flowers. They passed quickly through it and out into the garden, where the air was dry and balmy. ‘Now, where shall we sit, in the arbour or by the pool?’
Lavinia shrugged. ‘It’s all one to me. I would sooner be sitting a horse.’
Frances laughed. ‘Do you know, so would I.’
‘Then why do this?’ Her arm indicated the drawing equipment.
‘Because we cannot always be doing what we want to do. We all, even you, have obligations, commissions, tasks, whatever you like to call them, which must be seen to before we can think of pleasure. Your papa is paying me to teach you to draw and so I must put my efforts into that. Now, let us make a start.’ She looked about her and pointed to a small wooden structure at the end of the path, which had fretted sides and a steep pitched roof with a cupola on the top. ‘Would you like to draw the pergola?’
‘Oh, very well.’ Lavinia gave a great sigh and took the sketch-book and charcoal Frances held out to her and sat down on a bench beside the pool. She slashed impatiently at the paper, making a line here and another there, a few bold curves and some squiggles and the pergola appeared. Without taking the least trouble over it, she had the line and perspective almost exactly right. ‘There,’ she said handing it back. ‘There is your pergola, my lady.’
Frances bit back the scolding she felt bound to deliver. Lavinia was a spoiled child who thought that being uncooperative might relieve her of doing something she did not want to do. ‘Did you suppose this would persuade me that you are a hopeless case, Lavinia, and that I would tell your father we would not go on with the lessons?’
Lavinia sighed heavily. ‘No, for he is paying you.’
‘That is true, but it is not the only reason we will go on, I assure you,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful and friendly, though she was very tempted to give the child a sharp slap. ‘I am afraid I must disagree with your governess—you are not a hopeless case at all, not when it comes to drawing, at any rate.’
‘How can you tell from that? It is nothing but scribble.’
‘Then pray do something that is not scribble. Add some refinements while I begin my sketch of you.’
Lavinia worked with an ill grace, her face set in a scowl, which Frances transferred to her own sketchbook. Then she turned the page and began on a clean sheet. ‘Lady Lavinia, do you think you could smile, or at least have some pleasant thoughts?’
‘Such as?’
‘Imagine you are out riding, or playing with your pet rabbit.’
‘How do you know I have a rabbit?’
‘Oh, no menagerie would be complete without a rabbit.’
Lavinia laughed and Frances began capturing the image, but she had to work quickly before the girl began to frown again. Both worked in silence for perhaps five minutes before Lavinia flung the pad on the seat beside her and began to roam about the garden. Frances continued to work. ‘I cannot capture your likeness if you do not sit still, Lavinia.’
‘Why not? It seems to me likeness has nothing to do with it. Paint what you think my father would like to see, someone demure and pretty, with hands neatly folded and empty eyes. That is what you do, is it not? Whoever pays the piper calls the tune and so you play it.’
Frances was taken aback, not only by the girl’s outspokenness but by her accuracy, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She was even more discomfited when she realised that Marcus had come into the garden and was leaning against a tree watching them. How long he had been there, she did not know. She shut the sketchbook with a snap and stood up. ‘I think we have had enough for one day, Lavinia,’ she said evenly. ‘Your papa is here to fetch you.’
‘Oh, do not stop on my account,’ he said, coming forward. ‘I can sit and watch you both at work.’
‘We have been getting to know one another,’ Frances said. ‘There has been little work done.’
He picked up Lavinia’s book and flipped it open. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘A child of six could have done this in three minutes.’
Frances smiled. ‘A child of sixteen did it in one.’
‘Lavinia…’ he began.
‘Oh, I know what you are going to say,’ the girl said. ‘You are going to tell me that is not what you are paying Lady Corringham for.’
Frances took the book from him. ‘Your Grace, we have both learned a great deal this afternoon, though it might not be obvious. Your daughter has a natural talent, which we must encourage. Scolding her for doing what I asked her to do will not make her any more willing.’
‘You asked her to do this scrawl?’
‘I asked her to draw the pergola. And she did. Her imagination added the rabbit, but as she has pointed out to me, I sometimes use my imagination to enhance an image…’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I heard her. It was insufferably impertinent of her and I apologise on her behalf.’
‘Oh, do not do that, sir. If any apologising needs to be done, Lady Lavinia will acknowledge it and do it herself. And perhaps I should crave her pardon for being too condescending.’
‘Fustian! If you are going to collude with her in her mischief, she will only become worse.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, my lord. Now, if you do not wish me to continue giving lessons to your daughter, then please say so. I shall not be offended.’
‘Of course I wish you to continue.’
‘Then she shall come again next Thursday, if that is convenient to you.’
‘It is perfectly convenient.’
She stood up and collected together the drawing equipment. He reached out to take it from her and between them they dropped the sketchbooks. They both stooped at the same moment to pick them up. Their hands touched and she felt a shaft of something akin to fire flash from his fingertips to hers and course along her arm and through her whole frame. She lifted her head and found herself looking into his eyes. His expression puzzled her. It was as if he were trying to convey something to her. Was it reproof? Sympathy? Desire, even? She held his gaze, unable to look away, almost mesmerised by those deep golden eyes.
It lasted only seconds, which seemed like a lifetime before he stood up and held out a hand to bring her to her feet. ‘My lady.’ His voice was perfectly normal.
She murmured ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ and led the way indoors.
Five minutes later, he and his daughter were gone, leaving her breathless. Never, never could she have foreseen the effect he would have on her. Had he noticed it? Had it given him a feeling of satisfaction, that, after seventeen years, he could still put her in a spin?
How was she going to deal with seeing him every time he brought his daughter to her? And if he really was looking for a second wife, he would undoubtedly be out and about, attending functions which she was also expected to attend. She could not shut herself away, her friends would wonder what was wrong with her. And why should she? It behoved her to bring all her self-control to bear and behave with
