by Erica Ridley
Obviously.
Her palms grew clammy, and she wrapped her fingers into tight balls to hide the cold sweat. She could do this. One of the letters was a D, or possibly a B. She would figure it out just as soon as they stopped dancing.
But the more she stared at each letter, the more they seemed to shiver and move. Now she wasn’t sure that the wiggling letter was a D or a B at all. She wasn’t sure about any of the letters.
The harder she tried, the worse it was going to get. She was going to stand here mute, unable to perform a child’s task, proving once and for all just how unworthy she was of the attention of a gentleman like Mr. Grenville, and of being in this gallery at all.
“What does it say?” he asked again, his brows creasing enquiringly.
Her stomach twisted. The letters weren’t any clearer. She was never going to be able to read the plaque. The back of her throat pricked with heat.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice tiny and raw.
Mr. Grenville stepped next to her, glanced from her miserable face to the printed sign, and burst into a belly laugh.
Nora wanted to die.
“Of course you cannot read it,” he said with a shake of his head. “I should never assume that anyone but myself had parents who subjected them to German tutors as well as French ones. It says, ‘Snow at dawn.’ Look at how he refracted the horizon in the frozen water. How do you think he did that?”
Nora stared back at him wordlessly, unable to theorize as to the artist’s technique because she was still shaking in her borrowed boots.
Mr. Grenville had already forgotten her awkwardness while reading the plaque, but Nora would never forget. His kindness made her feel even stupider than usual; she hadn’t realized the words weren’t in English. She fought the urge to run from the room and bury her flaming cheeks in her hands.
It wasn’t the first time Nora had been the least clever person in the room.
The local vicar had organized lessons for male school-aged children back home. Her grandparents had been thrilled about the opportunity and promised her she would learn just as much as Carter, even if she couldn’t attend personally.
But when her younger brother came home and attempted to explain the day’s lessons to her, Nora hadn’t been bright enough to follow along. Within a matter of weeks, her baby brother had quickly outpaced her in anything involving reading.
She had longed to fit in, pretended to control the dancing letters and numbers in a desperate attempt not to be different. Not to be lesser.
All these years later, she was still doing the same thing: pretending she was just like all the other girls. Acting like she could read the titles of portraits. Pretending she belonged.
This was just more proof to the contrary.
She followed Mr. Grenville from one picture to the next, marveling at his complete and easy confidence. Of course he spoke Latin and German and French. Of course he could do sums and enjoyed literature and could recount relevant stories from history or fiction to accompany each painting. This was his element.
“You know everything about art,” she said in wonder when he surprised her yet again.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I know very little, but I know what I like. How about you? Do you see much here that you like?”
Nora swallowed, certain her face appeared as lovesick as she feared.
“Very much,” she managed. Her pulse raced just from his nearness. Every moment with him was better than the last.
He proffered his elbow. “Shall we try the next salon?”
Nora stared at his outstretched arm.
She knew she should not take it. This was a glimpse into the sort of life she might’ve had if she had been born into a different time, to a different family, in a different place. She was not his equal. She was a very out-of-her-depth young woman who very soon would be going back home where she belonged.
Perhaps that was why she took his arm and held on tight.
Obviously this could not go anywhere. It meant nothing. Friendship, flirtation, harmless fun. He was a future baron. She was an illiterate peasant girl dressed up like a debutante.
This wasn’t real life. They both knew the path would soon diverge when she went back home.
What harm could there be in living in the moment, when this moment was all they would ever have?
Chapter 14
Heath had been looking forward to visiting the Dulwich Picture Gallery ever since it opened, and was enjoying himself far more than he had anticipated.
He had expected to fall in love with the art. What he hadn’t expected… was Miss Winfield.
She looked as though he’d brought her to heaven itself. “The play of light and shadow in these paintings is absolutely breathtaking. This technique they’re using…”
“It’s called ‘chiaroscuro,’” he said gruffly, embarrassed that he had learned every possible detail except how to actually produce it. He’d believed enjoying others’ art would have to be enough.
He now realized that sharing it was even more magical.
“I cannot tear my eyes away,” she whispered, clearly awestruck.
It was true. When they had walked past Lady Jersey and the other patronesses of Almack’s, Miss Winfield had not so much as blinked. Likely she had not been in Town long enough to recognize the most important members of Society.
It was one of the many things Heath liked best about Miss Winfield: her lack of knowledge about social hierarchy, gossip, and scandals made her seem fresh and untarnished by superficial nonsense.
She was present in the moment in a way that few other gallery-goers even attempted. Miss Winfield wasn’t darting looks beneath her lashes to see who strolled with whom, or who had worn which gown, or had arrived in which carriage. She was staring at each work of art with much the same expression Heath imagined on his own visage.
“This may be my favorite place in the city,” he murmured.
“This may be my favorite place in England,” she countered with a startled laugh. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
In truth, he could not have asked for a better partner. Miss Winfield was the perfect companion to bring to this gallery. To any gallery.
