by Jen Turano
“She wanted me to take her out to practice shooting a pistol, Mr. Cavendish. But I’ve seen Miss Temperance’s skill, or lack thereof, with a pistol, and believe me, teaching her how to handle a knife, especially since we’re not using real knives, was a far safer choice.”
Temperance wrinkled her nose. “I’m not that bad a shot, Mr. Barclay.”
“My dear child, you’re horrible with a pistol.”
“I hit the target you urged me to aim for down on the beach that one time,” she argued.
Mr. Barclay gave a sad shake of his head. “No, you didn’t. You were supposed to be aiming for the large boulder beside the ocean, not the ocean.” He smiled. “It would be downright impossible to miss that large of a target.”
Gilbert, to Temperance’s annoyance, began smiling as well. “Shall we tell Mr. Barclay about the time I tried to teach you how to shoot, but when you were about to pull the trigger, you panicked and dropped the gun?” His smile turned into a grin. “Only the good Lord above knows how you didn’t end up shooting yourself when the pistol fired after it hit the ground. And don’t even get me started on the long walk back to your parents’ cottage we were forced to take since you scared off our horses.”
Temperance scratched her nose. “They weren’t horses, they were ponies, and if I recall correctly, we were sent to bed without our supper since we weren’t supposed to be in possession of a pistol in the first place because we were children.”
Gilbert’s grin turned rather sly. “You, my darling, may have gone to bed without your supper, but I had one of the downstairs maids at my cottage bring me up a picnic that left me stuffed to the gills.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You never told me you did that.”
“I’m not always a stickler for the rules, Temperance, especially when adhering to those rules means I’ll suffer an empty stomach.”
“Since you’re not a stickler for the rules,” Mr. Barclay said, nodding to the shirt he’d handed Gilbert. “What say you put that on and have a go of it with Eugene?”
Gilbert held up the shirt. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the point of the shirts, or why you’ve apparently dipped those less-than-dangerous knives into red paint.”
“It’s so we can tell when we land a strike,” Temperance said. “And the red paint was my idea because I thought it lent the lesson a dash of dramatic authenticity.”
He looked at her red-splattered shirt, then at Mr. Barclay’s shirt, which was splattered as well. “May I assume the two of you haven’t perfected the art of wielding a knife?”
Mr. Barclay inclined his head. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and Miss Temperance is still a little too exuberant in her method.”
Gilbert turned to Eugene, who was still standing in the same spot, his gaze fixed squarely on Edwina, something his gaze had been doing often since he’d laid eyes on Harrison’s unusually beautiful sister. Quirking a brow, Gilbert gestured to the one streak of red on Eugene’s shirt and nodded to Mr. Barclay. “May I assume you got in one strike?”
“I’m afraid that strike was at the hands of Miss Temperance,” Mr. Barclay said as Eugene turned almost as red as the paint on his shirt and began taking an interest in the clouds passing overhead.
Temperance swallowed a laugh, unwilling to embarrass Eugene further by explaining that the only reason she’d bested him that one time was because he’d been distracted by Edwina, who’d somehow managed to knock over her easel. He’d immediately forgotten he was in the midst of a lesson with Temperance and hurried to help Edwina set her easel to rights. Temperance cleared her throat. “Perhaps I’m more accomplished than you think.”
Gilbert glanced to Eugene, then to Edwina, who was ambling over to her easel, then back to Eugene who was once again watching Edwina as she ambled. He then turned a grin Temperance’s way, one she couldn’t help but return. “You’re more than welcome to continue believing that, but I’m not certain that was truly the case.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’d like to see you do better. Eugene’s incredibly fast.”
To her surprise, Gilbert shook out the white shirt, pulled it over his head, then held out his hand. “I’ll need one of those knives.”
Turning on her heel and praying Gilbert hadn’t seen her mouth drop open, Temperance headed across the courtyard, stopping beside the pile of paperboard knives she’d made. Plucking one from the top, she turned, finding Gilbert standing directly behind her.
