Page 13 of Lyon of Scotland
“Just me?” She smiled. He loved those dimples and the blue sparkle in her eyes.
“For now.” He smiled a little, turning to reach for the last few books.
She reached for them at the same moment. Their fingers overlapped, stilled. Her skin was soft. When his thumb brushed her hand, he leaned down. “Where do these go, lass?”
“Wherever you like,” she whispered, a breath away, her hand still beneath his.
He bent closer. “Tell me what you want.”
“Oh,” she said, and her eyes suddenly blurred with tears. “Oh. So much.”
“Miss Gordon,” he murmured, his fingers cupping her hand now. “Is there anything amiss?”
“Oh,” she breathed again, then shrugged. “No—nothing. It will all be fine.”
Dare tipped his head. “Tell me. Do you want to go back to Scotland?” He was on the verge of asking if she would paint for him. Marry him. It was just there on his tongue, a risk he nearly took. He pinched his lips against it.
“I do,” she said. “But I cannot. Not yet.”
“What—” He was puzzled. She was elusive, but troubled. “Can I help?”
She blinked. One fat tear rolled down her cheek. “No one can help.”
“Good lord.” He reached out and wiped her cheek with his thumb. “What is it, Hannah Gordon? You can tell me. Trust me.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Wait,” she said, and leaned back. “Wait. My father—my father asked you to find me. Is he expecting you to report what you learn?”
“What? Of course not.”
She stepped back. “I cannot trust that. I do not want to ask Papa for help!”
“Not his,” Dare said. “Mine. Tell me what I can do.”
“You can—tell Papa I am well. Thank you, my lord.” She spun and ran to the door.
He moved to follow her. “Lass—Hannah, wait!”
But she was already through the doorway. Dare stepped into the corridor, and saw Hannah fleeing, skirts flying. Then he saw George Naylor and Frederic Dove standing at the far end of the hallway. They looked toward Hannah, then toward him.
Dare shrugged, heart slamming. “I believe she’s gone to fetch more books.”
“Mama says SirWalter Scott is in London again,” Georgina Gordon-Huntly, Hannah’s cousin, said as she arranged Hannah’s hair, tucking silk flowers into her curls and fixing them with silver pins. “I wonder if we will see him at the theatre tonight.”
“I wonder! Do you think we need so many flowers?” Hannah tilted her head.
“Keep still. The flowers complement your hair, and that pale-pink gown gives your cheeks roses and makes your eyes look aquamarine. I would love to paint your portrait in such a pretty gown.”
“And I could do a miniature painting of you if we had time. That creamy silk with black trim is perfect with your dark hair and pale complexion. I am so proud of you for winning the silver medal at the Royal Society exhibit last spring! Your portrait of your grandfather was perfectly done.”
“Thank you.” Georgina giggled. “I sent Grandfather a sketch copy of it, and he wrote back to say it was a damned good drawing for a child. But I am seventeen!”
Hannah laughed. “At least he offered to continue paying for your art tutor.”
“Mama and I are glad of that, my stepfather too. My grandfather may be the Duke of Gordon, but he has been kind and generous, though I am just his son’s natural daughter. Many families would ignore me.”
“We Scots are good about such things,” Hannah said. Georgina was an accidental daughter of the old duke’s son and heir, born of a governess in the household, and even when her mother married Thomas Huntly, a solicitor and distant relative of the Gordons, the duke and Georgie’s father continued to support the child in London. Their generosity and kindness were admirable, and Hannah was very glad for her cousin.
“There,” Georgina said, patting Hannah’s hair. “About your art—do you still want to go home to Scotland soon? Though your father is away on his painting tour, the house will be full of his art students still working in his studio.”
