Bright light cascaded across freshly swept and scrubbed floors. A block of tall windows, the same as what could be found below in the library, stretched floor to ceiling, providing an even more impressive look at the glorious vista surrounding Greenbriar. Her studio in London had such a sweeping panoramic view, but those windows overlooked the park.
Shelves held an assortment of her miniatures, a half-finished canvas along with several sketches. There was a sofa sitting in one corner, a bit worn and tattered but perfect for Theo to rest on while needing inspiration. Her gut told her the sofa had once sat in the parlor Betts had been staying in, a sitting room Haven’s mother had used, for the fabric and lines were feminine. There was a table with a stool, her small easel sitting on top. A larger easel, one she hadn’t purchased, stood just to the side.
Oh.A tear slipped unbidden down Theo’s cheek.
Rows of paint tubes were laid out neatly according to color, all brand new, meaning Haven must have ordered them in London before their wedding. Her brushes were all clean and placed in a cup. A stack of fresh canvasses, all of differing sizes, sat in the corner. Her portfolio and sketch pad sat on another shelf, along with pencils and charcoal.
There was much more here than what had been packed in her trunks. Much more than she’d had in her studio in London. He’d done this for her. No one had ever gone to so much trouble for her before. She sniffed, trying not to burst into tears.
“It wasn’t meant to make you cry. Do you like it?”
Haven was standing in the shadows at the far reaches of the room, hands clasped behind him. As usual, she found it difficult to decipher his mood.
“It’s wonderful,” she assured him. Her heart fluttered softly within the confines of her chest, desperate to be free and reach his. This studio, more than anything else Haven had ever done or said to her, told Theo the truth of his feelings for her.
‘I wanted you from the moment you spilled ratafia on me.’
Haven leaned down slightly, peering at her in concern. He was dressed in a plain linen shirt and worn leather breeches, scuffed boots firmly on his feet.
I should buy him new boots.Her chest constricted again.
Strands of russet hair were blown about his head as if Haven had just come in from riding through a field. Perhaps he had. She wasn’t sure how he spent most of his day. She’d never asked.
When they had spoken lately, in passing, Theo would take a deep breath and relay all that she was intent on doing without ever asking after him or allowing him to speak. She wasn’t even sure she’d told Haven she’d gone to Warwick. She talkedathim, but not to him, and he’d allowed it. Not once had he objected to anything she planned. Or undermined her authority with the tradesmen flooding Greenbriar. He never questioned how much money she was spending or told her to stop.
And Theo should have told him, in addition to asking how he spent his time, that she understood—even if she didn’t like—the conclusions he’d made about her. Because his assumptions had made their wedding night seem less special. Thatshewas less special.
I no longer think that’s true.
“I’m glad you like it.” Haven pushed away from the wall, glancing at her from beneath his lashes, uncertain of his welcome. “I want you to have a studio. A space of your own which belongs to only you.” The sun dappled across the broad expanse of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to show muscular forearms, with their light dusting of hair. The scent of the outdoors mixed with spice met Theo’s nose as he came near, tinged with something else that belonged to Haven alone.
“Tucked up under the eaves. My sisters used to tease me. I only wanted to be bent over one of my tiny paintings and never cared to have tea or watch Romy make clothes for her army of dolls.”
“Who would? All those fripperies. And I detest tea. I only pretend to like it.”
“You haven’t fooled anyone.” Theo thought of the way he frowned whenever a cup was placed before him. “I’m sure you only appear for the scones and sandwiches.”
The left side of his mouth tugged up. “It isn’t a crime to enjoy a tiny sandwich. But I don’t care for cucumber.”
“Duly noted.” Theo wandered over to the shelf displaying her miniatures, wondering where he kept the one she’d painted for Blythe. “I preferred to hide from the world in my studio on the third floor. If I was really immersed in something, I didn’t even leave. Pith would come up the stairs bearing a tray of food. Or Craven, if we were at Cherry Hill. They’re related, as it happens. Craven and Pith.” She gave him a smile. “My family worried over me, wondering why I wanted to be left alone while Romy was determined to save the world, Olivia focused on being the most proper young lady in London and Phaedra...well, I think we all know Phaedra is bound to be a disaster at some point.”
“Her newly formed interest in swords has me concerned.”
Theo nodded. “It seemed easier to stay in my studio. The strangely reclusive Barrington, painting her ridiculous tiny portraits which no one would ever see. Not dazzling or sparkly like the others.”
“You are not odd.” Haven’s voice was gravelly and low as if he’d just woken up from a long nap. The sound floated over Theo, pricking deliciously at her skin.
“I was, Haven. I still am. I am the daughter of a duke who doesn’t care for society. I have no real friends outside my sisters and Cousin Rosalind. And Betts, my maid. Ask yourself, how many other young ladies of your acquaintance paint miniatures?”
“Of their breasts? None that I know, save you.”
“Not both my breasts. Only the curve of my left, enough to draw the viewer’s eye—
“To your delectable pink nipple.” He was smiling at her, his arm stretched out. “I do not wish to argue with you.”
“How unusual.” Theo took his hand, a tingle moving through her as his fingers laced with hers.
Haven’s brow wrinkled as if contemplating his next words, and he gently released her hand. “This room,” he made a sweeping gesture, “was once mine, as it happens. Not where I slept, mind you, though there were times when I did spend the night up here. This was more a playroom. A space my father gave me,” he hesitated, “for me to look at the stars and record my observations.”
