Mary was going to be the death of him. Sin stood in her room and did a slow circle as he assessed her bags and trunk. Nothing had been unpacked, most were neatly stacked under the window where the valet had likely left them.
One sat open on the bed, the very one that had sent Anne into cries of elation. Why hadn’t art lessons occurred to him? And picnics?
He’d watched Mary stroke his daughter’s braid with gentle fingers and something inside him had shifted. Anne hadn’t been this excited in months. Perhaps Mary was just the change that Anne had needed after all.
He found himself leaving the room and heading down the back stairs toward the kitchen. She was breathing life into him too. His insides were a twisting mess, he’d barely slept last night in anticipation of her arrival, and the thought of picnicking with her sounded…delightful.
He stopped on the steps, halfway between the first and second floor. He’d felt this way once before. Clara had been a small woman of fragile beauty. Later he’d learned that she’d spent much of her childhood ill, but as an adult, she’d outgrown the illness.
He’d loved the way she’d fit under his arm, and Mary was right about people finding joy in caring for others. He’d taken great delight in shielding her from the world. Of course, he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about planting his seed in her womb. And he’d been completely helpless when birthing had been too much for her.
His head dropped in his hands. Yes, he felt a pull toward Mary. But she wasn’t the type of woman he should marry. The next time, he’d take a wife of strong stock. Though Mary was strong-willed, that still didn’t mean she could survive pregnancy and childbirth given her small stature.
Dropping his hands, he continued down to the kitchen. He stopped, watching Mary help Anne cut bread, her hands gently guiding his daughter’s.
He closed his eyes. She’d been here for mere minutes and he’d already resorted to lurking in doorways and spying. Mary’s voice washed over him. “That’s perfect. Just like that. Slow, even strokes.”
His hands clenched into fists. Bloody hell, he wanted her to speak to him with those same words and soft tone. Just on an entirely different subject.
“Like this?” Anne asked, eager for approval. “Am I doing a good job?”
“Wonderful,” Mary answered. “Your father is going to love this picnic.”
He was going to love it. Every damned second.
“And then after the picnic, we can draw?”
“I’m sure we can. But first we’ll have to pick the perfect thing to draw. Something that is relatively easy for our first time and something that sparks our imagination and strikes our fancy.”
Sin knew what he’d draw if given the chance. He pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes. He wouldn’t survive a week with Mary in the house, let alone two. He was certain of it. Stepping into the kitchen, he dropped his hands. “Anne, come get me when you’re ready for the picnic.”
And then, without waiting for an answer, he stomped back up the stairs to his office where he tossed himself into his chair. He had to last a week with Mary. Honestly, he had to last far longer. She was good for his daughter and he’d endured worse for the sake of Anne’s happiness.
But as he tried to start working, again and again, his thoughts returned to the rich brown silk of Mary’s hair and the soft shape of her eyes. The pale pink that infused her cheeks and lovely curves of her figure danced in front of his closed eyes.
He dropped his head into his hands, propping his elbows on the desk. Mary was haunting him.
Chapter Six
Mary sat on the blanket, enjoying the summer sun as she waited for Anne to return with Lord Sinclair. Here in the shade of a flowering pear tree, nothing could bother her, not even her worries over her new, temporary-for-now position.
She pulled out a sketch pad and started to draw. First, she drew a nearby daisy, dancing on the end of its stalk in the summer breeze. But her thoughts drifted to little Anne and her charcoal followed. Soon, she was adding a girl bent over and sniffing the flower.
Mary wasn’t nearly as accomplished as Grace but she pictured the girl in her mind and tried to capture the child’s essence. There was so much life in the girl waiting to come out. Then she thought of Lord Sinclair. Slowly, she began to sketch his outline too, behind the child, smiling in support. His hands were held out waiting to help the girl, his shoulders slightly bent in case she fell as she danced toward the flower.
It was a rough sketch, no detail added, but the subjects were clear and the picture made her smile, despite herself.
When she looked up, the real-life Anne was bounding toward her, Lord Sinclair following in her wake, just as in her drawing. Her smile broadened as she set the sketch aside and waved. Sin waved back and her grin slipped, her tongue darting out to lick her now parched lips. How could the man affect her so with the tiniest of gestures?
“Do you see, Papa? Isn’t it lovely? This is so much nicer than lessons.” Anne stopped just on the edge of the blanket.
Mary answered before Lord Sinclair could. “Lessons are very important too. You must be ready for life as an adult, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.”
“Agreed,” Sin said as he chose a spot across from her on the blanket. “And this picnic looks delicious. I must confess that I too wish we’d done this before now.”
“Me too,” Anne answered, sitting next
