Alasdair tilted his head. “Is that so?”
Elizabeth flushed. “It’s just a hobby,” she said quickly, eyes darting away. “Nothing worth speaking about, Your Grace.”
But he was still watching her. His gaze lingered on her—not in the crude way some men did, but in a way that felt like being unwrapped. She felt bare beneath his eyes, seen in a way she both craved and feared.
His lips curled slightly. “A fine hobby, if I may say so.”
There was a heat in his voice. It was contained, but unmistakable. And it pooled in her stomach, even as she forced her posture stiff again.
“Marianne, we should be going.”
Her sister raised an amused brow. “Ah. So soon?”
“Indeed.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “A shame. Seeing the two of ye has made this a far more interestin’ afternoon.”
Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy, careful not to meet his eyes again. “Your Grace. Lord Whitton.”
The men returned their bows, and she turned, heart pounding, the bell above the door chiming as they stepped into the street once more.
She didn’t glance back.
She didn’t have to.
His eyes followed her like a brand across her skin.
She felt them. Every step of the way.
After a morning of shopping and unexpected encounters, Elizabeth needed silence.
People often mistook her for reserved, but it wasn’t shyness that made her quiet. It was the toll of company, the constant alertness, the careful words, the awareness of every glance and every implication. It wore her down, and when that happened, she needed to be alone to breathe again. To remember who she was beneath the expectations.
So, she retired to her sitting room, choosing a peaceful activity to occupy her hands. Embroidery usually soothed her nerves, and she had just begun working a delicate floral pattern when her needle snagged.
“Please don’t tell me you’re as stubborn as the people I know,” she muttered under her breath, tugging gently at the thread.
It caught again, twisting into a knot.
Before she could curse it entirely, a quiet cough drew her attention.
“For you, my lady,” said the butler, stepping into view. He held a slim, neatly wrapped package in his gloved hands. “It was delivered only moments ago.”
Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Thank you,” she said, accepting it carefully.
The ribbon was silk and tied with precision. The paper was thick and slightly textured. Not anonymous. Someone had taken care.
She stood, cradling the parcel in her arms, and crossed to her bedchamber, where she could open it in private.
She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid—then gasped.
Inside was a set of art supplies, beautifully chosen and unmistakably high-quality.
Graphite pencils in various grades. Sketch paper rolled in soft vellum. Finely tipped brushes. Even small tubes of paint: deep indigo, burnt sienna, a pale gold.
Had Marianne noticed what she’d paused before in the shop, even when she hadn’t reached for it?
Her throat tightened. She felt like crying, but not from sadness. It was the sort of ache that came from being seen. Understood.