to the house down below.
‘That is why I am painting it,’ she responded. ‘And I would be obliged if you would not mention to Lord Penford that I trespassed on his land. I have disturbed nothing and only wished to come here this one time to paint this view.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am certain he would not mind.’
Genna was not so certain. After her father’s death, Lord Penford had been eager for Genna and her two sisters to leave the house.
She stood and started to pack up her paints. ‘In any event, I will leave now.’
He put his hand on her easel. ‘No need. Please continue.’
She shook her head. The magic was gone; the spell broken. She’d been reminded the house was no longer her home. ‘I must be getting back. It is a bit of a walk.’
‘Where are you bound?’ he asked.
Surely he knew all the scandals. ‘To Tinmore Hall.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘Or did you forget that my sister Lorene married Lord Tinmore?’
He glanced away and dipped his head. ‘I did forget.’
Genna’s oldest sister married the ancient Lord Tinmore for his money so Genna and her sister Tess and half-brother Edmund would not be plunged into poverty. So they, unlike Lorene, could make respectable marriages and marry for love.
Genna had not forgiven Lorene for doing such a thing—sacrificing her own happiness like that, chaining herself to that old, disagreeable man. And for what? Genna did not believe in her sister’s romantic notions of love and happily ever after. Did not love ultimately wind up hurting oneself and others?
The wind picked up, rippling her painting.
Rossdale put his fingers on the edge of it to keep it from blowing away. His brow furrowed. ‘You have captured the house, certainly, but the rest of it looks nothing like this day...’
She unfastened the paper from the easel and carefully placed a sheet of tissue over it. She slipped it in a leather envelope. ‘I painted a memory, you might say.’ Or the emotion of a memory.
The wind gusted again. She turned away from it and packed up hurriedly, folding the easel and her stool, closing her paints, pouring out her jug of water and wrapping her brushes in a rag. She placed them all in a huge canvas satchel.
‘How far to your home?’ Rossdale asked.
Her home was right below them, she wanted to say. ‘To Tinmore Hall, you mean? No more than five miles.’
‘Five miles!’ He looked surprised. ‘Are you here alone?’
She pinched her lips together. ‘I require no chaperon on the land where I was born.’
He nodded in a conciliatory manner. ‘I thought perhaps you had a companion, maybe someone with a carriage visiting the house. May I convey you to Tinmore Hall, then?’ He glanced towards the clouds. ‘The sky looks ominous and you have quite a walk ahead of you.’
She almost laughed. Did he not know what could happen if a Summerfield sister was caught in a storm with a man?
Although Genna would never let matters go so far, not like her sister Tess who’d wound up married to a man after being caught in a storm. Why not risk a ride with Rossdale?
She widened her smile. ‘How kind of you. A ride would be most appreciated.’
* * *
Ross secured her satchel behind the saddle and mounted Spirit, his favourite gelding, raised from a pony at his father’s breeding stables. He reached down for Miss Summerfield and pulled her up to sit side-saddle in front of him.
She turned and looked him full in the face. ‘Thank you.’
She was lovely enough. Pale, flawless skin, eyes as blue as sea water, full pink lips, a peek of blonde hair from beneath her bonnet. Her only flaw was a nose slightly too large for her face. It made her face more interesting, though, a cut above merely being beautiful. She was not bold; neither was she bashful or flirtatious.
Unafraid described her better.
She spoke without apology about being one of the scandalous Summerfields. And certainly was not contrite about trespassing. He liked that she was comfortable with herself and took him as he was.
Possibly because she did not know who he was. People behaved differently when they knew. How refreshing to meet a young woman who had not memorised Debrett’s.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
She pointed and they started off.
‘How long have you been a guest of Lord Penford?’ she asked.
‘Two days. I’m to stay through Twelfth Night.’ Which did not please his father overmuch.
‘Is Lord Penford having guests for Christmas?’ She sounded disapproving.
He laughed. ‘One guest.’
‘You?’
‘Only me,’ he responded.
She was quiet and still for a long time. ‘How—how do you find the house?’ she finally asked.
He did not know what she meant. ‘It is comfortable,’ he ventured.
She turned to look at him. ‘I mean, has Lord Penford made many changes?’
Ah, it had been her home. She was curious about it, naturally.
‘I cannot say,’ he responded. ‘I do know he plans repairs.’
She turned away again. ‘Goodness knows it needed plenty of repairs.’
‘Have you not seen the house since leaving it?’ he asked.
She glanced back at him and shook her head.
The grey clouds rolled in quickly. He quickened Spirit’s pace. ‘I think it will snow.’
As if his words brought it on, the flakes began to fall, here and there, then faster and thicker until they could not see more than two feet ahead of them.
‘Turn here,’ she said. ‘We can take shelter.’
Through a path overgrown with shrubbery they came to a folly built in the Classical style, though half covered with vines. Its floor was strewn with twigs and leaves.
‘I see Lord Penford did not tend to all of the gardens,’ Miss Summerfield said.
‘Perhaps he did not know it was here.’ Ross dismounted. ‘It is well hidden.’
‘Hidden now,’ she said. ‘It was not always so.’
He helped her down and led Spirit up the stairs into the shelter. There was plenty of room. She sat on a bench at the folly’s centre and wrapped her cloak around