He was pleased by how much she loved art. Flattered by how carefully she listened to his opinions. Delighted that not only wasn’t she bored by critical analysis of each painting, but discussed them with even more enthusiasm than his mother discussed shopping for new bonnets.
“My pleasure,” he responded, and meant it.
If he were honest, he had called upon the Roundtree residence today not to speak to his client, but in hopes of seeing Miss Winfield. He had been so disappointed on the occasions when he had dropped by to give the baroness his weekly update and her companion had not been present.
Today, inspiration had struck. During a private conference in Lady Roundtree’s parlor, he could not reasonably request Miss Winfield’s presence, but he could invite both ladies to join him somewhere else. The Dulwich Picture Gallery opening to the public at long last was a happy coincidence that gave him an easy excuse for an outing.
He slid a glance toward Miss Winfield. As it turned out, there was no one else he would rather have by his side.
“I cannot wait to explore the next collection,” he said.
The paintings within had been collected for the King of Poland, who had been forced to abdicate the throne before he could enjoy them.
When they entered the room, Miss Winfield clasped her hands to her chest as though her heart had started pounding just like Heath’s.
“Have you ever seen anything so lovely?” she breathed.
She was a vision. Her shimmering red curls, her rose-pink gown, her captivating blue eyes sparkling with interest and excitement.
He couldn’t stop sneaking stolen, enchanted glances at her. It was as if the works of art began with Miss Winfield herself, before they had even stepped inside the gallery.
“Very few things are this lo
vely,” he agreed gruffly.
She turned in a slow circle to take in the vastness of the salon. “If I had a collection like this, I would stare at it every day.”
Heath’s opinion exactly. His favorite daydream. The closest he’d come to realizing it were the works on the walls of his private chambers, a collection glimpsed by few individuals. He was startled to realize that Miss Winfield was perhaps the one person who would appreciate it as much as Heath.
With her, he would not have to hide his true self.
“I’m glad you are pleased with today’s excursion,” he murmured.
“Pleased?” Her eyes shone with joy. “There is nowhere I would rather be.”
And no one Heath would rather be with.
A wise man would not allow this infatuation to continue. She was a farm maiden. Someone’s employee. Far below his station. The rules had been impressed upon him since birth. Yet he could not help but notice that he was not the only one Miss Winfield had charmed.
Lady Roundtree had once been vociferously against the idea of a paid companion. According to gossips like Phineas Mapleton, it was because the baroness was barren and did not wish to be pitied by her peers for being forced to pay some commoner to spend time with her, rather than birth a proper family of her own.
Heath had no idea whether there was any truth to the rumor, nor did he believe anyone was in a position to judge. He liked the baroness and had gone out of his way to squelch such mean-spirited gossip. Eventually, a new subject of interest had emerged.
Although Heath wouldn’t wish a broken limb on anyone, no one had been more pleased than he to hear that Lady Roundtree had acquired a companion after all.
And now that he’d met Miss Winfield for himself…
She turned to him with a happy smile. “One could not ask for a more perfect day.”
Heath straightened his spine as Lady Pettibone strode up behind Miss Winfield.
“Where is my hardheaded niece?” She jabbed the tip of her parasol against the floor. “Did you roll her into the Thames?”
Miss Winfield did not cower at the harsh tone or insulting language. Instead, her eyes softened. “Please stop worrying. Lady Roundtree is a perfect doll. I am honored to be her companion.”
Lady Pettibone harrumphed. “I suppose that’s why you’ve run off with Heath Grenville.”
Miss Winfield’s cheeks flushed pink. “I fear it is the baroness who has run off. She saw some friends she wished to converse with, and did not need me underfoot.”
“Mabel despises galleries.” Lady Pettibone leaned on the handle of her parasol with a scowl. “Her ‘friends’ are probably characters in whatever lurid book club novel she’s off reading in some dark corner.”
“Do you think she is unhappy?” Miss Winfield blanched. “I must find her at once.”
Lady Pettibone scoffed at the idea. “Mabel is never happier than when her nose is in a book. If she brought you here, it must be because she thought you would enjoy it.”
“Oh, she didn’t bring me here.” Miss Winfield beamed up at Heath. “Mr. Grenville invited us.”
Now he’d done it. Heath’s cravat suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.
“It was rather spur of the moment,” he murmured. “I happened to be visiting, and…”
“I see.” Lady Pettibone’s sharp, narrowed eyes indicated she likely saw far more than Heath had intended. “Do not forget yourself.”
She turned and strode away before he or Miss Winfield could say another word.
Heath pretended not to have understood the message.
Miss Winfield glanced up at him with worry. “Should I have curtsied? We skipped the how-do-you-do’s, and I wasn’t certain which was the right moment. Lady Pettibone must be mortally offended.”
He could have laughed. “That’s the nicest I’ve ever seen her treat anyone. I think she loves you. Lady Roundtree is her favorite niece, and you are clearly very good for her.”
