HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  Hazel worried her lips. “I believe so.”

  There was so much more she could say, regale in every look, every smile, every touch, every joke, the boat ride, the afternoon spent in the sitting room, the boathouse kiss, the drawing room conversation after supper, the walk in the garden the next morning, the whispered compliments after church, so many moments. Sharing them felt like a violation of their intimacy. Those moments, all of them, were between Harold and her. There was no doubt in her mind she was falling in love with him and would continue to fall deeper, just as she was convinced he felt the same. At the very least, he liked her a great deal. He had a way of looking at her as though she were the only woman in the room, more so, the only woman he had ever truly seen. How does one explain that? Or share that without losing the magic in the explanation?

  She kept it simple. “We suit, Agnes. We really do.”

  Agnes turned back to the mirror. “That’s a relief. I’ll never forgive myself for depriving you of a love match, but at least it’s not bad.”

  Hazel did not respond, though she felt quite the opposite to her friend’s assessment. Theirs was a love match. Or it soon would be. She smiled to herself at the memory of his whispered compliment this morning, that she was breathtaking in blue.

  “Do you think,” Agnes asked, “there’s still a chance I could find love? Is it all over for me? Have I ruined my life?”

  Hazel looked up, startled at the crack in Agnes’s voice. In the mirror’s reflection, Hazel could see Agnes’s eyes watering.

  “There’s always a chance. I’m positive we’ll find a good match, not just a husband.”

  “How am I supposed to find love in this condition? Who could love a woman carrying another man’s child?”

  Hazel reached over to take her friend’s hand. “Someone who loves you will understand. It’s not over.”

  Agnes sniffled but nodded. “I thought he was my true love. I want you to know that. I never thought to trap him. I never thought to be…one of those women. I—” Her voice broke. “I knew we were in love. I never would have done it otherwise. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do! We were all fooled. Even Melissa believed his heart true.”

  “I won’t trap someone to save myself. Know that I will be forthright should someone want to marry me. I’ll not have them finding out after the wedding. They must know before and must understand that I’m not a—I’m not a whore.”

  “Oh, Agnes.” Hazel stood up and wrapped her arms around her friend’s shoulders, the maid standing back, looking teary eyed herself. “We’ll find you the right man, and he’ll fall so deeply in love with you that nothing else will matter.”

  Hazel observed the scene with satisfaction. A grin tugged at the corners of her lips as she surveyed the crowd, her gaze falling on Agnes at a card table with three gentlemen, all laughing. Yes, this was perfect! Her first hosted party, and it was a success.

  Lord Collingwood sat at another card table, and from the looks on the faces of his peers, was winning. Helena enthralled a few ladies with conversation. Nana, who Hazel had insisted attend, stayed by the fire, talking mostly to Harold and Lord Kissinger, but from time to time she chatted with guests. Her companion hovered behind her, as frowny-faced as always but at least attentive. Although there were any number of gentlemen who might interest Lord Kissinger, he did not appear interested, instead speaking to a few ladies or couples on the rare occasion he was not with Harold or Nana.

  Well, pooh. She had hoped to make two matches.

  The rout was boisterous, intentionally so. Rather than a refreshment room, footmen circled with trays at timed intervals. Entertainment stations were set up around the room to keep guests engaged in one activity or another, be it cards, games, charades, pantomimes, or uninhibited gossip. Never did the voices dim nor people bore. Even the knot garden drew the attention of those willing to brave the cold.

  All in all, Hazel was pleased with the turn out.

  The only concern was Agnes. While Hazel did her best to ensure Agnes was the center of attention, expressly by circulating her around the room to sing her praises to all and sundry and press a commonality Hazel had “coincidentally” discovered between Agnes and whatever guest they spoke with at the time, no clear contender stepped forward. Some flirted. Then, who would not? Agnes was remarkably pretty. But no one extended the conversation beyond the initial flirt. It was most vexing. The current card players showed the most interest thus far. Hazel decided to leave Agnes at the table a while longer in hopes some progress would be made.

