Page 23 of Vanquishing the Viscount

No response.

He hurtled on, “It looks a very comfortable home, though old. Has it gardens with it? Are there any knot gardens? I’m most partial to knot gardens.”

An audible sniff came from his companion, and her shoulders shook.

Damnation! The woman was on the verge of tears. What had he done—or said—now?

He wasn’t going to leave it a week this time. Seizing her elbow, he steered her to a lichen-covered stone seat and eased her onto it.

There was a splash and a chuckle from the direction of the pond. He looked up to see Willie with a self-satisfied smile on his face and a duck kicking rapidly away from the bank.

“William Keane,” he called, loud enough to bring Willie up short. “You are meant to be drawing the ducks, not chasing them!”

Startled, Willie backed away from the edge of the pond, then picked up his sketchbook and settled down in the grass next to Mary. James waited until he was certain the boy was absorbed in his task, then returned his attention to Miss Hibbert.

Taking his place beside her, he said gently, “Tell me what’s wrong, Emma—if I may call you Emma? Whatever I can do to help, just say the word. I am at your command.”

Chapter Sixteen

If only he hadn’t praised her drawing of Tresham Hall! Emma was certain she wouldn’t feel quite so vulnerable had he not brought up her beloved home. Now all she could do was wring her hands, fight the tears, and battle to speak around the huge lump in her throat.

“I’ve had bad news from home this morning. My father’s taken ill, and my family’s in increasing difficulties.”

“Oh, then you should go home to be with them! I’ll tell Charles to arrange it.”

He was right—she was needed at home. If Lord Tidworth could convince the Keanes to let her go for a visit, she’d forgive him anything. Maybe even begin to like him…a little.

Then she remembered. “But we’re going to Brighton, in hopes of reducing Willie’s cough.”

The viscount paused, drumming his fingers silently on his thigh. “A bit early in the year, but yes, I can see it might do him good.”

Emma was instantly arrested by the sight of his firm, strong hand with slight bruising on the knuckles. Hadn’t he said something once about boxing? She wondered what he’d been hitting lately—sparring with Gentleman Jackson? Practicing with a punching bag? Maybe he imagined her face every time he landed a blow. Or that of the woman who’d jilted him.

She couldn’t really blame him.

“I can’t see that you need to accompany Willie,” the viscount was saying. “He has his nurse, and if he’s poorly, he’ll be in no state for lessons. Even if he’s well, he’ll be too excited to concentrate on his studies because he’ll just want to go back to the beach. You shall go home, Emma. Don’t worry if Charles cuts up rough about it—I’ll deal with him, and I’ll intercede with his parents on your behalf, if needed. I’ll purchase your ticket for the stagecoach, and we’ll arrange everything as soon as the Keanes return.”

It was a handsome gesture—not at all what she’d expected from Tidworth. “You’re too kind,” she said. “But please don’t put yourself out for me.”

“It’s the least I can do. Now, how shall we occupy ourselves until Charles has recovered his temper? Shall we talk about art, perhaps? I hear the Elgin marbles at the British Museum are well worth a visit. Or if drawing is a topic you’re more comfortable with, we could discuss the relative merits of Blake and Turner. Or maybe you’d rather we just strolled and didn’t converse, at all?”

“I— Well, I…”

She couldn’t help being tongue-tied. Though the distance between herself and Tidworth was quite proper, she felt his presence as strongly as if he were bonded to her. It was a most peculiar sensation. She should retreat at once.

Only, there was nowhere she could retreat to, without being really obvious. Whatever it was about him that affected her, she’d no intention of making him aware of it.

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “We could do some sketching. When you see my paltry efforts, your melancholy will melt away.”

She laughed softly. Success!

He took up her sketchbook and pencil where they lay forgotten on the seat between them, licked the tip of the pencil in a very businesslike manner and, arranging the sketchpad on his knee, angled himself toward her.

“You are to be my model,” he said. “I beg you not to move a muscle, or my meager offering will be no better than one of young William’s stick figures.”

Her heart buoyed. No one had ever offered to sketch her before—not even Elias, and he’d tried to flatter her in any way he could think of. Even if the viscount made her look like Frankenstein’s monster, she would love that he’d tried.

Clasping her hands in her lap and gazing across toward the flowering hawthorn bushes between the pond and the field beyond, she attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts. Especially unpleasant ones about the sale of her family home.