“How so?”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow in self-deprecation. “Perhaps I am hopelessly sentimental, unduly romantic, but I did not enjoy being the one impediment to Jeremy and Olivia’s love match, the one person standing between Jeremy and the title which would have made him a suitable husband for the girl he loved.”
Mira frowned in consternation. “I am still confused, my lord. You say that your parents and hers insisted on the match, that they would not stand for Olivia marrying Jeremy. But why then were you and Olivia not engaged?”
With a sheepish shrug, Nicholas admitted, “Well, we were engaged for a time. And, publicly, we were engaged until Olivia met her death. But just the day before her fall from the curtain wall, I told Olivia that I would willingly step aside if she and Jeremy wished to elope. I even offered to help them abscond to Gretna Green and to intercede on their behalf with our parents.”
He smiled sadly. “So, you see, when she died, Olivia and I were not exactly engaged anymore. She had, however amicably, jilted me.”
“Oh.” Mira could think of nothing else to say.
“Now, enough of this maudlin reminiscing,” Nicholas said, a gruff catch in his voice. “I have a sketch to do. And you, Mira, must remain as still as a stone while I draw you, so I recommend that you lean back again. You may close your eyes if you wish, whatever makes you most comfortable.”
Mira did as instructed, sinking back against the pillows and savoring the way in which they yielded beneath her, their mass shifting to cradle her body.
She closed her eyes, thinking to add this new piece of the puzzle to the information she already possessed. But within moments, the hiss of another rainstorm and the sibilant scratching of Nicholas’s charcoal across the canvas had lulled her into a light doze.
“Mira?” His voice washed around her, a gentle wave of sound lapping at her skin.
“Hmmm?”
“Mira, are you awake?”
She opened one eye and gazed around herself in sleepy wonder, trying to assimilate the wild array of colors and patterns surrounding her. How odd. She could not remember ever dreaming such vivid colors before, or such distinct odors. It smelled green, like rain. Like rain and cloves.
“Mira-mine, are you awake?”
“Yes.”
Nicholas’s low laughter resonated through her bones, its deep register seeming to come from within her own body.
“Liar,” he said.
Slowly, still woozy from her nap, she sat up, planting her feet on the plush carpet with the deliberate care of a drunk. “Why would you ask a question if you already knew the answer?” she responded, her sleepy slur robbing the rejoinder of all its bite.
“Touché, my dear.”
Mira squinted in an effort to focus on Nicholas. He was standing by the easel, the charcoal still in his hand, his cheek and forehead smudged black with its dust. Belatedly, she remembered that she was supposed to remain still.
“May I move yet?” she asked, realizing that the question was moot.
“Mmmm. Yes, I am done with the sketch. And it is nearing time for you to go back to your room to change for dinner. We would not want anyone to come looking for you…they might actually find you. Here. With me. And that would not do at all.”
“You are done with the sketch? Would it… I mean, may I see?” She held her breath in anticipation of his answer. She did not even know what she hoped he would say.
Nicholas frowned and looked at his easel. “I suppose,” he murmured. “Usually Pawly is the only one to see my work before it is finished, and Pawly rarely bothers to look. But, under the circumstances, I do not see why you shouldn’t see the work in progress.”
When she began to stand, he held up a hand to stop her. “But you must keep in mind, Mira, that it is only a sketch.”
“Of course,” she said with a weak smile. He was so defensive, so cautious, she could not help but dread what she would see.
She moved to the easel, her eyes downcast, watching the toes of her boots alternately peeking from beneath her skirts and disappearing. She did not look up until she was standing squarely in front of the easel. Taking a steadying breath, she raised her head…