  In another sweep of the room to determine which group she should visit next, her eyes fell to Harold. At present, he stood alone, watching her.

  Hazel’s cheeks warmed. No matter how many of the gentlemen she compared Harold to, there was no comparison. He stood poised, every inch an aristocrat, yet he emanated masculinity. He was a head taller than everyone. His physique filled his silk attire to admirable perfection with his broad shoulders, tapered waist, muscled legs, and the evident lack of padding his counterparts wore. Harold was not a large man, never to be mistaken for a laborer, but he was unmistakably fit.

  The tip of Hazel’s tongue wet her lips. His breeches hugged his thighs in sinful ways.

  Every evening since the boathouse kiss, she had lain in bed, wondering if he would come to her. He had not. She appreciated his respect for her but was disappointed each time she doused the candle. He must be awaiting invitation.

  Her gaze flicked from his face to his chest, then to his breeches, and back to his face, and yes, well, maybe back to the breeches a few more times. How did a wife invite her husband to bed? Was there a code? Maybe a look that conveyed the desired visit? Or was it more direct? No, surely not direct. That would be too improper, scandalous even. She could not tell him. There must be a phrase, something implicit that husbands understood as a euphemistic invitation. Or…

  Oh, she had a delicious thought! But no, that would be even more scandalous than a direct invitation. But it would be understood… She would think more on that later.

  What she wanted from him, exactly, she could not say. She had not particularly enjoyed their wedding night, no matter how much she tried to convince herself. There had to be more to it. His kiss promised more. The drop of her stomach, the flutter in her abdomen, the heat that coursed through her. There had to be more to it. If she had to judge by the penetrating look in his eyes now, she would swear on there being more.

  Did he look at her as an artist might a subject? For a giddy moment, she wondered what it would be like to be his model, to pose for him as Nana had posed for Horace. To pose nude.

  Her hand found her lips as she tried to smother a laugh and hide a smile. Wicked thoughts!

  From across the room, Harold winked at her.

  She could not very well talk with other guests now, not when the direction of her thoughts was painted on her cheeks, not when he stared so boldly at her, his eyes smoldering, igniting an inferno within her. Tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, she blushed her way around the perimeter of the room to sidle up next to Harold.

  With a hostess-friendly smile, she asked, “Enjoying the party?”

  Harold leaned down and said in a deep rumble, “I’m enjoying the view more.”

  Hazel laughed. “Yes, there is a good deal of lovely silk embroidery to admire.” She winked so he would know she was fully aware he had not meant the dresses or coats.

  “I was curious how long it would take you to find your way to me. I’ve been waiting with bated breath.”

  “Flattery, Mr. Hobbs, will get you everywhere.” She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm; never mind they were standing still, and she was steady on her feet. “What do you see when you look out at the crowd?”

  “Do you mean who would be a good match for Agnes, or do you mean what do I see?”

  “Hmm. Both?”


  Harold nodded once, then studied the guests. “The first is easy, the second more complex. I don’t see a good match, sadly. Yes, my mother chose eligible bachelors, but most are popinjays. They’re more concerned with themselves than they would be with a wife. Unlikely they would pursue her. Equally as unlikely would be her happiness in the match.”

  Hazel pouted but said nothing. She had thought as much. That did not stop her from being hopeful.

  “I’ll consider the situation. There are alternatives to marrying. With ingenuity, I’ll think of possibilities. You don’t carry the weight of this on your shoulders alone, darling.”

  Surprised, she looked up at his profile with its strong nose and angular jaw. The word darling struck her more than the offer to help, but combined, they made her heart skip beats.

  He continued, “As to the second, what I see is not just a brilliantly hosted party—yes, that was a compliment, my dear—but a compilation of shades, hues, angles, perspectives, and lines.”

  Hazel tilted her head.

