He was still waiting for the grief to recede, but it washed through every thought.
“I will begin right away, my lord.”
“What?” He looked up as she moved away. “No! You’ve got to eat, and I need that tea.” He grabbed two large wooden bowls and began scrapping the eggs off the pan into them. There were fine porcelain plates at the manor house, but something that delicate wouldn’t last here in a stone castle. Too many ways to break them. He winced at the sight of the common fare as he pushed it toward her.
“You were supposed to stay at the manor home,” he said, his cheeks heating. “But the roof caved in last week. The place isn’t fit for anyone, and so you had to come here.” He looked down at the table. He hadn’t even set the table. He never bothered when it was just him. Setting aside the pan, he put a fork and spoon beside her bowl, then found another set for himself. The teacups came next. These, at least, were of good quality though there were only three left of the full set.
“I don’t know where the cream or sugar is,” he said looking around. “I usually take it plain.” And strong. It had to be strong.
“I am content with this,” she said, not touching her food. “Indeed, it is most kind.”
It wasn’t kind at all. It was the barest of amenities, and he was doing an incredibly bad job of it. He gestured at her food. “Please, sit down. Eat before it gets cold.” He poured the tea and was pleased to see that it was dark enough for him, though God knew if she liked it that way.
“You wish me to eat here?” she asked. “With you?”
“Yes, I do.” He sat down on his stool, realizing belatedly that she had no chair. There were only stools in the castle kitchen. “It’s a lot brighter in here than in the great room. Without a fire going, it can be downright gloomy in there.”
“I can eat next to my work, if you prefer. I will not spill on the ledgers.”
He stared at her. “Is there something wrong with the kitchen? I know it’s not a dining room, but I thought it pleasant enough.” Especially with the door open to bring in the morning air.
“It is lovely,” she said, her words rushed.
“Then why aren’t you eating? Why aren’t you sitting?”
Her cheeks tinged rose as she quickly settled on her stool. She brought her bowl close and took a quick bite. He did the same with his food, feeling like a great beast across from her slender frame. He watched her closely as she ate, every bite small and perfectly proportioned. She sipped from her tea as well, looking as stiff as a mechanical doll. The motions were performed precisely, but she was the opposite of at ease.
He sighed. This wasn’t working. And damn Mrs. Dove-Lyon for telling him that it was the only way to get her to paint for him. Subterfuge was not natural for him. And though he had dined with kings, queens, and the Pope, he was a miserable lout when it came to proffering his own hospitality. Which meant there was nothing else to do but to drop back on his strength.
Forthright honesty. And money. Lots and lots of money.
“Miss Lina, do you know who I am?”
Her gaze widened. “Lord Daniel, second son of the Earl of Walden, lately ward of Stefan.”
“I’m not his legal guardian yet,” he said. The church court hadn’t signed the paperwork yet. “But he’s my nephew and an earl. I’ll not have him taken advantage of by a havey-cavey steward who won’t explain the numbers to me.”
She nodded. “Of course, you should take care of your nephew.”
“I’m the only man in his life who can look out for him.” And he felt that duty strongly, though suddenly taking the reins of an earldom was no small matter. It was, in fact, why he was able to be patient with her. Any other time, he would be on the continent right now looking for unusual art pieces to bring to England. “But do you know my other work? What I do out of love and passion?”
Her gaze darted around the room as if the kitchen would answer that question. “No, my lord.”
“I buy and sell art, Miss Lina. I travel throughout England and the Continent finding artists, nurturing them when I can, and selling their work at great profit.”
She looked down at the floor, her entire body tightening into a hard knot.
“You remember me,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but she answered it anyway.
“You were in Hyde Park a few weeks ago.”
“And you ran away. Indeed, you refused to see me when I tried to speak with you at the Lyon’s Den.”
She lifted her head. “I don’t speak with any of the men at the Den.”
That was reassuring. He’d seen the crowd there. He didn’t like the idea of her being around some of the clientele.
“I tried every way I could think of to speak to you, but you refused me at every turn. Why?”