LITMIR.BIZ

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not some milk-sop miss content with a pastel-coloured life, but a vibrant being who requires true colour to match her view of the world,’ Richard replied. ‘Or that was my thought.’

      ‘I know how to paint with oils. I used to prefer them, but watercolours seem more ladylike.’ Sophie gently closed the wooden box, before she gave in to the urge to start painting there and then. Oil paints were for people who led reckless and chaotic lives, rather than ordered ones.

      ‘Sophie, you are a lady whether you paint in oil or water. It is how you act. Your stepmother will confirm it.’ He tilted his head. ‘Where is Mrs Ravel? I have a present of wax fruit for her.’

      ‘She has a dress fitting.’ Sophie gestured to the piles of old magazines, penny-dreadfuls and fashion plates. ‘I’m sorting through these and trying to decide which to keep and which to throw away. I hadn’t thought you would call. There is no At Home on a Friday.’

      Rather than living in hope of Richard calling, she had chosen to wear a faded rose-coloured gown with a high-necked collar and her loosest corset. Her hair was drawn back in a simple knot, rather than being artfully done. Sophie absurdly wished she was in the dark-blue gown which set off her eyes and that she had used curling tongs to make sure her ringlets framed her face.

      She squashed the thought. It did not matter what he thought of her looks. They were thrown together by circumstance. She was not going to act on any feelings of attraction towards him. He might have been the perfect gentleman yesterday, but could she trust him today?

      ‘Is there something wrong with a man calling on his fiancée?’ He glanced about the small sitting room which her stepmother and she used in the evenings when they were not entertaining. ‘This room is far more pleasant than the drawing room. Cosy and more you.’

      ‘No, nothing is wrong. And I like this room better with fewer china ornaments to knock.’ Sophie picked up a brush and toyed with it, twisting it about her fingers. ‘I will make sure my stepmother gets the fruit. It is good of you to remember her.’

      ‘I have brought some paper as well as a variety of pencils,’ Richard said, holding out another parcel. ‘In case you didn’t have any. I wasn’t sure about the size of canvas you might require, but the man at the shop will drop off a selection later today.’

      Sophie tilted her head to one side, eyeing the parcel with suspicion. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you giving me these things?’

      ‘Have you forgotten what we spoke about yesterday? You promised to try drawing again. As you said you stopped four years ago, I reckoned you would not have paints, pencils or drawing paper.’ His eyes glinted gold. ‘Finding excuses is a terrible thing.’

      ‘Spoken like someone who knows.’

      ‘There are things I avoided until I was forced to,’ he admitted with a studied shrug.

      Sophie caught her breath and waited.

      ‘I am not here to speak about my failings,’

      he said finally. ‘Know I have many. Are you going to draw?’

      ‘And I do intend to after I have finished with the magazines. But these are far too much, Richard.’ Sophie gave the paintbox a wistful stroke. The tubes were new and unclotted. When she had looked this morning at her old oil paints, she couldn’t even squeeze the tube, the paint was so old and cracked. Her brushes were matted and glued. The thought of going and buying more had been beyond her and she’d put it off for another day.

      ‘What is the harm in spoiling you? Do you like them?’

      ‘Very much,’ Sophie admitted. ‘I am puzzled why you have given me all this.’

      ‘Can’t a man give his fiancée a present?’

      ‘It is nothing that others will see,’ she explained. ‘I’m hardly likely to bring it up in conversation, either.’

      ‘And what of it? You will know I gave it to you. Sometimes it is not about creating an impression, Sophie, but doing the right thing.’ He shrugged. ‘After our conversation yesterday, I wanted to encourage you. To paint.’

      She knew he was talking about more than that. He wanted her to stop allowing The Incident to rule her life. Rather than fearing it, a sort of reckless excitement filled her. It was an unexpected challenge. ‘You are very kind.’

      ‘Some day you might get to the Alps and want to paint, but you won’t have practised for a long time. You need to practise now, so you are ready. The wax fruit are in case you need a subject. But I thought your stepmother was more the wax-fruit type.’

      ‘I will definitely go … one of these days.’ Privately Sophie vowed that she would go once they had ended. And she would paint meadows filled with flowers with snow-capped mountains towering over them. It would be a way to ease the pain in her heart. She froze and buried the thought. She liked Richard and enjoyed his company, but nothing more. They could never be real friends. There was far too much between them. After this false engagement ended, she’d never see him again. They would be strangers. The thought depressed her. ‘Yes, I will definitely go.’

      ‘Then you will accept the gift? I give it to you as a friend. I do consider you a friend, Sophie. I hope you will come to consider me as a friend.’

      A friend. Sophie’s heart thudded.

      ‘Can a man and a woman ever be friends?’ she asked lightly.

      ‘I like to think you are. We share a secret.’

      Friends for now, strangers in a few weeks. She’d miss him. ‘How could I refuse when it was given in the interests of friendship?’

      He stood there without moving and she wondered if he expected a kiss. She carefully placed the box down on the table with the drawing paper and pencils next to them, making a show of straightening them, but all the time watching him out of the corner of her eye.

      ‘I shall start a painting today to show you I’m serious,’ she said to cover the awkward silence. ‘You can see it tomorrow … I mean, whenever you next come to call.’

      ‘Tomorrow will be fine. There is a concert of Handel’s Water Music on at the Royal Theatre. I thought you and your stepmother might enjoy going. You did enjoy the theatre so much in Liverpool last March.’

      ‘I promise not to flirt with any strange men with my fan. I gave that up after I met you. Lesson learnt.’

      A tiny smile touched his lips. ‘You have our story down.’

      ‘It is important not to make a mistake.’ Sophie turned back to the paints. ‘I’ve no wish to come undone over it. I’ve told the story so many times now that I almost believe it myself.’

      ‘Do you have a subject in mind for this painting of yours or shall I pose for you?’

      Sophie examined the carpet of the small sitting room. If he posed for her, he’d have to stay. A large chunk of her wanted him here, but the more prudent side knew he should go. She had given up being reckless years ago. And while Richard might say he was different, she had no desire to put him to the test. Once bitten, twice shy as her nurse used to say.

      ‘It normally takes me an age to decide on the subject,’ she said. ‘I like to spend time arranging things and doing preliminary sketches. Paintings don’t happen like that. They need to be prepared.’

      ‘Do you draw people?’

      ‘I used to.’ Sophie gestured towards the pen-and-ink portrait of her stepmother that stood on a side table. ‘I did that one the spring before I made my début. My stepmother was a poor sitter. She kept moving her hands and changing expressions. Most aggravating—the drawing took twice as long as it should have done.’

      ‘You are very talented.’

      ‘You’re being kind.’

      ‘Kindness has nothing to do with it. I merely appreciated your talent.’

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