When she’d seen him at Christmastide, he’d taken the lead in whatever situation where they were both together. His big, commanding presence meant that she was never disrespected or ignored, and then just as now, she felt safe with him, as if he were a calm harbor to her storm-rocked boat. Giving him a small, tight smile, Caroline nodded and concentrated on her next words. “I am well.” Her throat was entirely too dry. She gripped the edge of her sketchbook. “Passing time. Painting is how I’ve been.”
Of course, her mouth wouldn’t say what her brain wished to convey. They never worked in tandem, and it was maddening, which was why she seldom talked in public if she could help it.
Mr. Butler didn’t seem to mind. Rain dripped from the brim of his beaver felt top hat. It also seeped into her hair. Only then did she realize she had forgotten her dratted bonnet. Such trivial things, fripperies like hats and gloves. They served no purpose except to be silly… or set her apart from others. Neither did he make jest of her, much like he’d been all those months ago. When he didn’t immediately attempt to usher her away, some of the tenseness left her shoulders. “That’s wonderful, Miss Storme. I knew you could draw, for I’d seen some of your creations at Christmastide, but I wasn’t aware your talents went to painting too.”
“Yes.” She nodded. What would he say if he knew he’d been the subject of far too many of her pieces in ways she couldn’t quite fathom?
As if realizing it wasn’t quite proper to keep standing there with his hands on her person, he backed away, and as he did so, some of the cozy protectiveness went with him. How she despised that widening gap between them. It felt much like he would vanish into the mist surrounding her mind and she might never see him again.
Threads of panic began to return. “Don’t go.”
“I won’t.” Again, he grinned. “Continuing to talk about your drawings, I admire people who are artistic. It’s not something I’ve been blessed with.”
Caroline lifted her face to the rain. Perhaps it would cool her overheating cheeks. “It is nothing.” When she transferred her attention back to him, the sapphire blue color of his jacket stirred her muse. Could she capture that exact hue for her next painting? How much of each paint would she need to blend? It would be nice for the color of a midnight sky sprinkled with stars…
“So says the woman with natural talent.” His grin never faded. “You wouldn’t say that if you could see my pathetic attempts at drawing of any kind. Imagine being surrounded by your creations, to look at them and study them whenever one wished.”
“Oh?” He liked them that much?
“Damnation.” The jovial attitude vanished under a cloud of concern. “I beg your pardon, Miss Storme. What a nodcock you must think me for keeping you out in such dismal weather.”
She snorted. “I enjoy the rain.” Until she didn’t because it touched her skin, wet her clothing, or ruined her sketches. Oh, thank goodness the words were in the correct order. “When it ruins except my drawings.” And her mind was back to mucking things up. “I had a map but turned around was from fright.” Annoyed at the disconnect of her mind, she plunged onward. “You can help me at home?”
Mr. Butler frowned. Though it took him a few seconds, he managed to puzzle out her intent. For that she was grateful. “Of course I’ll take you home.”
Caroline almost sagged with relief when he didn’t correct her speech. Her siblings and cousins meant well—probably—but they didn’t need to keep telling her that she’d put together a sentence wrong. Every minute of every day, she was already well aware of her speech patterns. Lady Jane was worse than all of them, but she was so nice it didn’t rankle that much. Usually. “Thank you.” She wiped the moisture from her forehead.
“Where is your carriage? I rather doubt Hadleigh would have let you walk or hire a hack.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Never mind. The earl will have my head in any event once you arrive wet and bedraggled and in my company.” He huffed with apparent frustration. Caroline didn’t like it when he wasn’t smiling. “My vehicle isn’t far from here.” Then he offered an arm bent at the elbow. “Once you’re safely inside and out of the rain, you can tell me your favorite spot in the park. I don’t get up to London much, but the next time I do, I’ll visit Hyde Park again. It’s a wonderful place for reflection.”
He would find no argument from her on that count, but she would rather not talk at all. Not even to him. Though as she walked briskly beside Mr. Butler—his long-legged stride meant she had to hustle to keep up—she marveled that she wasn’t so nervous in his company as she was with many other people.
Why? What difference did one person’s presence make?
They soon reached a sleek black carriage that bore a pretty crest done in silver paint on the door. Caroline traced the swirls and rampant lion artwork with a fingertip. The speckling of raindrops on the door formed an interesting pattern that might provide a new texture if she could reproduce it just right.
“Miss Storme?” Mr. Butler had opened the door and was waiting politely to one side. “May I help you up?”
“Yes.” When she slipped her hand into his and his other briefly touched her waist as he assisted her into the carriage, warmth tingled through her lower belly. How exceedingly odd. She’d never felt that whenever her cousin handed her into a vehicle. With a tiny sigh, she settled onto one of the squabbed benches. As much as she liked the rain, she was glad to be out of it.
Seconds later, Mr. Butler came into the carriage after giving his driver an address. He closed the door and had no sooner sat heavily on the bench across from her than the vehicle lurched into motion. “It’s unfortunate the weather didn’t cooperate. I would have liked to stroll through the park with you a while. That Christmastide house party seems a million years from now.” His grin returned and his eyes were kind. “I’ve often wondered what became of you after that.”
“I have been… hiding.” For lack of a better word. But that’s what it felt like. Cousin Andrew kept her inside the townhouse. Did he fear that she would harm herself or others? Or was it that he didn’t quite know what to do with her? Perhaps she caused him too much embarrassment. In many ways, it was little better than the institution, for she was allowed outside, but…
When Mr. Butler removed his hat and set it on the bench beside him, she eyed his hair, slightly longer than fashion demanded, with an artist’s eye. Did she have enough yellows and browns to recreate that exact shade? A thin enough brush to make those slight waves? What would it feel like? She needed to know that to better understand how to sketch him.
“Why are you hiding?” The rumble of his voice in the small, enclosed space reverberated within her chest.
“I am different.” That was the truth. Ordinarily, she didn’t enjoy traveling with other people, but with Mr. Butler, his big presence brought comfort and calm. As if he would protect her from all the horrors and slights in the world, as if he would never judge her because of her failures. In his company, there was a peace she’d not known before, and it was slightly addicting.
“We are all different, Miss Storme. That doesn’t mean you should hide away.” He nodded with encouragement. “With your talents, you should be lauded and admired in society. Your paintings should hang in the most popular drawing rooms.”
Oh, dear heavens.She shuddered. “Society wants perfection. I am broken.” Relief shivered down her spine, for the words weren’t mangled this time.
“Bullocks.” He regarded her with pursed lips and bushy eyebrows that dipped in confusion. “Why do you assume so?”