.
Likely not a good idea since the kitchen in Manchester was a tenth the size of the kitchen here. He’d speak to Bernard later, though, alone so as not to embarrass him in front of the ladies.
Bernard left, and Drew waited for the question he knew Amelia would ask.Will you sit for me?
But she turned to her frame and cleaned up the edges of his inking.
Why hadn’t she asked? She’d asked so many times before it had become a refrain, a clock in a hallway telling the time with hourly chimes. His response a marker of time, too—no.
Same way he’d answer tonight.
If she asked the damn question.
“Amelia.” Her name was out of his mouth before he knew what words he wanted to follow it. She turned to him, the brush in her hand hovering over the darkly inked paper. Hell, what did he wish to say? He searched and searched and grasped the first thing that peeked its head out of the dusty corners of his mind. “How many silhouettes do you think you’ve drawn over the course of your life?”
Her hand drooped at the canvas. “Oh. I’m unsure. Perhaps fifty or more.”
“That many? Do you have a favorite?”
She rested the brush beside the ink pot. “Shall I show you?” Before he could answer, she was out the door.
“Where do you think she’s gone?” Miss Angleton asked.
Drew shrugged. “I cannot say.” But he wanted to follow.
The young girl moved with the speed of a fox through the forest and plopped into a chair near his. A grin stretched ear to ear.
“Is there a meaning to this, Miss Angleton?”
Her grin, impossibly, widened. He turned from her, picked up his wineglass resting on a small table on his other side, and took a sip. “You’re sweet on Mrs. Dart.”
The liquid sprayed all over his lap. “Hell,” he hissed, patting at it with his fingers. Where were his damn gloves? They would be of use at the moment, and the one time he didn’t wear them, he?—
“Here, use my handkerchief.” She handed it out to him, and to her credit, she was not laughing at him.
He took it and blotted at the spray of dark spots across his thighs, the dribbles on his chin, cravat, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves. He’d made a fool of himself and all because?—
He turned to Miss Angleton, clutching her now purple-stained handkerchief in one hand. “Why do you say I’m sweet on Mrs. Dart?”
Miss Angleton rolled her eyes. “Do I need evidence, my lord?”
“Yes, you most certainly do. Are yousureyou wish to be a governess?”
She shrugged. “I decidedly do not wish to be a governess, but what options do I have? It’s either that or companion or something far more dangerous.” She dropped her gaze to her lap. “I’d prefer not to think on that.”
“You won’t have to, Miss Angleton. You’re under my care and in my employ. We’ll find a fitting position for you.”
She raised her gaze once more. A glint of merriment there. He would soon regret his support and— “What sort of fitting positions have you found for Mrs. Dart?”
There it was. The regret. “Miss Angleton, you will need to learn to curb your tongue.”
She sighed. “I’m aware. But you’re evading the question. About Mrs. Dart?—”