  “I see everything as a potential sketch, how it would feel to put graphite to paper, where I would focus attention, how I would frame the subjects. For instance, observe Miss Snow talking to Mr. Sunderland. The contrast of light and shadow make them a fascinating subject. Notice how the light plays on Miss Snow’s features, yet Mr. Sunderland is darkened by shadow. The light enhances the lines of Miss Snow’s face. Now, before you take offense that I mean to say she’s wrinkled, let me explain that lines express personality and emotion. A slight change in line shape and placement could reveal the subject laughs a great deal or frowns more. In Miss Snow’s case, she’s happy. See how the lines form a crescent to either side of her mouth?”

  He glanced down to Hazel who was looking to him more than to Miss Snow. From anyone else, she might be jealous he was looking at another woman’s mouth, but from Harold, it was logical and artistic.

  “The lines, if sketched just so, convey to the observer a happy woman, not just in the moment but the person herself,” he continued to explain. “The hues and undertones would be fantastic to paint, especially given the warm colors of her dress in contrast to the cool colors of his attire, but I sketch more than I paint. I would pay special attention to the negative space between them. Do you see how little space there is in comparison to the people around them? I could do a great deal with that space. The space itself doesn’t simply show where an object is not, rather it shows a relationship between all that’s around it. It tells me that Mr. Sunderland is in preparation of courting Miss Snow.”

  As fascinated as Hazel was by how he saw two people talking, that bit of insight caught her attention. She looked from Mr. Sunderland to Miss Snow. Sure enough, those crescent lines around her mouth deepened each time Mr. Sunderland spoke. The light on Miss Snow’s face changed in intensity each time she leaned closer to Mr. Sunderland to respond. Curiously, the shadows over Mr. Sunderland’s face were not menacing or obstructive, rather intimate. To see the world through Harold’s eyes! Goodness—what did she look like? Her free hand touched her face in search of lines and shadows.

  The hand holding his arm shook as he chuckled. “You’re all light and warmth,” he said. “At present, I’d add a miniscule line between your brows to indicate curiosity, but there would be no escape from the two lines at the corners of your eyes, a woman who laughs often. Oh, and lest we forget, the angles would be slightly tilted from horizontal since you’re leaning towards me.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Clever, what would you convey in your sketch if we were the subjects?”

  He angled closer and moaned a hmm into her ear. “I would blend the shadowed space between us to show us as a pair, as two halves of a whole. The space between a darker blend, the space around a lighter blend. With the right angling, shading, and blending, the observer would know our relationship without us needing to pose, say with your hand over your heart looking up at me as I gaze adoringly back. There’s power in what you do with the spaces around the subject, you see.”

  His words blended. All Hazel heard was their being two halves of a whole. How she heard words over the pounding of her heart was anyone’s guess. This near stranger who liked her called them two halves of a whole. Despite the chill that crept in from outside, she desperately wanted a fan to cool the flush.

  “Would you sketch or paint us?” she asked, her tongue dry, heavy, and altogether too large to speak.

  “Sketch.” After he said the word, he shifted his weight to lean farther in, his lips so close to her ear, his breath tickled her skin. “Although… I would love to apply a light brush stroke to your canvas.”

  Hazel gasped aloud, so loudly nearby heads turned.

  She covered her reaction with a lively laugh, swatted at his arm, and said louder than necessary, “Mr. Hobbs, you do tell delicious tales.” Looking to the faces of those around them, she smiled and gave a little shrug.

  Heads swiveled away, disinterested.

  With a boldness she did not feel, she batted her eyelashes at Harold and said before walking away, “Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.”

  Chapter 18

  The party guests gone, the candles doused, the family asleep, Hazel lay awake, the blanket pulled to her chin, her eyes trained on the coffered canopy as the reflections of the flames diminished with the dying fire. She waited. She wondered. She hoped.