“Good for her?” Miss Winfield’s eyes widened. “My post as her companion has been incredibly good for me.”
“See? That’s what makes you different. Instead of looking for ways to tear each other down, you look for ways to help each other out.” His lips quirked. “Although as I recall, you were not particularly quick to help me out when your dog violated my virgin boot with his lusty passion.”
“Lady Roundtree’s dog,” Miss Winfield reminded him with a sparkle in her eyes. “If you wish to break your betrothal to Captain Pugboat, you’ll have to take it up with her.”
Heath grinned back at her. He wouldn’t undo their private joke for the world.
There was no sense hiding the truth. Despite a lifelong obsession with maintaining reputations, particularly his own, he seemed unable to resist pursuing a highly inadvisable friendship with a paid companion. But friendship was as far as it could go.
Heath knew firsthand how quick Society was to ostracize any member with the wrong connections, no matter how lofty. It was a miracle that Lady Roundtree seemed to hold a soft spot for Miss Winfield.
But even though there was no romantic future in store for them, he did not wish to waste what time they did have together. Not when there was such an obvious connection between them.
She glanced up at him with a wistful smile. “Do you ever wish you could live in a place surrounded by this much beauty?”
Heath was imagining it right now. He saw Miss Winfield not as an unpolished diamond, but as a bright red rose amid a sea of pale white dandelions who could not appreciate her beauty because her colors were so much brighter than theirs.
“What is it like where you live?” he asked.
“Incredibly beautiful,” she answered without hesitation.
“Not the Roundtree town house,” he clarified. “I meant back home on your farm.”
“So did I,” she said, her tone wry.
His neck heated at the gaffe. “Tell me about it.”
“Villages in the West Midlands are the opposite of London,” she said after a moment. “There are no factories, no soot-filled sky, no beggars pleading for alms.”
Heath blinked. That was definitely not the impression one hoped one’s capital city would make on a visitor.
“Back home, the air tastes clean,” she continued. “The rumble of passing carriages are few and far between. One mostly hears the call of birds. And occasionally the bleat of sheep.”
“It sounds idyllic,” Heath admitted.
“You would love it.” Her eyes shone. “Stepping outside at night and seeing the sky so full of stars… The universe seems endless and full of infinite possibility.”
He tilted his head at the phrasing. “What is it you wish would be possible?”
She bit her lip. “A better life for my brother. An easier life for my grandparents. We are proud of our farm, but they all work so hard from dawn to well past dusk. I wish I could give them an extra hour each day, when responsibilities would melt away and all that was left to do was relax and enjoy being with nature and each other.”
“It sounds like you love your family as much as I love mine,” he said softly.
“They are my best friends.” Miss Winfield let out a long, slow breath. “I miss them very much.”
His smile faded at the yearning in her tone. “It must be horrid to be so far away from one’s entire family.”
“Not my entire family.” Miss Winfield’s eyes brightened. “Lady Roundtree is my second cousin, and I’ve come to love her just as much as any other.”
Heath’s mind stopped. “You and Lady Roundtree are cousins?”
“Afraid so.” She looked up at him quizzically. “Does it matter?”
Shame heated the back of his neck. It should not matter. Miss Winfield was the same person he saw before him, no matter who her cousins were.
Yet that accident of birth gave her more of an advantage in this environment than she likely realized. Many of his peers believed the non-aristocracy beneath them. Blood relatives, however…
“Look,” Miss Winfield breathed. “It’s Samson and Delilah. Note the stylistic choice of shears rather than scissors… See how the eye focuses on her? The artist has chosen to bathe the hero in darkness and the villainess in light.”
Once again, Heath was impressed by Miss Winfield’s uncanny insight into how each artist played with perspective and color. She rhapsodized about how different types of brushstrokes invoked movement and emotion. Nothing escaped her notice.
As they walked, Heath found himself soliciting her opinion more than espousing his own. Her eye was incredible. His sisters could tease him that he had come to respect the opinions of a client’s companion as if Miss Winfield were a Grenville herself… And his sisters would be right.
“Are you sure you’re not meant to be an artist?” he asked.
She turned the question back around on him. “This outing was your idea, and I daresay a jolly good one. Are you certain you are not meant to be an artist?”
He gave a self-deprecating snort. If only she knew how many hours he had dedicated in pursuit of a talent he would never possess.
“I’m hopeless at art,” he admitted with a smile. “I cannot trace my hand and have it still look like a hand when I’m done.”
She frowned, rather than laugh at the image. “How is that possible? You are so well educated. Your ability with languages, all the details about geography and local history as relates to these paintings…”
“There is a vast difference between ‘passable’ and ‘gifted.’” He gave his shoulder a light shrug. “I’m not talented at artistic pursuits. I’m gifted in exactly one arena: memorizing data.”
She shook her head. “I am certain that’s a shocking understatement. Your multilingual literacy alone—”