Her breath suddenly became lodged in her throat, and her pulse began galloping through her veins, even as she realized that Gilbert seemed to be much larger than she’d ever noticed before, and his closeness was making her somewhat nervous.
Telling herself she was being beyond ridiculous because it wasn’t as if she’d never been close to Gilbert before, although she certainly had never experienced her pulse reacting so erratically just because she was near him, Temperance forced a smile and met his gaze—a mistake if there was one because his gaze held a distinct glint in it, one that seemed downright dangerous.
She’d never once thought of Gilbert as a dangerous gentleman, even though she knew he was considered an expert marksman, enjoyed the sport of boxing, and . . .
“Did you really make these knives?” Gilbert asked, recalling her back to the present moment, where she was standing still as a statue while the knife she’d picked up was dangling limply from her hand.
Managing a nod even as a concerning tingle swept up her arm when he reached out and took the knife from her, his fingers grazing the top of her hand, she swallowed past a throat that was remarkably dry. “I made the paperboard from small bits of wet paper I strained through a screen, and . . .” She stopped rambling and drew in a much needed breath of air, but instead of steadying nerves that seemed rather jingly, she suddenly got a whiff of something that made her lose all track of what she’d been going to say next.
It was a scent that held a distinct trace of lime, mixed with sandalwood if she wasn’t mistaken, but there was something else mingling with those scents, something intriguing, and something she knew she needed to push right out of her mind.
Clearing a throat that was still dry, she shook herself ever so slightly and ignored that Gilbert was watching her closely. “I’m sure you remember how I can go on about my art, so in order to spare you from going glassy-eyed with boredom, I’ll leave the rest of my papermaking process for another time—perhaps when you’re suffering from ennui and need something that will put you straight to sleep.”
“You could never bore me, Temperance,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of her hair behind her ear.
It was a gesture he’d performed many times over the years, but now, to her concern, it seemed remarkably intimate and sent additional tingles over her. Heat crawled up her neck, but thankfully, Gilbert didn’t notice since he was turning and moving across the courtyard, palming the knife she’d given him as if he’d been handling knives for years.
Knowing she was gawking at a man she’d known for practically her entire life, Temperance tore her gaze away from him and walked over to join Edwina. She stepped around the easel her friend was using, in the desperate hope she could distract herself with the painting Edwina had been working on.
What she found on the canvas had her at a complete loss for words.
“What do you think?” Edwina asked, dabbing at the canvas with a brush that was holding entirely too much paint.
“It’s ah . . . quite the most interesting rendition of a tree I’ve ever seen,” Temperance said somewhat weakly.
Edwina stopped her dabbing. “It’s not a tree. I’m painting a picture of Eugene.”
Temperance leaned forward and squinted at the canvas. “Are you really?”
Setting aside her paintbrush, Edwina let out a laugh. “I’m complete rubbish at this, Temperance, but I do thank you for trying to be diplomatic about this mess of a portrait.”
“People are one of the most difficult subjects to paint.”
>
Edwina eyed the painting for a second before she bit her lip. “Perhaps I should have started off with a tree.”
“You can always try a tree next time, Miss Edwina,” Mr. Barclay said, joining them before he glanced at the painting, shuddered just a touch, then nodded to where Eugene and Gilbert were squaring off in the middle of the courtyard. “Any guesses on who might draw first paint?”
Edwina smiled. “Eugene’s fast, there’s no question about that, but I’ve seen Gilbert fight before with Harrison. I’m going to say Gilbert will best Eugene, and he’ll do it quickly too, going for the unexpected strike.”
“You’ve seen Gilbert fight before?” Temperance asked.
Nodding, Edwina stepped away from her easel. “He’s been friends with Harrison for years. He met him through Asher Rutherford when Gilbert needed a boat and Asher directed him to Sinclair Shipping. Since I was always around when he visited, and I, being the annoying little sister I am, always tagged after Harrison and Gilbert, I think of Gilbert as an adopted brother.” She smiled. “And he, I do believe, treats me as a sister since he seems to have no problem with speaking his opinions to me or irritating me whenever he feels I’m wrong.”
