lay curled in the wrapping paper. She picked up her sketching bag and went in search of Marmaduke.
She found him in his favourite position on his cushion, rump to the room and nose an inch from the wall, panting faintly.
‘Behold, fair Marmaduke. I have been delivered the means of your undoing!’ she declared dramatically, but with absolutely no effect. She sighed and went to slip on the new collar. It took Marmaduke a moment to realise the offense against him, but by the time he surged to his pudgy feet and shook his head vigorously it was too late. Before he managed to descend into yowls she flapped one hand suggestively in front of his face and the shaking stopped, his gaze intent.
‘That’s right. Remember what fun you had chasing the birds? Well, they’re outside, waiting for another round.’ She began carefully moving towards the door and, to her surprise and amusement, he followed. They made a stately exit under the shocked stares of the butler and the doctor who had just entered the house.
‘Good gracious,’ said the doctor. ‘He can walk!’
‘And run, with the proper avian incentive. And now, if you will excuse us, I really don’t want to stall our momentum.’ She nodded, proceeding down the steps, and Marmaduke followed, thumping down each step ponderously but with resolution.
* * *
The collar and leash worked perfectly, and after a vigorous campaign against the winged invaders, Marmaduke allowed her to lead him to a bench in the shade of a chestnut tree and settled contentedly at her feet as she pulled out her sketch pad.
‘And now I will commemorate this auspicious moment, Duke,’ she informed him grandly, but he merely snuffled the grass in front of him and grinned.
She sketched rapidly, capturing the lumpy body and the beatific expression on his frog-like face. He looked amazingly content and she laughed a little at how content she herself felt at her minor victory.
‘There. I shall title it “Duke Reposing” and bestow it on Aunt Minnie so she can enjoy your fair smile even when you are sulking downstairs. Do you think she will like it?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said a deep and vaguely familiar voice behind her and she turned in surprise. The tall man who had stopped Marmaduke the day before was standing a little behind the bench. His grey eyes were on her sketch, but there was no expression on his beautifully sculpted face. More than ever he made her think of a statue of a guardian of the gods, expertly crafted but without emotion. But though he seemed utterly cold, she was uncomfortably aware of a tingling heat that was pricking at her cheeks and she could think of nothing to say. The silence stretched and, as she struggled to think of anything that would not compound the embarrassing impression of yesterday, he surprised her by sitting down on the bench and taking the sketch pad from her hands. She looked away, but her gaze only settled on his hands and she noticed he was not wearing gloves and that his hands might have been formed by the same meticulous sculptor who had shaped the rest of him and with the aim of conveying strength and skill. But the perfection of his left hand was marred by a jagged and puckered white scar along the side, curving under towards the heel of his palm. She curled her own fingers into her palm against the need to touch it.
‘That is quite good,’ he said finally, handing it back to her.
The casually delivered comment finally woke her to the peculiarity of the situation and her confusion faded in annoyance at the very mild nature of his compliment on an issue of some importance to her.
‘It is very good, for a rough, impromptu sketch,’ she corrected him and his eyes narrowed and she could not tell if he was amused or annoyed by her correction.
‘So it is. I apologise for not showing the proper degree of appreciation. It is certainly well outside the usual fare of young ladies’ sketches, which are usually just a sight more bearable than their endeavours on the pianoforte. Do you play?’
‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t dare admit to it now,’ she replied primly. ‘Do you? Or are we proceeding on the assumption that only young ladies are expected to be execrable in artistic endeavours?’
‘I have no artistic skills whatsoever. The difference is I don’t try.’
‘Is that an observation about yourself or a suggestion to me?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘I wouldn’t presume. I did say the sketch was quite good, didn’t I? You are overly sensitive.’
His voice was deep but without inflexion, but something in the narrowed slate-grey eyes that were watching her made her wonder if he was laughing at her. It was like looking into the night, trying to make out shapes in the varied shades of black. It was easy to imagine monsters in the dark and she wondered if she was imagining that echo of amused warmth in his eyes. Probably. But it still teased at her, like a late summer breeze, disorienting her. She would never be able to capture that particular grey, a shade lighter than the sea off the bay in winter. But she would love to try to sketch his face, with its strongly chiselled features, all definite lines and planes, and the tightly held mouth that she wished would relax into the smile she had seen the day before.
‘May I sketch you? You have a very sketchable face,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.
She had not thought his face could get any stonier, but she had been wrong. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, like a glimmer of faraway lightning, then his brows drew together, accentuating the resemblance to a very annoyed deity.
‘No, you may not!’ he said curtly and she turned away with a shrug, leafing through her sketchbook to mask her mortification.
‘Fine,’ she said as indifferently as possible, fully expecting him to get up and leave, but he didn’t move. She came to the sketch she had made yesterday of his wife and stopped. The lovely, smiling face was a sobering reminder that she should not be looking at a married man or frankly at any man in quite that manner. Though to be fair, he was an amazing specimen. She had thought him handsome but rather cold yesterday, but now she realised it was much more than that. He was utterly, utterly male. And utterly out of her sphere. Augusta would have made mincemeat of her had she been present and probably rightly so. Sophie breathed in resolutely, determined to redeem herself with a gesture of goodwill.
‘I made a sketch of your wife, though. She has a lovely face. In fact, she looks like you a little. I find that married couples often look a little alike. Perhaps it is because we try to find people who remind us of ourselves so we can love ourselves better. Here it is. It is quite like her, don’t you think?’
She forced herself to look up at him with all the calm unconcern she could muster, trying to mirror his lack of expression. He stared at her and then down at the sketch, a three-quarters’ face of a woman and part of the shoulder of her gown. Sophie had sketched her smiling, which had been hard, but that was all she could remember. She waited, peculiarly tense, for his reaction.
He took the pad from her again and she didn’t resist. She watched his profile, trying to memorise its strong lines so she could sketch him later, but she found it hard to focus on the whole, distracted instead by the details she usually considered later when doing a portrait—the way the skin stretched taut from his cheekbone, the small groove at the side of his mouth, the shadow below the strong line of his jaw. Her hands tingled with the need to reach out and touch his face as she might a sculpture. She clasped them tightly and forced herself to look down at Marmaduke, now snoring calmly at their feet.
‘May I have my drawing pad back, please? I should go back.’
He
