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bold strokes. Her impatient verve, as she attacked the keyboard, her enjoyment of the music thus produced, and the willful mischief that proclaimed itself in the very curve' of her body over the instrument.
"This is marvelous!" Seth exclaimed involuntarily. Again, Eden blushed as though unaccustomed to compliments on her work. "It seems a shame that all this should remain hidden here, unseen. It should be shared with the world."
Eden blinked. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Lindow, but as I have explained, very unlikely to come to pass."
She stood and moved toward the door, where she turned to gaze at him. The viewing was evidently over. As they emerged into the musty corridor outside the studio, a muted sound floated up from the distance below them.
"Goodness, there is the dressing gong already!" exclaimed Eden. "I had no idea we had spent so much time up here." She hurried down the stairs ahead of him, and when they reached the floor below, she set off toward the family wing. Seth placed his hand on her arm, and she whirled to face him, seemingly as startled as though she had forgotten his presence.
"Thank you for showing me your work. Miss Beckett."
"Why... yes, yes of course." Her smile was strained. "And thank you for your kind words. You were most... encouraging. I'll see you at dinner."
With that, she hurried down the corridor, leaving Seth to stare after her, mystified.
What the devil was the matter with her? What had there been in his tone to indicate anything but the most sincere admiration of her work? Why was she behaving as though she did not believe a word of it? If he was not mistaken, she resented the interest he had displayed in seeing her paintings at all—as though he had inveigled his way into her studio under false pretenses, and once having got there, had hurled insults at her. He frowned. Perhaps she was so accustomed to ridicule that she could not recognize honest admiration.
In any event, he reflected prosaically, he had satisfied his curiosity, and that would be an end to it. Turning, he strode toward his own chambers.
Good Lord, Eden chastised herself, standing in the midst of her bed chamber. What was the matter with her? The man had merely commented that her style was unusual, and she had flown into the boughs as though he had hurled a paint pot at her. She was pleased, of course, that he seemed to like her work. At least, she thought so. Although he hadn't actually said that, had he? She could only remember the words "astonishing" and "unusual" and ... and "original." Certainly not high praise. One might say the same thing about a newly discovered species of lizard. Yet, she had sensed a real admiration, and—
Oh, for heaven's sake. What difference did it make to her if he liked her work, or considered her the merest dabbler?
She halted suddenly, in the process of ringing for her maid. But... it did make a difference to her, didn't it? His good opinion of her painting mattered. Or was it his good opinion of her that she sought?
She shook herself. What nonsense. She had yet to meet the man whose opinion, well or ill, mattered one whit to her. Not that gentlemen tended to form opinions of her one way or another, at least not once they caught a glimpse of Zoë.
Ringing for Timmons, her maid, she began the laborious process of unhooking the back of her gown.
Chapter Six
Dinner that evening was not so pleasant as it had been the night before. Zoë, perhaps unwisely, aired further plans for the upcoming visit to London. These, apparently, included a whole new wardrobe. Her fond papa saw no reason to expand the superfluity of gowns she already owned, and the discussion quickly grew acrimonious.
"Devil take it, Zoë, you have enough clothes to outfit a sizable village. You wore most of them only once, and when you returned here to Clearsprings, you ordered a pile more just because the London garb was not—you said—fit for country wear. So there they all are taking space in
"This is marvelous!" Seth exclaimed involuntarily. Again, Eden blushed as though unaccustomed to compliments on her work. "It seems a shame that all this should remain hidden here, unseen. It should be shared with the world."
Eden blinked. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Lindow, but as I have explained, very unlikely to come to pass."
She stood and moved toward the door, where she turned to gaze at him. The viewing was evidently over. As they emerged into the musty corridor outside the studio, a muted sound floated up from the distance below them.
"Goodness, there is the dressing gong already!" exclaimed Eden. "I had no idea we had spent so much time up here." She hurried down the stairs ahead of him, and when they reached the floor below, she set off toward the family wing. Seth placed his hand on her arm, and she whirled to face him, seemingly as startled as though she had forgotten his presence.
"Thank you for showing me your work. Miss Beckett."
"Why... yes, yes of course." Her smile was strained. "And thank you for your kind words. You were most... encouraging. I'll see you at dinner."
With that, she hurried down the corridor, leaving Seth to stare after her, mystified.
What the devil was the matter with her? What had there been in his tone to indicate anything but the most sincere admiration of her work? Why was she behaving as though she did not believe a word of it? If he was not mistaken, she resented the interest he had displayed in seeing her paintings at all—as though he had inveigled his way into her studio under false pretenses, and once having got there, had hurled insults at her. He frowned. Perhaps she was so accustomed to ridicule that she could not recognize honest admiration.
In any event, he reflected prosaically, he had satisfied his curiosity, and that would be an end to it. Turning, he strode toward his own chambers.
Good Lord, Eden chastised herself, standing in the midst of her bed chamber. What was the matter with her? The man had merely commented that her style was unusual, and she had flown into the boughs as though he had hurled a paint pot at her. She was pleased, of course, that he seemed to like her work. At least, she thought so. Although he hadn't actually said that, had he? She could only remember the words "astonishing" and "unusual" and ... and "original." Certainly not high praise. One might say the same thing about a newly discovered species of lizard. Yet, she had sensed a real admiration, and—
Oh, for heaven's sake. What difference did it make to her if he liked her work, or considered her the merest dabbler?
She halted suddenly, in the process of ringing for her maid. But... it did make a difference to her, didn't it? His good opinion of her painting mattered. Or was it his good opinion of her that she sought?
She shook herself. What nonsense. She had yet to meet the man whose opinion, well or ill, mattered one whit to her. Not that gentlemen tended to form opinions of her one way or another, at least not once they caught a glimpse of Zoë.
Ringing for Timmons, her maid, she began the laborious process of unhooking the back of her gown.
Chapter Six
Dinner that evening was not so pleasant as it had been the night before. Zoë, perhaps unwisely, aired further plans for the upcoming visit to London. These, apparently, included a whole new wardrobe. Her fond papa saw no reason to expand the superfluity of gowns she already owned, and the discussion quickly grew acrimonious.
"Devil take it, Zoë, you have enough clothes to outfit a sizable village. You wore most of them only once, and when you returned here to Clearsprings, you ordered a pile more just because the London garb was not—you said—fit for country wear. So there they all are taking space in
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