  Had she any forethought, she would have slipped a discreet note into his hand. Sitting room. Paint me. Or something bolder. Whispering such a request would have been better, as her words would have carried her true meaning. Realistically, her voice would have hitched from nervousness. At least he would have understood her meaning. Although being sketched or painted was infinitely appealing, strokes on canvas were not the kind she craved. Not yet.

  Of all people to think of, she thought of her friend Melissa. Brave, passionate Melissa. Could Hazel be as bold?

  Be brave, Hazel, she said to herself. Be brave.

  She sat up to spy the table clock above the mantel. The clock face blurred. She squinted. The clock face blurred between narrowed lids. Hmph.

  It must be close to midnight. Probably later. Probably much later. Hazel leaned back with a flop, tugging the blanket back to her chin.

  Tomorrow was as good of a day as today. She could slip him a note tomorrow with a reference to paintings and canvases and brushes. Yes, tomorrow. Resuming her study of the retreating flame reflections and the texture of the woodgrain in light versus shadow, she wondered what Harold would make of it. The canopy hues, not the note. Oh, of course she meant the note.

  Tossing back the blanket, she rose, donned the night wrap, then coaxed a brush through her hair. Be brave. It was not like he would reject her. What did she have to fear?

  Drawing back her shoulders, she marched past the clock reading a quarter after two and opened her bedchamber door to the sitting room. The fire, unused that evening, greeted her with dying embers and a crackle. In a few tip-toed steps, confidence waning with each curl of toe to rug, she reached Harold’s bedchamber door. Hand trembling, courage cold, she touched the handle with a fingertip. She stroked the metal.

  In the chill of the room, she shivered. Her toes tingled. Her weight shifted. She pressed an ear to the door. Silence. He must be asleep. How selfish to wake him. How startled he would be!

  With another hmph, she padded back across the sitting room, but then stopped at her open bedchamber door. If not now, when? Would she make this trek every night for the rest of their lives? Would she ever hand him a note of invitation? Once more, she padded back across the sitting room, stopping at his door. Hand to handle. Her fingers wrapped around the metal. She took slow, deep breaths.

  Behind her, the fire crackled again. A log shifted.

  She pressed the thumb latch and pushed open the door, stepping inside before she lost her nerve. Hazel blinked. The fire roared war
m and inviting, brightening the room. It took her a moment to orient herself. To find the bed. The four-poster with carved columns stood against the far wall. Empty.

  Oh.

  The bedcovers had been turned down but were undisturbed.

  “Hazel?” questioned a deep voice from near the fireplace.

  She choked a strangled cry. On a couch in front of the fire, legs stretched out before him and ankles crossed, Harold sat with wood tablet on his lap, graphite in his hand. He wore a blue embroidered banyan. His legs were warmed by wool stockings. A night cap perched over his russet curls, those delectable curls unrolled and unpowdered, shaping a halo that framed his face.

  Oh!

  Her hand still gripping the door handle, she asked conversationally, as though they were not addressing each other in nightwear or standing in the same bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning, “What are you sketching?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched a smile. “Us.” He held up the paper for her to see, but she could not make it out. “I couldn’t stop seeing us standing in the drawing room as I had described. I knew I’d never sleep until I sketched it.” His gaze swept over her. “You’re shivering. Come by the fire.” He set the sketch aside on a low table and sat up, patting the couch for her to join him.

  Shutting the door behind her, she obeyed. The fire did not warm her, though. She shivered more furiously, her muscles tensing, her fingers curling about her night wrap. Why had she not grabbed stockings? Her bare feet were numb. She chafed them against each other to stimulate warmth.

  He scooted closer and wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders. At the contact, she relaxed, the shivering abating, though her feet remained numb.

  In a husky voice, he asked, “Did you want to talk or…”

  Hazel stared at her hands, willing herself to be brave. She had come this far already. Heart pounding and stomach fluttering, she turned her head to meet his eyes. His face was so close. Kissably close. She had never noticed how long his eyelashes were.