“He’s always been like a brother to me as well,” Temperance said, pretending she didn’t see the rolling of the eyes Edwina exchanged with Mr. Barclay.
Turning her attention back to Gilbert and Eugene, she felt her knees turn a little weak when Gilbert flashed her a smile, which was something she’d read about but never experienced, even as he continued circling around Eugene, right before he lunged.
Their sparring was over a moment later with Eugene clapping Gilbert on the back, a large slash of red staining the front of his shirt, while Gilbert’s shirt remained white as white could be.
“I had a feelin’ you was going to be tricky,” Eugene said.
“I had an advantage since I haven’t spent time out here teaching Temperance and Mr. Barclay how to fight. You’re probably fatigued,” Gilbert returned, earning a smile from Eugene in the process.
“That’s a right gentlemanly thing to say, sir, but now, if you’ll excuse me, I do need to be checkin’ in with Miss Henrietta. She mentioned somethin’ about wanting to go visit the tearoom at Rutherford & Company, and because she was kind enough to offer me a position, I don’t want to keep her waitin’.”
As Eugene made for the house, Gilbert surprised Temperance once again when he waved her forward. “You want to try to go up against me?”
“I thought you’d decided I didn’t need to learn how to fend off an attacker with a knife.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to teach you how to defend yourself a little more effectively, and besides . . .” He grinned. “It’ll be amusing.”
Unable to resist his grin, while hoping she’d somehow manage to dribble at least a bit of paint on him even if she missed her mark, Temperance exchanged her splattered shirt for a fresh one. After pulling the new shirt over her gown, she hurried over to the pile of knives and chose the longest one of the bunch. After dipping it in the paint, she moved to stand a few feet away from Gilbert, nodding when she was ready.
His eyes got that dangerous glint in them right before he started toward her, and the very sight of that glint had her spinning on her heel and running, not toward him, but away from him as fast as she could.
“That’s an unexpected move,” she heard Mr. Barclay say as she dashed past him.
“She must be trying to take him by surprise,” Edwina added.
Unfortunately, Gilbert was faster than ever, and before she could do more than let out a whoosh of air, she found herself picked straight up, swung around, then set on her feet. The next second, she felt him trail his paper knife all the way down her arm, leaving it covered in red.
Without bothering to consider what the repercussions might be, she slapped the broad side of her paper knife smack-dab against his shirt, then patted his cheek with a hand now splattered with paint.
“And so it begins” was all he said before he bolted away from her, ran to the bucket of paint, picked it up, and headed directly her way again.
Sprinting across the courtyard, she let out a less-than-ladylike shriek when she was suddenly doused with the entire contents of the paint bucket. Not one to admit defeat easily, she changed directions, dashed up to Edwina’s easel, grabbed the paint pallet from the stand, then turned, faltering for the merest of seconds when she realized Gilbert was only a foot away from her, grinning from ear to ear and looking quite pleased with himself.
Knowing the piddling bit of paint on the pallet was not going to do much damage, Temperance did the only thing she could think of—she charged his way, then threw herself at him, smearing him with the paint completely covering her.
Slipping on cobblestones that were slick from the paint, she tumbled to the ground, but brought him down with her when she refused to release his arm.
Dissolving into laughter and feeling more amused than she’d felt in a very long time, Temperance drew in a ragged breath of air, turning her head to find Gilbert grinning back at her.
“I would say I’m the clear winner in our skirmish,” he said.
“As much as this pains me to say, I do believe you may be—”
“On my word, what in the world is going on back here?”
Any sense of amusement disappeared as Temperance pushed paint-covered hair out of her eyes and peered up at the shadowy figure that had materialized directly above her.
