The Painted Rose
Berkley Sensations
ISBN: 0-425-19804-9
September 2004

The woman in gray knelt in a corner of the garden and snipped roses from one of the bushes. Lucien approached, but she appeared not to hear. He paused, for some reason unwilling to alert her to his presence so soon. He watched for a few moments as she worked.

In movements deft and practiced, she chose only the most perfect blooms, laying them next to her in a neat pile as she cut them. Her arms were long and thin, and moved like reeds in a pond. The gray dress was plain but fashionable and of high quality, unusual for a servant. Hair of smooth, dark sable was pinned up beneath a gray hat.

Lucien cleared his throat loudly and the woman turned in surprise.

Now it was Lucien who was startled.

Layers of gossamer lace hung from the brim of her hat, concealing her face. The sun’s light cast through the lace from behind, revealing only the silhouette of her head and neck. She made a small noise and rose quickly to her feet. Lucien believed she would have backed away had the bushes not been blocking her retreat.

“Miss Witherspoon?”

Her laugh was nervous, yet oddly enchanting. “No. Miss Witherspoon is attending to something at the moment. I am Sarah Essington.”

Lucien bowed. “Do pardon me. I have just arrived, and your brother was called away before he could make the introductions. Are you the one who wishes to learn to paint?”

“Yes. But I understood Monsieur Valmetant could not provide a tutor. At any rate, I never would have expected…well, you’ve certainly come far.” She gathered up the flowers, her hands trembling slightly, and placed them in a basket.

Lucien took a few steps back. “You are distressed, I see. I am very sorry to have startled you.”

“Please, think nothing of it. We do not have many visitors here, so new faces tend to unsettle me. But tell me, how is it you’re here?”

“It would seem Valmetant’s word of my arrival failed to reach your brother.” Lucien repeated the lie he had told the earl, which somehow seemed even more distasteful this time. “Lord Darby has been kind enough to welcome me despite the confusion.”

As he spoke, Lucien attempted to peer through the lace. Despite its delicate weave he could make out only vague details of Sarah Essington’s face. Perhaps the veils served to shield her from insects or the sun.

“In any event, now that you are here I shall have to make good use of you.” She handed him the basket of roses she had collected. “Hold these, please. I have just a few more to cut.”

Lucien stood behind her as she knelt, noting the subtle bend and sway in her back as her hands avoided thorns and moved skillfully through the bushes. The daylight illuminated the bare white of her forearms almost to the sheen of the marble nymphs in the pond. He mixed the hues of her skin in the palette of his mind before he could stop himself.

“The garden is lovely,” he said, trying to direct his gaze elsewhere.

“Thank you. I planted most of the bushes and flowers myself. The gardeners helped, of course. There’s so much to do. But I attempt to do as much as I can on my own.” She handed him the last of the flowers, then brushed dirt from the front of her skirt.

“You are responsible for the gardens?”

“Yes. You might call them my obsession. Fortunately, my brother indulges my whims.”

“Is my presence due to a whim, as well?” His words surprised him. Even more surprising was his desire for a favorable response. It mattered little if her interest in painting was a whim. He would collect his compensation either way.

Provided he could keep up his charade, that is.