A bitter laugh escaped her. “You must be joking. Once you learned we were ladies of rank, you didn’t even want to hire us. And what do you know of my ‘fine qualities’ anyway? You haven’t yet seen what I can accomplish on your sister’s behalf.”
“I’ve seen enough to know you’re talented as an artist. Engineers notice these things. Drawing is part of what we do.” He gestured to her folded hands. “And I’ve also seen enough to know you’re the epitome of elegance. By rights, you ought to have gentlemen of your sort battering down your door.”
“My sort?” She sounded irritated. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you are considered my sort now.”
“Only on the surface. We both know that beneath the title I’m not your sort in the least.”
“No one is my sort,” she blurted out. “That’s why I haven’t married.”
Ah, now they were getting to the heart of it. He wanted to know the reason, and he also didn’t, because it meant he cared about the answer. “How could that possibly be?”
She blushed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.” He traced the outline of a finely gowned woman on the page. It kept him from looking into Diana’s face and frightening her off before she could answer. “I will not judge. Just tell me.”
She looked away, her gaze steady, thoughtful. “The truth is, I fear I’m not the marrying sort. I’d much rather sit and sketch or work with fabric or even read a book than tie myself to a man.”
“Why would you have to choose? You could be tied to a man and still do all those things.”
“Perhaps with the right man. But that’s not the only reason. I . . . fear I’m too . . . cold for marriage, if that makes any sense. I can’t imagine caring so much for a man that I would give up everything to have him. Like whatever prompted Mama to run away with the major-general. And if that impulse isn’t there, what’s the point? Elegant Occasions provides me and my sisters with more than enough to meet our financial needs, and my sisters provide me with companionship.”
She reached for her sketchbook, obviously intending to end their tête-à-tête, so he bent forward to close it. Between the two of them, it was knocked to the ground, where some loose sketches spilled out.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered and began to pick up the scattered pages. That was when he noticed what was on them.
He froze, captivated by the images in charcoal of windy moors and an ancient forest bounded by a river. “Is this Exmoor, by any chance?”
“Yes.” She looked surprised. “You’ve been there?”
With a nod, he gathered up the sketches and put them on his lap before paging through them. “I stayed in the Simonsbath House Inn while considering a project. I did a good bit of roaming thereabouts.”
“I was born near Simonsbath,” she said softly. “That’s where Papa’s estate, Exmoor Court, lies.”
“Ah. That explains why these drawings are so evocative. You must have spent a great deal of time sketching them. You’re quite the artist.”
“Thank you. To paraphrase your definition of civil engineering, I like to use my ‘knowledge of the natural world’ to portray ‘the power of nature’ for the pleasure of mankind.”
“I can see that.”
Then he came to a sketch that clearly wasn’t of Exmoor. Instead, it appeared to capture the storm gathering directly overhead. Had she been sketching this very image as he was being announced? Somehow she’d captured the swaying of the trees and the black clouds looming in the distance. He fancied he could even hear the sky rumbling, though no thunder had actually rolled their way yet.
Or at least no thunder beyond the drumbeat of his blood through his veins. He lifted his gaze to hers. “The woman who sketched these with such fervor isn’t ‘cold’ in the least.”
She wore a vulnerable expression he hadn’t seen on her before, and the gathering clouds with their threat of rain pushed him to do what he’d been wanting to ever since meeting her yesterday. Reaching over to cup her chin in one hand, he bent his head to press his lips to hers.
It was a wild, unwise impulse. Yet when she didn’t protest or push him away, he allowed himself to exult in that victory, taking her lips more boldly.
Her mouth was as tempting as he’d guessed it would be—a soft, sweet wonder of a mouth—and she smelled of strawberries, his favorite fruit. She placed her hand on his cheek, so he placed his behind her neck where tendrils of red hair spilled over his fingers. Then he was lost, wrapped in the pleasures of touching her delicate skin and silky locks, of the taste of honeyed tea on her lips and the warm breaths that mingled between them. It was the most delicious pleasure, and at the same time not nearly enough.
So he pulled her nearer and sank his tongue into her mouth.