The Reckless Love of an Heir: An epic historical romance perfect for fans of period drama Victoria. Jane Lark

       Chapter Three

      The door to the library opened. Susan looked up. She was sitting at Uncle Robert’s desk. Her fingertips tightened their hold on the thin paint brush. “Henry…” What are you doing here? The last words did not erupt from her mouth but sounded in the use of his name.

      If she had spoken the words it would have been too rude; it was his home. But having let the tone of them slip into the pitch of her voice she sensed herself colouring when he looked at her with a questioning gaze. She had not meant to be rude, she had merely been engrossed in her work, and caught by surprise. She had not seen him yet today, she had come directly to the library.

      He was in dishabille, informal, wearing trousers, a shirt and his sling, he had no black neckcloth or waistcoat or morning coat on. It was unseemly really, but she supposed it was due to his injury, and this was his home—if he could not be comfortable here then where?

      He hesitated, the door still open in his hand. Samson stood beside him, awaiting Henry’s next movement.

      Some decision passed across Henry’s eyes and he turned and shut the door.

      They should not be in a room together with the door shut no matter that they had been raised almost as closely as a brother and sister. Alethea had been treated like his sister too and she was to marry him.

      “Sorry,” he uttered in a low tone as he crossed the room, with Samson following, “I forgot you were in here.”

      He was not his normal bold, brash self. He looked from her to the leather sofa which stood side-on to the hearth, facing the tall windows. He had an odd expression. He walked past the desk where she worked, towards the sofa.

      When he passed one of the windows, the bright spring sunlight shone through the fine cotton of his shirt outlining his torso in silhouette. He was very lean, yet not thin, muscular, in the way the grooms were in her father’s stables. They were the only other men she had seen in their shirts, when they had been birthing the mares.

      An odd sensation twisted around in Susan’s stomach. “Where is Alethea?”

      “Taking the other dogs for a turn about the garden with Christine and Sarah. I told her I wished to sleep.”

      “Then why are you not upstairs?”

      “Because I prefer to sleep in here. It is more comforting. I like the smell. It reminds me of my youth.”

      “When did you spend any time in this library as a child?” Her retort was swift and sharp, and again her pitch carried a rude note. She could not help herself where Henry was concerned. Heat flared in her cheeks. She never really intended to be rude, he just seemed to prick her ire.

      “I spent hours in here, Susan.” His voice did not rise to match her boorishness but purely denied her accusation. “They were just not the hours I spent with you and Alethea. Papa used to bring me in here and we would sit together and go through the books all the time. He taught me to appreciate such things and hold the responsibility for—”

      “He must be so disappointed.” She really could not help herself with Henry.

      “Why?” He had reached the sofa but before he sat, he turned and looked at her, challenging her for the answer with his gaze as well as the question.

      His good hand lifted and rested on his bad arm—as though he was in pain.

      She smiled, trying to mimic the mocking smiles he regularly gave her. “Because you are hardly responsible. Only a fool would drive a curricle in a race on the roads, you might have broken your neck not sprained your wrist.”

      He sat down, looking away from her. Samson sat too. “Believe me, I am well aware. I nearly broke my neck and in the process dislocated my shoulder, not merely twisted my wrist. Now if you’ll excuse me, Susan, I am bloody exhausted and in agony, I have just dosed myself up with laudanum and I am in no mood for you to chastise me. Let me rest.”

      He was much paler than normal.

      He lay down without looking at her again and sprawled out flat on the long leather sofa, laying on his back with his bad arm on his chest and one foot on the floor while the other turned so his leg lay bent across the seat, as his foot hung off the edge.

      Samson rested his head by Henry’s side, as though asking to come up and sleep beside him.

      Perhaps that was why Samson was so loyal to him, if Henry had allowed Samson such liberties when he was younger.

      His good arm lifted and then lay above his head as he shut his eyes.

      “I shan’t make any noise,” she said, to annoy him.

      He opened his eyes a little, his dark eyelashes cloaking his gaze as he looked at her. Samson looked at her too. “I did not doubt it, painting is hardly a noisy activity. Let me sleep if you please, Susan.”

      She smiled and looked back down at the orchid she was recreating.

      There were very fine green lines on each pale cream petal, and that was what she was seeking to capture, only the lines in the book seemed to give the petals depth, and she had not succeeded in mastering that. Perhaps she needed to use more than one shade of green? But the lines then would have to be very, very narrow and far more cautiously done. She needed to develop a steadier hand.

      She leant forward and looked closer at the image. The artist had done them so well she could not even see a different shade.

      Henry’s breathing became deeper and slower.

      When she heard him move she looked up. Samson now lay on the floor beside him. Henry’s bent leg lifted and his foot settled on the sofa so his knee could rest against the back of the seat. He sighed out. The arm which had lain above his head fell down and hung over the edge of the low sofa so that his hand was placed slackly on Samson’s head.

      She looked down at her work and carried on adding detail to the petal she was working on.

      The slightly different shade of green did add depth, though the variance of colours in her image was very visible to the eye. She leant a little closer to the book and looked at the shape of the petals. There were different shades of cream too. The artist must have mixed the colours with a tiny amount of black to obtain the deeper shade. It would be hard to mix without making the cream too dark.

      Henry was quiet. She looked up. He had definitely fallen asleep. The sunshine from the window stretched across his leg and stomach. Perhaps that was why he’d come in here, to sleep in the sunshine.

      Susan, mixed a little of the green with more white to make the colour paler still and attempted another narrow line, trying to make the difference in shading less obvious. She used the paler colour on the lower edge of the lines across the petal. It was better than her first attempt, but not good enough.

      Rather than progress to the shading of the cream, she began another petal. She would conquer this skill before she sought to learn another.

      While she painted she intermittently glanced across the room to check Henry had not woken and was surreptitiously watching her. The sunshine travelled across his lean body as the afternoon progressed. He did not wake.

      If she had more natural talent he would have made a perfect model, Young gentleman in repose.

      She smiled as she looked back at her work. Asleep, she would admit how handsome he was—when his personality was not added into the mix. When he was silent, like this, she could appreciate his company. She studied him as she