yet you refuse to acknowledge your talent.” He sighed. “Makes perfect sense.”
“A true artist is one who earns commissions on the strength of their talent. I have yet to do so. But art is my passion, and since the day I discovered paints at the age of five, no one has been able to remove a brush from my fingers.”
He examined her and she had the worst feeling that he found her very ugly with her spectacles. She struggled against the urge to remove them. She would not try to appear more alluring. There was not an alluring bone in her body.
“You will be heralded as one of the best painters of our generation,” he said. “I am certain of it.”
She bit back the urge to deflect praise. “Thank you. Do you paint too?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do I seem to you to be the sort of man who could be a dabbler or dilettante?”
“I’m a dilettante,” she stated without hesitation.
“No, you’re not,” he replied. “Although what is that in the right upper corner? Birds?” He turned the full force of his blue eyes on her and smiled.
She hoped he couldn’t see her nervousness at his proximity. “It’s what happens when you don’t take care and you get flustered by someone’s approach.”
He chuckled with that voice that was so deep and masculine that its effect surprised her.
“Maybe you could fix it.”
He turned his gaze back to the painting and Esme noticed his extreme squint. She grinned.
“And what is so amusing?”
She removed her spectacles, which she only used for reading and painting, cleaned the lens with a cloth and handed them to him.
He stared at them aghast. “Why are you offering those?”
“Because you need them.”
“Me? Why I’ve never needed spectacles in my life.”
She smiled. “Are you too vain to try them?” She knew how to goad with the best of them.
“How ridiculous. Norwiches are not vain. Arrogant, to be sure. And perhaps a bit too much puffery on their hunting prowess—at least earlier dukes than I. But vain? Never.”
“Really? Then why won’t you try these?” She offered again. “Or are you going to insist Norwiches are never farsighted, too?”
He rolled his eyes and snatched her small, delicate spectacles. He put them on with a deep sigh of annoyance. “See? Vanity’s not an issue. Don’t need ’em. That’s all. By the by, your eyes are . . . lovely.” He turned to her painting. “Perhaps you could turn those spatters into a flock of birds. See if you just elongate the dots and put a sweep of wings on them . . .”
Esme slipped a tiny brush in his hand. “Show me.”
He was completely engaged in studying the artwork. All thoughts concerning her eyes were obviously gone. But his compliment, the first she’d ever received about her eyes, warmed a tiny chamber of her heart, a place that rarely received compliments on her appearance.
He drew down three colors onto the palate and dabbled the brush before delicately applying the paint to the paper.
She watched, fascinated by his natural, raw talent. Most people approached the easel with trepidation and fear. Especially with watercolors, which were difficult to correct. But his ease with the brush, his instant concentration, and sure hand was surprising. Within minutes, her brown speckles were transformed into a flock of birds.
He gazed at the scenery, lifted her ridiculously dainty spectacles from his eyes for a few moments before dropping them back in place and continuing to add touches here and there.
She said not a word. Finally he handed the brush back to her. “You see, not so complicated.”
She squinted intently at the painting. “Are those ducks?”
“No, those are not ducks,” he said sourly.
“But they’re rather large to be anything else.”
“They’re seabirds.”
“They’re too dark to be seabirds.”
“Seabirds on the Isle of Wight are darker than the ones on the mainland.”
“Really?”
“How in hell should I know,
“A true artist is one who earns commissions on the strength of their talent. I have yet to do so. But art is my passion, and since the day I discovered paints at the age of five, no one has been able to remove a brush from my fingers.”
He examined her and she had the worst feeling that he found her very ugly with her spectacles. She struggled against the urge to remove them. She would not try to appear more alluring. There was not an alluring bone in her body.
“You will be heralded as one of the best painters of our generation,” he said. “I am certain of it.”
She bit back the urge to deflect praise. “Thank you. Do you paint too?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do I seem to you to be the sort of man who could be a dabbler or dilettante?”
“I’m a dilettante,” she stated without hesitation.
“No, you’re not,” he replied. “Although what is that in the right upper corner? Birds?” He turned the full force of his blue eyes on her and smiled.
She hoped he couldn’t see her nervousness at his proximity. “It’s what happens when you don’t take care and you get flustered by someone’s approach.”
He chuckled with that voice that was so deep and masculine that its effect surprised her.
“Maybe you could fix it.”
He turned his gaze back to the painting and Esme noticed his extreme squint. She grinned.
“And what is so amusing?”
She removed her spectacles, which she only used for reading and painting, cleaned the lens with a cloth and handed them to him.
He stared at them aghast. “Why are you offering those?”
“Because you need them.”
“Me? Why I’ve never needed spectacles in my life.”
She smiled. “Are you too vain to try them?” She knew how to goad with the best of them.
“How ridiculous. Norwiches are not vain. Arrogant, to be sure. And perhaps a bit too much puffery on their hunting prowess—at least earlier dukes than I. But vain? Never.”
“Really? Then why won’t you try these?” She offered again. “Or are you going to insist Norwiches are never farsighted, too?”
He rolled his eyes and snatched her small, delicate spectacles. He put them on with a deep sigh of annoyance. “See? Vanity’s not an issue. Don’t need ’em. That’s all. By the by, your eyes are . . . lovely.” He turned to her painting. “Perhaps you could turn those spatters into a flock of birds. See if you just elongate the dots and put a sweep of wings on them . . .”
Esme slipped a tiny brush in his hand. “Show me.”
He was completely engaged in studying the artwork. All thoughts concerning her eyes were obviously gone. But his compliment, the first she’d ever received about her eyes, warmed a tiny chamber of her heart, a place that rarely received compliments on her appearance.
He drew down three colors onto the palate and dabbled the brush before delicately applying the paint to the paper.
She watched, fascinated by his natural, raw talent. Most people approached the easel with trepidation and fear. Especially with watercolors, which were difficult to correct. But his ease with the brush, his instant concentration, and sure hand was surprising. Within minutes, her brown speckles were transformed into a flock of birds.
He gazed at the scenery, lifted her ridiculously dainty spectacles from his eyes for a few moments before dropping them back in place and continuing to add touches here and there.
She said not a word. Finally he handed the brush back to her. “You see, not so complicated.”
She squinted intently at the painting. “Are those ducks?”
“No, those are not ducks,” he said sourly.
“But they’re rather large to be anything else.”
“They’re seabirds.”
“They’re too dark to be seabirds.”
“Seabirds on the Isle of Wight are darker than the ones on the mainland.”
“Really?”
“How in hell should I know,
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