How on earth did she manage to look so remarkably charming when he felt like a half-drowned rat? He picked up his pace, eager to speak with her again. “Good afternoon, Lady Beatrice,” he said when he finally reached them, nodding in greeting to her and her maid. The mousy servant ducked her head and stepped back a few paces, wordlessly offering Colin and Beatrice some privacy.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Beatrice teased, looking every bit as delighted to see him as he was to see her. His head buzzed a bit with the knowledge, warming his blood and making it impossible not to grin at her.
“I can’t imagine why so few are out to enjoy the fine weather. We practically have the park to ourselves.” Which suited him perfectly. Even after several weeks among the ton, he still had trouble adjusting to the concept of prying eyes constantly being turned in his direction. In everyone’s direction, really—the whole bloody beau monde seemed to make a career out of seeing and being seen.
He craved the privacy and anonymity he had enjoyed at the Inn.
Although, if he were still at Lincoln’s Inn, he would have never met Beatrice, something that seemed remarkably distasteful. It was like imagining never having seen a proper sunset, or the heather fields near his estate, or the crashing waves of the ocean. She was almost a force of nature to him, and he couldn’t bring himself to wish things had happened differently.
“Perhaps we should have been so clever as those who stayed indoors. I had such grand hopes of painting in the park with you, but clearly the weather had other ideas.” She looked utterly adorable with the rain misting on her upturned face, clinging to her eyelashes and causing the fine hairs around her temples to curl into delicate corkscrews.
Two completely inane thoughts came to him as he smiled at her like some sort of besotted fool. First, he’d had no idea her eyelashes were quite so long. And second, it was utterly absurd that he should even notice a woman’s eyelashes—he wasn’t entirely certain if he had ever noticed his own lashes, for heaven’s sake.
Even with that thought bouncing around in the suddenly empty chamber of his head, he couldn’t stop himself from bantering with her a bit. “What, you mean you let a little thing like rain get in the way of painting? Not very dedicated to the arts, I see.”
She scrunched her nose at him, making a face that he couldn’t help but laugh at. “Oddly enough, oil paints and rain are not the best of companions. Although, we could always start a new movement. ‘Smears on Canvas’ could change the art world forever.”
He couldn’t imagine any other lady of the ton having braved the elements to come to the park at all, let alone to meet a nobody like him. He didn’t want to cut the day short, but he could hardly keep her out in this mess. “Hmm, perhaps not. We aren’t far from my father’s studio. Perhaps we could move there for a dry place for you to work.”
She gaped at him. “Your father had a studio nearby, and you are just now telling me this?”
“No great secret, really. He had intended to take on a few apprentices to help increase his production, but found that he didn’t like handing over any part of his art to others. He didn’t mind sharing his techniques, but once he started a portrait, it was his until the very last stroke.” No matter how much time it took. When Father was in the midst of one of his paintings, the rest of the world faded to gray, with the only color found in the bristles of his brush and the vision in his mind.
“Well, then,” she said, putting her hands to her hips and raising an imperious eyebrow, “if you can get us there within the next quarter hour, I might consider forgiving you for this tragic oversight.”
Her tone was grave as she looked down her nose at him—an impressive feat, considering her diminutive height—but her eyes sparkled merrily with a light all their own. They reminded him of the deep-water lake not far from his estate, on those rare, brilliantly sunny days that made the water look as though fire kissed its rippling surface.
And there he went again. Yanking his mind away from its poetic turn, he gave her a smart salute that would have made his cousin John proud. “Yes, my lady. At once, my lady.”
She rolled her eyes at his cheek. “Very good—though enough with the ‘my lady’ business. And you gave in entirely too easily, by the way. I was completely prepared to beg, if necessary.”
“It’s not too late. Since I’ve already thrown myself upon your mercy, I’d be more than happy to turn the tables.”
“No, no, I think I shall save it for another occasion. One never knows when one will have need of that sort of thing. Now, then,” she said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, “let us be off. I’m assuming it’s walking distance?”
He nodded, enjoying the weight of her hand on his arm. It was a shame his greatcoat shielded him from her heat. “If you don’t mind another five or ten minutes in the rain.”
“Oh, pish—I’m much hardier than I appear, I assure you. I am a country girl, first and foremost.”
They started forward, their gaits in easy synchronization, as if they’d been walking together like this for years. He gave her a sideways glance, sizing up her petite form. “I’ll admit—you look as though a strong wind could carry you away. I have a hard time picturing you traipsing through the countryside in all types of inclement weather.”
“My eldest sister, Evie, is much more of the traipsing type, although more often than not she’s on horseback. But I do get out quite a bit. The rolling hills of our estate call to me like a siren. I’ve painted dozens upon dozens of landscapes, all perfectly bucolic and safe. One of these days I’ll have the opportunity to visit a truly rugged landscape and really stretch my repertoire.”
“You mean you doona find Green Park a challenge?” He guided them around a puddle and onto the main path leading to the street.
She shrugged. “One must make do with what one has to work with. I suppose I should be happy that London has this and Hyde Park. I’d be lost without some small bit of nature around me.”
“I don’t know about that. Have you ever attempted to paint the buildings of London? You may find architecture just as inspiring as nature.”
“From time to time I try the view from my studio in Granville House, but straight lines and orderly shingles hold little interest for me.”
Now, there was where they differed. After a lifetime lacking structure, he found comfort in all things logical. “Really? I adore straight and orderly. I like for things to be neat and methodical.”
“Good heavens, then you may wish to part ways with me now. Nothing about me is orderly.” Her fingers gripped his arm just the slightest bit tighter as she spoke.
“Fair warning, then? I should probably take heed. After all, five minutes into our first meeting, you already had me breaking rules. Such a terrible influence.”
“I know, I know. Mama has tried her best with me, but I shall never follow anyone’s path but my own.”
“Thank God,” he murmured.
She paused, and he turned to see what was the matter. Instead of the scowl he half expected, she was looking at him with honest confusion. “Are you saying you think that’s a good thing? What happened to Mr. Straight and Narrow?”
“I doona know if it is a good thing or not. I only know that you are perfect exactly as you are.”
He hadn’t realized how that would sound until the words were out of his mouth, and it was too late to call them back. He snapped his gaze to meet hers, cautiously analyzing her reaction. Her jaw dropped in complete disbelief, and she leveled those enormous blue eyes on him, pinning him where he stood. “Do you mean that?”
He bit the inside of his lip, debating whether to deny it. Instead, he told her the truth. “Yes. I never lie, Beatrice.”