To her concern, peering down at her was none other than Mrs. Boggart Hobbes, Fanny’s Aunt Minnie, and the lady who’d discovered Temperance and Gilbert together in Chicago. Unfortunately, given the scowl on her face, Mrs. Boggart Hobbes did not appear to be in an understanding frame of mind.
Chapter
Eighteen
While Gilbert floundered for something to say, Temperance, faced with a scowling society matron looming over them, sat up, swiped a hand across a face covered in paint, smearing that paint in the process, then released a chuckle, then another, right before she began to laugh.
The sound of her laughter caused a curious sensation to settle in his heart, one he’d never felt before, but one that warmed him all the way to his paint-covered boots.
She’d experienced more than her fair share of hardship over the years since her parents had died, but seeing her laugh gave unmistakable credence to the idea she’d been strong enough to survive that hardship, had persevered even with the daunting circumstances she’d faced, and . . . she’d become even more captivating than she’d been in their youth.
Her ability to turn the most ordinary of situations into the extraordinary was a gift not many people possessed, and he wanted nothing more than to be given the pleasure of experiencing every extraordinary situation she was certain to encounter by her side.
As that unexpected idea began burrowing deeper and deeper into his very soul, Gilbert felt his lips curve, until he realized that Mrs. Boggart Hobbes was in the midst of a tirade, one he’d completely missed. Glancing at Temperance, he found her releasing a last chuckle as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, smearing the paint once again over her face and leaving her looking somewhat deranged.
Realizing he’d forgotten his manners since he was still on the ground and Mrs. Boggart Hobbes was now shaking a finger his way, muttering something about the rules of etiquette, which seemed rather odd given the circumstances, Gilbert rose to his feet. Extending a hand to a now hiccupping Temperance, he pulled her up next to him, tucked a chunk of dark hair drenched with paint behind her ear, then found himself held immobile when she lifted her gaze to his.
Her green eyes were twinkling with amusement, and they looked greener than usual, what with the contrast they made set in a face painted red. A river of red was trailing down her face and dripping from her jawline onto a shirt that was saturated with paint and was more than likely ruining the gown underneath it.
Temperance didn’t seem concerned about her condition at all as she cleared
her throat, reached out, and took hold of his hand, quite like she’d done every time they’d found themselves caught in a bout of mischief in their youth. She then turned her attention to the society matron who was scowling back at her.
“Mrs. Boggart Hobbes,” Temperance began, lifting her chin. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
Mrs. Boggart Hobbes lifted her chin as well. “I seem to recall you saying almost the exact same words to me when I discovered you in Chicago.” Her chin lifted another inch. “You then led me to believe that there was nothing untoward about you being in the company of Mr. Cavendish, some ridiculous excuse about you being abducted and taken to Chicago against your will. But now, seeing the untoward manner in which the two of you were frolicking about this courtyard, it would seem you were less than truthful with me.”
“Gilbert and I weren’t frolicking,” Temperance argued as her eyes continued to twinkle. She leaned forward, that action causing Mrs. Boggart Hobbes to take a large step backward, clearly to avoid having paint dripped on her. “We were engaged in a mock knife fight, but I fear I became a little overly exuberant in my attempt to win, and, well”—she gestured to her paint-covered body—“Gilbert couldn’t be expected to ignore an opportunity to retaliate.”
Mrs. Boggart Hobbes released a sniff before she turned to Gilbert. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Cavendish.” She waved to Clementine, who was standing a few feet away from them, with Wayne and Fanny on either side of her, all of the Flowerdews looking quite like deer caught in the lantern light as they gaped his way. “My darling Clementine led me to believe you were a gentleman above reproach. Sadly, even if you do possess the honorary title of Lord Cavendish and your father was an earl, I’m afraid you’ve taken after your mother’s side of the family.”
Gilbert stiffened as any sense of amusement he’d been experiencing disappeared. “Do not say another disparaging word about my mother. She is a lady through and through, and I will not tolerate any nonsense to the contrary.”