Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) by Cassandra Dean

Author:Cassandra Dean [Dean, Cassandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance, Women's Fiction, Regency & Victorian Romance, London Society, England & Britain, 19th Century, Forever Love, Bachelor, Single Woman, Love Possibility, Hearts Desire, Life-Changes, Second Chance Reunion, Honesty & Trust, Home & Family, Lifetime Love, Romantic Schemes, Beautiful & Feisty, Love-Family & Forever, Action & Adventure, Sensual Story Theme, Lost Lords
Publisher: Cassandra Dean
Published: 2019-11-26T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Lydia attacked the easel, her brow creased as she stabbed with her brush. From where he stood, Oliver couldn’t see much of what she was painting, but it looked like an array of variously shaped green blobs with the occasional brown blob thrown in for contrast. If one squinted, one could concede her painting vaguely resembled the plants surrounding them in the conservatory. If one squinted.

He watched her in silence for a moment, not wanting to destroy her version of tranquillity. She always painted when she wanted calm, and the fact she was terrible at it did not deter her at all. Tendrils of red-gold hair lay against her neck and curled softly against her shoulders, the rest of it gathered into some complicated braided thing at the crown of her head. The back of her gown dipped between her shoulder blades, a soft vee displaying warm, creamy skin. Her blades moved as she stabbed at the easel and he charted their progress, wondering how the skin would feel beneath a splayed hand as she reached for a kiss rather than a paintbrush—

Shaking himself, he scowled at his distraction. He was here to apologise, not to ogle her without her knowledge. “Are you destroying another sheet of paper?”

She whirled around, her brows drawing as she spied him. For the longest time, they stared at each other.

“You’re dripping paint,” he finally said.

She skewered the paintbrush into a water-filled jar. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“I came to see Lord Demartine.” Her expression didn’t change. “And to apologise.”

Her expression softened. Slightly. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Feeling awkward, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologise for my behaviour at the theatre. I was boorish.”

“You were.” She studied him a moment. With a sigh, she shook her head. “However, I am creating a masterpiece. You should not disturb genius.” The corner of her lips tilted.

Relief flowed through him. She forgave him. Taking a place behind her, he studied the composition. “Genius?”

“It is not my fault you don’t recognise artistry when it is before you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she arched a brow.

He always forgot how beautiful she was. He knew it on some base level, but to him she was Lydia, her face and form merely one part of her. She had been declared a diamond of the first order, and men fell over themselves to be the one to put a smile on her face, but it was more than her face. It was her. Her wit, her joy, the way she teased. The way she teased him. The counsel she gave. The fact she adored architecture and left hair pins littered everywhere, and when she was with him, he felt...complete.

“Did you really come to see my father?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted.

She beamed, and he smiled in return, helpless not to. “So you merely came to critique genius artwork?”

“This? This is genius?”

“It is the genesis of genius.”

“Of course.” He studied the easel, debating if he should ask about Meacham. He had just apologised, she had accepted, but he didn’t know how solid the foundation of their relationship.

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