Page 10 of Lyon of Scotland
“Miss Gordon.” Dare met that blue, blue gaze and saw her cheeks go pink.
“Lord Lyon. Thank you for taking the time to visit the art room.”
“I would not have missed it. Good to see you again, Miss Gordon.”
“You know each other?” Charles Dove’s voice squeaked in surprise.
“Miss Gordon and I are acquaintances in Edinburgh,” Dare explained.
“Lord Lyon knows my father,” she added.
She barely reached his shoulder, and though she looked sweet and gentle, her eyes were like the hot blue glow at the base of a flaming wick. Dare felt a shiver run through him as he sensed a quiet fire of earnestness and allure. Her brows were dark arches, her hair dark gold. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. She was a confection, and he felt struck to his core each time he saw her.
But he sensed a current of sadness or trouble in her gaze. She glanced away as if to hide it from him. He frowned, tipping his head, wondering.
“Charles, perhaps you will show Lord Lyon some of your designs,” Naylor said.
“Of course, sir.” The slender fair-haired fellow pushed up his spectacles and went to a side table to fetch some pages, then returned. “If I may, these are some new drafts.”
“Fine work,” Dare said. He murmured his approval over the ink sketches, almost afraid to frighten the young man, who seemed shy and uncertain, barely out of his university years.
As Naylor looked through the sheaf of documents, young Dove led Dare to a table to look at some finished pieces arranged there—brightly painted crests on creamy paper, small painted wooden shields, a silk banner decorated in glossy colors. Darefound Charles Dove knowledgeable and surprisingly confident in explaining the various works, and Dare made sure to express admiration over each meticulously crafted piece.
But his gaze strayed to the girl at the other desk. She distracted him—he had always thought her attractive—and he was impressed to see that here, in the smoky heart of London, her plaid shawl was a quiet testament of Scottish pride. It seemed a deliberate choice, just as he had made with his kilt and kit.
While Naylor and Charles Dove spoke, Dare stepped away to speak with her.
“Beautiful work, Miss Gordon,” he said. “Your father would be pleased to see it.”
“He knows little about it,” she said, standing again as he came near. “You mentioned out in the hallway earlier that you spoke to him recently?”
“Aye. When he learned I was heading to London, he asked that I look in on you to convey his affection. He was about to head into the Highlands.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was quick and genuine. “I am glad he thought of me. He has been so busy. His annual painting sojourn can stretch to weeks and months. This time, my sisters went with him.” She looked down and her voice became small and sad.
“I am happy to share his regards. Tell me more about your work,” he said.
She touched the sheet on her desk. “This is a design for one of King George’s new royal crests.”
“English, I see. Rather, British, since it includes Wales and Ireland.”
“Exactly. I am making ink sketches, and will add watercolor. Then we will do final designs on finer quality paper and frame them in paperboard for approval.”
“Very good.” He bent close to study the details, his hand resting close to hers, her shoulder brushing his arm. He straightened. “Your work is skilled and elegant.”
“There, you see, Lord Lyon,” Naylor said, coming toward them, “we have a capable Scottish artist here. I may let Miss Gordon work on the king’s new Scottish crest.”
“Ah.” Dare stepped back. “Miss Gordon, I know you do lovely portraits, but I did not realize you were trained in heraldic design.”
“I was always interested in it, and…Sir George offered me a chance to do some work here. I am fortunate, and I—I love the work,” she added.
He heard a tremor in her voice. “I see.”
“A privilege,” she insisted, but looked away again, cheeks fire red.
Something troubled the lass. Dare frowned. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Gordon. Perhaps our paths will cross again before I leave the city.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly. He saw what seemed like pleading in her limpid blue eyes. Strangely, he sensed fear there, with some silent message. Her brow wrinkled. A plea? What did she need? If she wanted to leave London, he wondered if she could do some work in his Edinburgh office. Knowing it would be poor form to appropriate an artist from the College of Arms, he dismissed the thought.
