Theo tucked the bit of canvas she carried more securely beneath her arm.
Painting and contemplating the Earl of Blythe was how Theo planned to spend her morning. His birthday was next week. An invitation for the celebration, planned by his mother, had already arrived at the Averell mansion. Theo would be attending with Cousin Winnie and Rosalind. She’d already chosen the gown she would wear.
Blythe’s gift from Theo, rather splendid if a bit improper, was finally finished and already sitting in a tiny wooden box decorated with a bow. The gift was sure to compel Blythe to offer for her, something Theo desired above all else.
Her fingers tightened on the handle of the rosewood box containing her paints and brushes. The blanket she carried shifted against her hip. Theo paused to tuck the blanket and the canvas more securely beneath her arm.
If Romy were in London, she would be quite distressed by Theo’s plans. Horrified, in fact. Frankly, Theo herself was more than a little shocked. But nothing was ever achieved by being a milquetoast, according to Theo’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Averell. Still, before her departure, Romy had made Theo promise she wouldn’t do anything impulsive. Or brazen. Blythe’s mother was known to be a bastion of propriety. She wouldn’t look kindly on a bold young lady attempting to ensnare her son.
Theo rolled her eyes as she trudged along, the rosewood box banging against her thigh. What did Romy know? Granby hadn’t courted Romy properly. He’d ruined her andthenmarried her.
Though Blythe hadn’t asked permission to formally court Theo, he’d paid her a great deal of attention at Granby’s house party. By his own admission, he regarded her highly. Blythe had also danced with Theo at Lady Cambourne’s ballandat Lady Ralston’s, two of the social season’s most significant events. He’d called on two separate occasions. They had even read poetry together in the garden. And during Romy’s wedding to Granby, he’dwinkedat Theo from across the aisle of the church, his golden beauty, clothed in a suit of peacock blue, nearly blinding her with its magnificence. A blush had warmed her cheeks at the affectionate gesture.
Until she’d caught sight of Haven sitting next to Blythe.
Theo stumbled over a tree root. “Drat.”
Haven’s eyes had lingered far too long on her bosom before reaching her mouth, a not-too-subtle reminder of the kiss he’d stolen from her at Granby’s house party. What was worse, she’d enjoyed that kiss far too much. Embarrassing to admit, but true. Even more humiliating when she learned how competitive Haven and Blythe were with each other. Haven, poverty-stricken marquess that he was, envied Blythe his wealth and a great many other things.
Her first real kiss had surely only been done to anger Blythe.
Theo had little choice but to avoid Haven on principle. When Haven had called at the Averell mansion for Romy—as an ambassador of sorts on behalf of Granby and under the guise of friendship—Theo had made herself scarce. Fortunately, outside of Romy’s wedding, Theo hadn’t seen Haven at any of the events she’d attended, for which she was grateful. According to Cousin Winnie, Haven’s interests were solely focused on Miss Violet Emerson.
Good riddance.
Theo forced her mind back to the task at hand and the entire reason for being in the park at such an ungodly hour. Olivia had issued Theo a challenge. Create somethingotherthan a miniature. Yes, miniatures showcased Theo’s singular talent, but wasn’t it time to expand her horizons? Try something different? A landscape perhaps, or a bowl of fruit.
Or a breast.
Theo bit her lip. Olivia would faint dead away even mentioning the word.
But Theo acknowledged itwastime to move on. After all, the miniature she had painted for Blythe was by far her best work. Difficult to surpass. One of a kind. Incredibly improper. Perfect. She might not ever paint another miniature.
Earlier this week, Theo had finally yielded to Olivia’s pressure and sketched out the small pond hidden in a copse of trees at the base of the hill she now climbed. Theo’s pencil had scratched away while Olivia had perched on the blanket beside her, calmly paging through one of the dull books on gardening she found endlessly fascinating.
Hyacinths. Peonies. Soil fertilized with cow dung. An interest Olivia unbelievably shared with Granby, of all people.
Theo enjoyed a good book as much as anyone, but her tastes ran more to romance. Lately, she’d developed a taste for novels featuring pirates. Thieves. Dangerous highwaymen. Horrid villains. Not the proper way to prune a rose bush.
The sun was beginning to rise as she approached the top of the hill, soft morning light spreading out atop the slick surface of the water. She took bigger steps, hoping to get to the correct spot before the light changed and ruined the vision in her mind’s eye. There were very few people in the park at this hour, which was a good thing. No one would remark on the reclusive, slightly odd middle Barrington daughter alone without escort, though Theo didn’t consider herself quite so solitary or strange now, thanks to Blythe and his attentions.
She set down her artist’s kit and the canvas before tossing out the blanket tucked beneath her arm. Spreading the blanket across the grass, she turned her gaze to the pond.
The mist was just starting to burn away, giving the water and surrounding grass a mysterious, otherworldly look, a mood she wanted to capture. Peering into the hazy morning mist, Theo tried to make out the cattails at the edge of the pond.
She squinted into the mist as a goose honked. Somewhere.
Theo refused to wear her spectacles when out in public, and this morning was no exception. Blythe still didn’t know how vision-impaired she was, and Theo had no intention of him finding out. Shehadworn them when she sketched out the pond the other day, butonlybecause Olivia had been beside her, promising to alert Theo if anyone of their acquaintance came by.
Settling herself on the blanket, Theo opened the lid and took out the easel, setting the small canvas against it. The palette was cleverly tucked away inside the lid of the box, and she placed it in front of her. Looking at the array of colors, each securely tucked in small glass tubes, filled Theo with a sort of giddy joy. Smoky greys. Pale pinks. Soft creams.
She loved,loved, colors. And pencils. Chalk. Pastels. All of it.
The tiny containers holding the paints were so clever. A fairly recent invention by Winsor and Newton, where Theo purchased most of her supplies. She supposed her adoration of the glass syringes was what had led her to decide not to use watercolors for this painting.
Carefully, she selected a glass tube, placing just a dab of cream—Flemish White,her mind whispered—on the palette. Next, a tiny drop ofCadmium Yellowwhich she swirled on the tip of her brush while watching the sun make its way above the horizon, bathing the pond with early morning light. Working quickly to capture the exact right hue, she hummed to herself, pausing only to squint at something she couldn’t see clearly, which was nearly everything. She told herself the details weren’t important. This painting was more about color.
“That’s not right.”
