A Tall Dark Stranger by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online

“So lifelike, the texture of that pineapple! I can almost taste it.”
    They were rather good, but why should that surprise him when he had compared my work to Leonardo’s? “Thank you,” I said.
    Renshaw must have noticed the curious tone of my voice. It was hard to discover a blush beneath his swarthy skin, but he looked as if he was blushing.
    He said sheepishly, “Not that it surprises me! I had thought, when I saw your other nature sketches, that your true metier was the human face, but I see now that you excel in both fields.”
    “Those were preliminary sketches. There’s still a great deal of work to be done on them. I’m glad you like my fruit paintings.”
    “They really are wonderful, Miss Talbot.” I sensed real admiration, or perhaps I was only hearing what I wanted to hear. “How I would love to have such a talent.”
    “Let us hope your talent lies with cultivating hops,” I suggested playfully.
    “Hops?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “Oh, you refer to my inheritance. Yes, one can only hope, but I meant an artistic talent. Everyone needs a creative outlet. I confess, I’m not much acquainted with hops yet, except in ale, of course.”
    “You took no interest in your papa’s work before you left England?”
    He looked surprised at the question. I felt he wasn’t accustomed to sensible conversation from a lady, but he answered readily enough.
    “Youngsters are too foolish for such things,” he said. “I was away at school and university, you know, then I went to India when I was still a young cub.”
    I knew what he meant. Lollie had shown no interest in farming until Papa died and he took over the reins of Oakbay.
    We went out to his curricle. It was what Lollie would call a smasher: an awesome vehicle, gleaming a brilliant yellow in the sunlight, with silver appointments glinting. I felt as dashing as Lettie Lade when he boosted me up into the high seat. Heads would turn in Chilton Abbas when we went racing through town.
    He certainly set a lively pace on the open road before we reached town. He was a fine fiddler, driving quickly but never giving rise to fear. Once we arrived, however, he slowed to half the speed, which greatly diminished the effect and the danger to pedestrians. It was the proper thing to do, but it was not what Beau Sommers would have done, nor any of his usual friends, either. I began to reconsider my first opinion of Renshaw.
    I mentioned that I had Auntie’s invitations to deliver, but first we took one turn along the High Street to impress the locals.
    “We won’t have to go in at each house and chat, will we?” he asked.
    “Are you in a hurry to get home, Mr. Renshaw?”
    “Not at all. I’m in a hurry to get back out on the open road and give the horses their heads. I just bought this team and carriage. They’re still a novelty to me.”
    If he was after my fortune, he would have said he wanted to be alone with me. And if he was not after my fortune, why had he come to call? Why had he asked me out? I was beginning to feel a real interest in Beau’s mysterious guest.
    “How long have you been home from India?” I asked.
    “Two weeks. I’ve had the team for one.”
    “In that case, I shall leave each note with the servant at the door and say I am in a great rush.”
    He smiled a lazy smile. “Kind as well as talented—and beautiful.” My suspicions stirred at this speech. “Even if your eyes aren’t sapphires.” He winced in memory. “That was ill done of me. And to say it to an artist, of all people, one who is finely attuned to shades. You must have thought me a jackass.”
    “No, only disinterested. I expect Beau told you I had blue eyes.”
    “He did, as he told me you drew weeds. ‘Dashed odd filly,’ he called you.” He smiled to lessen the sting.
    I could just hear Beau saying that in his querulous tone. “Then why did you come to call?”
    “I am just back from India. I wanted to meet all the pretty ladies.”
    I mentally