“I’ve missed this,” she murmured.
“Then fill your basket, Lizzie. Take what you need.”
Elizabeth picked up a brush, examined its sable bristles, then set it down again. She hovered near a set of fine charcoal pencils, her fingers twitching… but she didn’t reach for them.
Marianne turned from a rack of handmade paper. “Why aren’t you picking anything?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “It’s all lovely. But I shouldn’t indulge right now.”
Her sister raised an eyebrow. “And why ever not?”
“It’s not the time,” she said quietly. “I need to focus. On the Season. On securing a match. That’s my priority.”
“Did Lady Grisham say that?” Marianne asked, her tone sharpening.
“She doesn’t need to,” Elizabeth said. “I already know.”
Marianne sighed and set down the folio she’d been admiring. “Lizzie. You areallowedto want things that bring you joy. That aren’t attached to lace and titles. Art is not a frivolity.”
“It is if it takes my eye off what’s at stake.”
“And what is at stake?” Marianne asked. “Marriage? Safety? Reputation? Or something deeper?” She touched her arm gently. “You don’t need to forget who you are in order to survive this.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her fingers brushed the corner of a blank sketchbook, but just as she reached for it, the sound of approaching footsteps made her freeze.
“Lady Elizabeth. Duchess of Oakmere,” came a familiar, cheerful voice.
The Earl of Whitton.
Elizabeth turned, her stomach twisting. And there he was, all bright-eyed charm… and behind him, Alasdair.
He stood tall and composed, the very picture of restrained masculinity in a deep navy coat that hugged his broad frame. There was no trace of the man who had kissed her breathless in a quiet room. His expression was cool. Distant.
She hated how it made her stomach sink.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted, forcing civility into her voice. “What brings you here?”
“Shopping for art supplies, I gather?” Lord Whitton said, glancing around. “It does make one curious whether my dear friend here is secretly a patron of the arts. Redmoor?”
“We’ve already stopped at three tailors,” Alasdair replied flatly.
“And he complained through all of them,” Lord Whitton added. “So I’ve dragged him here to distract him with pigments and prettiness.”
“You’re doing noble work, my lord,” Marianne said with a laugh. “We’ve just been spending the day together before I return to Oakmere. This seemed a worthy stop.”
Elizabeth offered the barest of smiles. “We’ve been trying not to spend all our time in dress shops.”
“You could’ve fooled me with that bonnet, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Whitton teased.
Elizabeth was about to deflect when Alasdair’s voice cut through the room like low thunder.
“Do ye paint, me lady?”
She turned to him. His eyes were on her, and for a moment, she saw past the detachment to something else. A flicker of that intensity he never quite managed to hide.
“I sketch,” she said. “A little.”
“‘A little,’ she says,” Marianne snorted. “You’d think she dabbles in stick figures. But her sketches are better than anything you’d find on a gallery wall. She captures things most people miss.”