Page 71 of A Mismatch Made in London

I could still feel his warmth on my hand, my skin fairly tingling. But it was only me. I was sure he wasn’t feeling any of this.

We watched the water tumbling over the precipice from this safe distance on the bench. What was he thinking? And then I noticed the sketchbook on the bench beside him.

“Were you drawing?” I asked.

“I was.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I wouldn’t say that I am an artist, precisely.” He had a self-deprecating half smile on his lips. “I do like to draw, on occasion. I haven’t done it for some time, but ... the Lake District could make an artist out of almost anyone, I think. Shelley has even accused me of becoming his friend simply so I could visit him here.” His smile deepened, but then was gone. “I once accused you of becoming friends with my sister with the intent of getting closer to me, and that was wrong. I was wrong. I hope you forgive me.”

“You already asked me, and I have already forgiven you.” I was amused. He was being so open. I wasn’t used to seeing this side of him. I might have liked it if we were just friends, but as we were engaged, everything he said took on additional meaning, made me judge how sincere, or insincere, he might be.

“Truthfully,” I went on, “it was a fair assumption, given the way my aunt was announcing publicly how glad she was that I was getting close to you by being friends with your sister.”

“You can hardly be blamed for what your aunt says. Besides, Ihad made the assumption even before she said it. You must have thought me the most conceited man in England.”

“I did think you quite arrogant.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” He shook his head.

We were quiet for a moment, then I said, “Were you sketching the waterfall?”

“I was.” He opened the book carefully, as if he were trying to only show me the one page.

“That is very good,” I said. It was a perfect likeness of the upper part of the waterfall.

“No, it is not ‘very good.’ It is the scratchings of a rank amateur, but I do enjoy it. When I am in the mood for it.”

“Well, you have much more talent for drawing than I have. I am afraid I am not the accomplished lady everyone expects. I cannot draw, I cannot sing, and I only play a little. But I have read extensively. I will say that in my favor.”

“You are far too modest.” He was smiling again. “I have heard you play, and you are very good, and I do believe I have even heard you sing with Juliet once or twice, and you have a lovely voice.”

“No, no, you mustn’t say that. If you will not allow that your sketching is good, then I cannot allow that my singing is good.” I laughed at the thought. I knew my limitations and shortcomings, after all.

“All I can say is, I enjoyed hearing you sing.”

“And I enjoyed looking at your sketch of the waterfall.”

“Touché.”

“May I see some of your other sketches?” I looked pointedly at his sketchbook.

He frowned and raised his brows rather dramatically. “I was afraid you would ask that.”

“You aren’t afraid of criticism, are you?”

He shook his head. “Why do I get the feeling you are manipulating me?” But he held the book up to his face, peeling back justthe corners so he could choose one, then opened it and showed me. “This is Mosspoint, our estate in Bedfordshire.”

It was a large home on a hill, overlooking a valley with pastureland and sheep grazing.

“That is lovely. And you cannot say you are not an artist, for it looks perfect, every line, and very detailed. Although I am no expert, even I can see it is very fine work.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head.

I wanted to ask to see more of his sketches, but he obviously didn’t want me to see more, and I didn’t want to embarrass him.

“I should probably escort you back. You may be frowned upon by Mrs. Wilson or Mrs. Shelley when they hear of you walking out here on your own. I’m sure Shelley would have warned you not to come alone, as there is some danger of falling, had he an inkling that you might try to walk here without one of us accompanying you.”