Before she knew it, he reared up his horse right below her, because the horse would’ve crushed the video cam otherwise.
The horse neighed, and she froze as Sebastian looked around for the cameraman and then spotted her on the ladder.
He tipped his hat and, gentleman that he was, made no comment about her so obviously ogling him from her perch.
Chloe realized this was probably not the most flattering of ways to be seen—with her butt hovering above him, but she found herself unable to move. The galls slipped out of her hand and tumbled to the ground.
He dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. “I see your cameraman has disappeared, and I’ve outrun mine for the moment.”
He picked up the galls from the ground and stared at them in his hand. “Whatever are you picking here, Miss Parker?”
A real gentleman obviously didn’t have to make his own ink.
Looking at him from above, she couldn’t help but notice a bulge in his buckskin breeches, and a thought rang through her head: Balls. Where was all this coming from?! Why couldn’t she just focus on winning money? Luckily, she didn’t say it. “Galls. For making ink.”
He offered his hand to help her down.
She hesitated.
“The cameramen aren’t here, it’s quite all right. I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but please, let’s take this opportunity. I want to know everything about you—everything.”
She took his gloved hand, and when she stepped onto the ground, he didn’t let go. He just looked at her, taking her in.
He had a woodsy aroma about him, but that could’ve been the trees they were standing under.
Heat radiated between their hands, although it was summer, and they were both wearing gloves.
“You came all this way, from America, and you’re like a breath of fresh air. I so look forward to getting to know you. I debated for a long while over what we should do on our outing tomorrow. We both love art, and for a while I thought perhaps showing you the galleries at Dartworth Hall would be best, but you’ll enjoy the castle ruins on a gorgeous summer day more, I’m sure.”
He still held on to her hand and Chloe wanted to hold on to this image of him, in the dappled late-afternoon light, so intently focused on her. She looked over both her shoulder and his, afraid a cameraman would capture them.
“You’re right to be on the lookout, Miss Parker, because even though your cameraman appears to be gone, mine will be here any second, the scoundrel.” He made a slight bow. “Until tomorrow. If I could’ve managed our excursion any sooner, I would have. I just want you to know that.”
Normally so talkative and quick, Chloe found herself unable to say anything. But then again, she wasn’t to speak to him until formally introduced.
He stepped closer, and the woodsy aroma turned out to be him after all.
“You have a beautiful face.” His dark eyes moved toward her heaving bosom, set off in her square-cut neckline. “Your profile intrigues me. I should like to capture your silhouette.”
Chloe just wanted to capture—him. “I’m sure you can arrange for that to happen.” An image of darkness, him, and candlelight flickered in her head. She was really getting into this, into him! Wait a minute. She couldn’t forget about the money. But maybe the best way to win the money would be to surrender to these early feelings for him? She wasn’t sure.
He ran his thumb across her knuckles, released her hand, poured the galls into it, untied his horse, and mounted. “It will happen, Miss Parker, it will.” He tipped his hat and trotted off, his timing impeccable, as his camera crew caught up to him instantly on their ATV.
He rode away from Bridesbridge, leading her to believe he must’ve come expressly to see her and tell her that he’d wanted to arrange their first outing sooner. And he spoke of her love of art within the very first breaths of his conversation.
Her hand was still warm from his touch.
Her cameraman lumbered back from the gardens, hoisted his camera, and aimed at Chloe.
“Miss Parker? Miss Parker?!” It was Mrs. Crescent calling from the rose garden. “You won’t score any points kicking about in the leaves, I’m sure!”
That evening, just before sunset, Imogene and Chloe were sitting outside, sketching the facade of Bridesbridge in their leather-bound sketchbooks. The cameraman, bored with their chatter about books and architecture, had left in search of more dramatic footage. Their charcoal sticks made swooshing noises on the thick drawing paper as they roughed out the features of the building.
Chloe, trying not to think too much about, or too much of, the encounter with Sebastian, imagined this was what it must’ve been like for the ladies of quality who had no work to do in the nineteenth century. They had time to pursue their passion for the arts. Some of the girls at Bridesbridge seemed quite bored with this free time, but Chloe and Imogene took advantage of the opportunity, and even talked of the place as being like their own artists’ retreat, for after all, everything, including the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning, was done for them.
Chloe noticed that Imogene’s drawing style was looser, more abstract than her own. Chloe’s was more romanticized.
They’d been comparing notes on Grace.
“She tries to psych everyone out, not just you,” Imogene said.
As they sat under the green bower on a stone bench, Imogene confided her suspicions about Grace quickly, before another camera-person appeared. According to Imogene, Grace wanted to win not just the money and Mr. Wrightman, but the land the Wrightmans owned as well. Imogene had overheard several conversations between Grace and her chaperone. From what she could piece together, Grace’s great-great-grandfather had lost significant tracts of land on a drunken gambling bet, and much of that lost land was now owned by the Wrightman family. The castle ruins stood on part of that land. Grace wanted to stake her family’s claim. The Wrightmans and Grace’s family were distant relations and both members of the peerage at one point in time, but now only the Wrightmans retained their status.
To pursue a man for his land seemed so—nineteenth century to Chloe. Then again, were her reasons any less mercenary? No doubt most of the women had their eye on the $100,000 prize money, too. Chloe wanted to talk more, but when Imogene’s chaperone, Mrs. Hatterbee, settled down with her needlework nearby, their conversation had to turn.
Just as Chloe was putting the finishing touches on her sketch, she felt someone peering down on her work.
“You’ve forgotten the stone urns on the cornices of the house.”
Henry’s voice startled her, and his breath smacked of crushed mint leaves. She dropped her charcoal stick, and without a word, he picked it up and handed it back.
She composed herself and looked up at Bridesbridge’s facade. He was right, she had forgotten the urns. “It’s only a sketch,” she said.
Imogene looked over at Chloe’s sketchbook.
“Yes, but details make all the difference.” Henry scrutinized Imogene’s sketch. “Details can help you make that leap of faith that Aristotle spoke of in the dramatic arts. Don’t you agree, Miss Wells?”
Imogene smiled. “I do.”
“I like both of your drawing styles,” Henry said. “I’ll be curious to see how the final drawings work out, ladies.” He bowed.
Chloe frowned at her sketch. What did she care about his opinion?
“Good evening, Mrs. Hatterbee.” Henry bowed to Imogene’s chaperone and moved toward Bridesbridge’s front entrance.
“And just what are you doing here at Bridesbridge at this late hour, good sir?” Mrs. Hatterbee asked.
“A footman arrived to tell me Miss Harrington has fallen ill.” Henry held up his medicine bag.
Kate’s allergies ensured Henry of frequent visits to Bridesbridge.