“So I figured, which is why Cook packed up a basket, filled with food for six people instead of two.” He set the willow basket down near the medium-sized boulder she’d perched upon as a seat. Then he proceeded to spread the faded green blanket over the grass at the bank of the pond. “She didn’t know your preferences, so I asked that she put in a sampling. There is also a jug of tea. I can’t speak of its temperature, but you can have lemonade if you’d rather.”
Her stomach let out a loud rumble that made him chuckle. Oh, how she adored that sound! What should she do to ensure that she continued to hear such a thing? Caroline lowered her brush and finally set it on the grooved ledge at the bottom of the easel. “I am hungry but didn’t wish to lose the light.”
“If this was my property, I’d set aside a room of your choosing to use for a studio.” He swung open the lid of the basket. “Scone or bread and cold cuts?”
“A scone. And some tea. Care not hot if it is.”
“I understand completely. Perhaps it’s the act of drinking tea and not its temperature.”
While he busied himself with pouring out a cup from a bottle, she took in his face and form with an artist’s eye. The brown superfine jacket he wore set off his golden-brown eyes to perfection. A woman could lose herself in those warm depths if she weren’t careful. The brown tweed waistcoat put her in mind of working-class men she’d spied once on an outing with the countess near some warehouses, and his buff-hued breeches showed his long, muscled legs to full advantage.
Yes, later she would paint him again. Would he agree to pose?
“I hope my lady enjoys her breakfast.” John presented her the scone on a linen napkin with a flourish and then handed her the cup of tea.
She grinned. How could she not? He was good company. “Thank you.” When he came closer to peer at her sketchbook that lay on the grass at her feet, she sucked in a breath. What would he think of that drawing?
“I know what the subject of this sketch is.” Without apparent care to the grass, he sat upon it, and she rather liked his proximity, for the late summer breeze carried his scent to her nose. “Obviously, this twisting storm represents you.” He flashed her a glance and she nodded. “And this,” he tapped the image of a man, roughly drawn and running from the storm. “I fear this is supposed to represent me, and for some reason, I’m running from you, as if I’m afraid.” A frown tugged at the corners of his sensuous mouth. “Why? Have I given you some indication that I find you abhorrent?”
“Uh…” Caroline took refuge in sipping her lukewarm tea. “I sometimes think you will truth discover me about.” She sighed. “The truth about me and you won’t like it.”
Or me.
“You will run away.”
For long moments, John studied the sketch. Then he laid the book back in the grass. “I chose you, Caroline. That particular fear will never come true. For the rest of my life, I will face the storm and embrace the chaos if you let me.” He touched her elbow, and warmth emanated up her arm from the point of contact. “I want nothing more right now than to understand you, learn how your mind works, discover everything that makes you… you.”
Shock rolled through her chest. “No one has ever wanted that.”
“It’s a new day.” When he grinned in that special way he had, her heart fluttered like mad. “Right now, I’m trying to decide on where we’ll live and what you want from our future.”
Too many questions!She couldn’t put her hands over her ears since both were full of the food stuffs John had offered. So she looked at him as panic bounced through her insides. “I… don’t know. Never had cause to think about such things before while at the asylum.”
There, she had no future. It wasn’t an efficient use of her time to have dreams or hope things would change. Now that they had, she supposed she should probably pull those things from the trunks in her mind and dust them off. Caroline transferred her gaze to the pond, watched a pair of geese float stately over the surface. “I want to live somewhere I can paint.”
“Of course. I would never ask that you discontinue that.”
She nodded and nibbled on the cream scone. That she remembered from childhood, of how she and Isobel used to sneak into the kitchens and bedevil the cook for some though it might spoil their dinner. “I want a pianoforte. Cannot survive without painting and music.” While she’d been consigned to the asylum, she used to pretend she had a pianoforte, which was in reality merely a windowsill. She’d practiced to continue her skills while imagined music had filled her head. In her mind, words might become troublesome, but music was always beautiful and could say everything that she couldn’t. It never failed.
“I shall endeavor to bring that to you, though I might need Hadleigh’s assistance.”
“Why? Andrew doesn’t play.”
John chuckled, and that in itself was music. “I meant in securing such an instrument. At the moment, I only rent rooms, so we shall need to find a permanent residence before bringing a pianoforte with us.”
“A house. For us.” The concept boggled her mind. She, who’d for so long only occupied one room by herself would now have a home filled with beautiful, happy things.
“Or a cottage. Ipswich has pretty cottages. Some even feature a view of the sea.” He found and held her gaze. “Wherever we go, I will support you, but I would like to reside in Ipswich. I wish you to see the beauty, experience the languid peace, the unhurried pace of the area. Brand lives there, so you won’t be without family should you wish that. You can also meet my friends, and I can take you sailing. Our shipping outfit has a sloop and a schooner. Both are marvelous on the sea.”
There was such fondness and enthusiasm in his tones that it pulled her along with him. “You’d let me go with you?”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “Sweeting, you are my wife now. I want you to do whatever makes you happy, whatever feeds your creativity.”
“Oh.” His words combined with the endearment sent warmth hurtling through her body that had nothing to do with the late summer sunshine. This man was much like a well-loved stuffed bear she had as a child, before it was left behind. It had brought comfort and strength and given her confidence, much like her husband did now. “You want to not be in London.”
“Not particularly.” He leaned close, broke off a piece of her scone, and popped the morsel into his mouth. “Besides, my livelihood is in Ipswich.”
What would he look like on a sailing vessel? Suddenly, she wished to know right at that moment, but there were other things to discuss. “Will we come back here?”