Page 107 of Kathryn

Gerrit was momentarily speechless; her sister had worked. “Indeed? A female illustrator?”

Kathryn’s forehead furrowed and her eyes narrowed.

He identified her sudden change in mood with an ease that startled him. Why was it so difficult to converse with her? Why did he keep saying the wrong things? “I am not being critical,” he assured. “I only meant that I have never met a woman who does such work. Especially not a peer’s daughter.”

After a moment, her face relaxed and she nodded. “Before my sister Phoebe married Viscount Needham, our family was in danger of losing our home, so Aurelia decided it would be prudent to learn how to support herself.”

“I knew of Addiscombe’s, er, fascination with cards,” Dulverton admitted.

Kathryn snorted, her expression bitter. “There are very few among the ton who don’t know about my father’s gambling.”

“I had no idea matters were so dire,” he added.

“They were,” she said grimly, her gaze distant. “But thanks to the generosity of my brothers-in-law—especially Needham—our family estate is no longer in danger.”

Gerrit could only nod. What could a person say about such a thing? Addiscombe’s behavior was criminal, in Gerrit’s opinion. But Kathryn hardly needed to hear that.

Thankfully, she changed the subject. “Do you hire people to sketch your specimens?” she asked, taking a piece of bread he had sliced and slathering it with butter.

“I make drawings for myself, but for anything I want to use in a presentation or article I employ a professional.”

She gestured to Gerrit’s specimen journal, which sat on the other side of the table. “Are those your sketches?”

“It is a newer book and contains only the most recent ones.

“May I see?”

He slid the book toward her and ate while she untied the leather thong that bound it and flipped through the pages. Once she’d finished, she looked up. “You are very good.”

“Merely adequate,” he demurred, quartering a pear and handing her a section.

“Thank you. Do you paint your drawings?”

“I have not done so in the past.”

She bit into the pear and a drop of juice escaped and clung to her full lower lip.

Gerrit stared, transfixed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There is a bit of juice.”

“Where?”

He wordlessly pointed to a place on his own lip that mirrored the spot.

She hastily dabbed at it with her napkin. “Did I get it?”

He grunted, wrenched his gaze from her mouth, and adjusted himself beneath the table.

“Thank you for showing me around today.”

“You are welcome.”

“I—are you sure you don’t mind if I come to the dig?”

“I am sure,” he said, perplexed by just how much he liked the thought of her joining him.