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“No, thank you,” he said to the butler. “I do believe I’ll take a bit of a walk.”
“As Your Grace wishes,” the man murmured. Quick as a wink he retrieved Daniel’s hat and cloak, and handing them over, he opened the front doors wide.
Well, hell.
Truly, the man should be commended for his ability to react so swiftly, Daniel thought as he gave a sickly smile and strode—or at least a close approximation of a stride—from the house. The moment he stepped foot out the front doors, however, and the brisk sea air hit him full in the face, everything else was forgotten for one blessed moment. The salty flavor and cool sting of it jolted his senses in the most invigorating way. He stopped for a moment on the front step and closed his eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath as the cobwebs of the morning cleared from his brain. Glorious life, all green and briny and heavy with moisture. And the faintest sound of waves crashing against rock, Seacliff being exactly what its name implied, the grand manor house inhabiting the cliff top above an unforgiving sea. He felt an instant invigoration in his limbs. Ah, yes, now he could see it, the draw of a place like this. There was something strangely comforting in being so close to the edge of the land, to let the vast ocean into your very soul.
But, though he considered crossing the drive to the cliffs beyond so he might better see the churning waves and feel the wind bathe his scars, something turned his steps to the side of the house, down the path, into the rose garden he had spied from his window.
In a moment he understood why. It was peaceful here, the sounds of the ocean fading to a dull hush.
For once he didn’t mind his slow pace. Able to relax for the first time since leaving Cheshire, he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the myriad scents carried on the breeze, combined in a kaleidoscope of impressions: the delicate petals of the roses, the rolling white-tipped waves, and the heady smell of rich earth. His vision, too, was filled with all the details he might have missed had he been in possession of a hale and hearty body: the flitting of a small bird in the dark dirt beneath a bush, a whimsical statue of a satyr hidden in the bare bramble.
A pale purple skirt peeking out from behind an artfully trimmed hedge.
He stopped hard in the path, his boots kicking up gravel. Damnation, he had thought no one was up. Who could possibly be out of doors at such an early hour? But the question had not whispered through his mind before the answer popped into his head with stark certainty: Mrs. Kitteridge.
For one insane moment he was caught in a kind of purgatory as he tried to decide between forging forward and greeting her as a proper person would or escaping back to the house.
She peered around the hedge, however, making the decision for him.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I heard a noise but thought it was a gardener.”
“I apologize if I’ve startled you.” He moved forward until he stood in front of her. She was seated on a stone bench tucked back within the hedge, bundled up in a dark gray cloak, a simple bonnet perched on her head and a sketchbook balanced on her knees. “I didn’t know anyone was up at this hour,” he continued. “I’m afraid I’m quite the early riser, something I picked up during the war and haven’t been able to break myself of.”
“I’m an early riser myself.” Her expression darkened for a moment before she smiled brightly. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you,” he lied. What good would the truth do, anyway?
“That’s wonderful to hear. But won’t you have a seat beside me?” She slid over to one side of the wide stone bench and adjusted her skirts.
But the idea of sitting so close to her dredged up a vague panic in him; no matter that they were in full view of the house and could not be construed as doing anything untoward, her proximity would no doubt affect him just as it had last night. “Ah, no, thank you. You’re busy, and I would not want to impose upon your private time.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “And besides, I was feeling lonely and would love the company. Please sit.”
What could he say to that kind speech? And so, gritting his teeth, he moved forward and sank his bulk to the bench. But being this close to her, with her skirts brushing his leg and her warmth traversing the small space between them, was affecting him in wholly base ways. He was embarrassingly lacking in knowledge of the physical arts—his awkwardness had assured his experience with the fairer sex was limited—but his imagination was alive and well, and that imagination was dreaming up all manner of things where Mrs. Kitteridge was concerned.
Aghast that he would think of her in such a manner, he cast about for something, anything, to say. Finally his desperate eyes lit on her sketchbook. “What’s that you’re drawing?” he managed, praying she didn’t hear the hoarseness in his voice.
In answer she held the sketch out to him. He took it with only the barest hesitation, being careful not to touch her as he did so. A detailed drawing of Freya, Lady Tesh’s pup, graced the page. He studied it a moment in silence, as much to take in the simple beauty of it as to compose himself. The lines were delicate, with several sections scrubbed out and redrawn. Yet with the too-large ears perked up, the head tilt, the large eyes that held a surprising amount of humanity, the image was lovely.
“You have captured her perfectly,” he said.
“Do you think so?” She leaned in closer to peer at it, and her scent wafted to him on the chill morning air: a delicate fragrance that was deliciously akin to sugared violets.
“I admit,” she continued, blessedly unaware of the turmoil within him, “I had trouble capturing her expression. For a canine, she is incredibly demonstrative.”
“I think you have done a beautiful job,” he said. Then, hoping to put much-needed distance between them, he handed the sketch back and, under the pretense of rearranging his leg, shifted farther from her on the stone bench. “You’re quite talented.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “Though I know my talent is merely average, I do hope my grandmother appreciates my attempt when I’m through.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken and denounced her claim. “That is not my way of fishing for further compliments, I assure you.” She gave a small laugh. “If you could see Lenora’s drawings you would think mine the mere scribblings of a child.”
He frowned. “Lenora?”
“The Duchess of Dane,” she corrected.
“She is talented?”
“Incredibly so. One might even say she’s gifted. She sells her paintings, and gives lessons during the summer months to visitors of the Isle. She is quite sought after.” She paused then, and when he remained silent, not quite knowing what to say to that, she continued in a quieter voice that held an undercurrent of steel to it, “You might think a woman in her position should not pursue such things, however.”
