Page 11 of Romancing the Artist

As a child, he’d thought it terribly unfair that his family lived so near the sea without having a beach of their own. He loved the water, the sand, the pebbles, all of it. He had sneaked away from lessons as a child to make the two and a half mile walk from his home to the nearest beach, on the Inglewood property.

He’d driven his governess and his parents to fits of worry when he disappeared, and he’d received lectures and punishments when he returned hours later with sand in his shoes and salt on his skin.

The freedom of childhood had given way to the responsibilities of an adult, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked barefoot on the sand.

At the same moment the melancholy thought sailed through his mind, he stepped into a small clearing within the Birchwood. A familiar old boat, small enough that someone dragged it far inland, waited with empty seats and faded paint on its side, declaring the boat and its place in the world The Silver Birch Society.

A group of children, three decades ago, had pulled the broken boat to its current place. Painted it. Spent hours and hours sitting on its benches and dreaming up games and futures that they now lived. Edward’s sisters, Grace and Hope, had been two of those children. The other three were men Edward, and the community, respected and looked up to. He’d been too young to follow them to this place, though he’d ventured there often enough in his youth and on his own.

On this day, the boat wasn’t the only thing in the clearing.

A young woman sat against a tree, a blanket spread beneath her, and a sketchbook in her hands. She’d propped the book against her knees, and she’d drawn her legs up close to herself. She peered over the edge of that sketchbook, looking at him with two dark eyebrows raised.

Perhaps twenty feet separated them.

“You are rather loud, sir.”

Edward stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“And so you ought. I suppose I will forgive you for disturbing my peace, and you may go on about your business.” She waved toward the trees from which he’d emerged, then turned her attention back to her sketch, dismissing him with her manner as much as her words.

Who was this strange sprite, sitting all alone, and with enough confidence to dismiss him from a place he had as much right to be as she did? He’d never seen her before. Nor had he heard that Lord Inglewood expected guests.

Edward took a step toward her, and her gaze came up.

“Yes?” She tilted her head to the side. “Was there something you needed?”

What a strange person. “Not from you, Miss…?” He waited expectantly for her to provide a name.

“Then I’m not certain why you linger. I am quite busy.” She tapped the top of her sketchbook with her pencil. “I did not settle out here in hopes of a conversation with a stranger.” This time, Edward caught something else in her expression. Not the indifference he thought he’d seen, but a slight twist to her lips and the barest narrowing of her eyes that suggested at a sense of humor.

He’d amused her, merely by happening upon her in the birchwood.

“We could introduce ourselves. Then it would not be a conversation between strangers.” Though he found his proposal rather clever, the young woman shook her head with an unimpressed toss of her dark curls.

“I am afraid that simply isn’t done, sir. If we are not properly introduced, it wouldn’t count, and we must remain strangers even while knowing one another’s names. It is a hopeless matter.” She pointed to the boat. “Much like the idea of that boat ever making it out to sea again.”

“This boat? It’s been here twenty years or more.” He looked it over, vaguely remembering his older sisters bringing him to the boat to play when they were tasked with his care. He’d liked the beach more than an old boat. “I’d like to think an introduction won’t take us that long to obtain. Perhaps, if you tell me who you are visiting, I can appeal to them to right matters between us.”

She sniffed daintily and bent over her sketchbook. “Now you go too far, sir. You assume I am a visitor. How do you not know that I haven’t recently purchased the whole of the grove? Indeed, I might intend to live her the rest of my days.”

Edward’s smile twitched into a grin. “You have a gift for making ridiculous statements, miss.”

“If only my gift in artistry was as well practiced.” She sighed, somewhat dramatically. Then she adjusted her grip on the sketchbook and held it toward him. “Here. See what you think of this.”

Cautiously, Edward approached. He accepted her sketchbook and turned it about to peer down at her subject matter. It was, unsurprisingly, a sketch of the boat at rest among the trees. An incongruous scene, made somehow sad on her paper. The boat appeared lonely. “It looks like enough.” He turned to study the boat, then the paper. “I’d say this shows at least a little talent.”

“Thank you,” she responded, tone somewhat dry.

She made as if to come to her feet, and Edward held his hand out to her, as he would assist any woman coming from sitting on the ground to standing. She accepted his hand, her own as bare as his, and when his fingers wrapped around hers—Edward’s stomach tightened. A strange buzzing began between his ears as he looked down into dark brown eyes that glittered up at him with good humor.

This close, he realized that she wasn’t a tiny sprite. She had delicate enough features—wide eyes, a nose that turned up the barest bit at the tip, and pink lips that tilted a little to one side when she smiled. But she was tall. Nearly as tall as he was. And when he’d pulled her to her feet, he’d felt strength in the arm and hand that came from more than plying a needle or playing a pianoforte.

Who was this woman? Her accent wasn’t familiar. Educated, but not clipped. She had the bearing of a lady, now that she stood, but when she’d sat on the ground she’d not seemed to care at all about posture or display. And her skin wasn’t the pale alabaster so many women of his age and acquaintance strove to protect. Instead, she looked as though she’d spent a fair amount of time in the sun.

“Again, thank you.” She took her hand back and used it to brush back a curl from her forehead, tucking it behind a braid that looped from one ear to the other atop her head. “Look.” She pointed to her sketch, at the hull of the boat. “As you said, the image is accurate. But I feel it is missing something.”

“Really?” He forced himself to look away from the sun-kissed cheeks of the mystery woman and back to her drawing. “What could you add that isn’t already there? Color, perhaps.”