Her Secondhand Groom(31)

Whistling, Patrick strode through the darkened hallways of his house, unconsciously righting his stark white cravat before twisting the ruby pin until it was in proper form. He stopped abruptly, catching a glimpse of Juliet and his daughters just outside the window. His whistling quieted and his eyes narrowed, his heart undecided between swelling with pride and clenching in agony. Instead, it settled for an uncomfortable lurch.

Through the thick window pane, he stared unnoticed and unashamed at Juliet’s laughing face as she explained some biological nonsense to his girls in a way that made them giddy with excitement, asking―no, begging―her to tell them more. He smiled. He’d never seen his girls so happy. Ever. Not in the presence of Mrs. Jenkins or while spending time with him. They’d become quite attached to her, it would seem. Good.

Juliet strolled up to the window from which he was watching her. He took a step back, sighing in relief that she hadn’t seen him, before bending down to pick up whatever it was on the ground she’d walked over to collect. Patrick leaned forward and peered out the glass once more. Juliet sat down on a concrete bench and it appeared she was giving the girls instructions on how to paint using watercolors.

Looking at her thus, she actually appeared to be quite a joyous and fun person. But he knew better. She was only this way because she hadn’t seen him yet. Once she did, her stony-face and tart tongue would resurface. He’d wager everything he owned on it.

Patrick shook his head, and exhaled a deep breath. Whether she liked him or not, he wasn’t going anywhere―and neither was she. They needed to resolve their differences and now was the time to do it. Taking one last glance at the smile on her face and the light in her eyes, Patrick swallowed his pride and opened the door.

He shook his head. Just as he’d predicted, as soon as her eyes landed on his form, her smile faded just as quickly as the sparkle in her eye. He forced a grim smile to his lips. “What has captured the attention of my four favorite ladies?”

Juliet sighed. “What has brought you out today?” The interest she was displaying in righting her spectacles far surpassed the interest she was exhibiting toward him while waiting for his answer.

“I already told you. I’ve come to check on my favorite lot of ladies.” he said smoothly, flashing her his best smile, the one he used to melt Abigail’s heart and make her forgive him almost anything.

Juliet appeared unmoved. “The girls are learning the basics of watercolors.” She picked up one of the canvases and turned it so that he could see the picture.

It was all he could do not to cringe. Celia was a sweet girl, but watercolors were not her forte. Perhaps she ought to stick with embroidery. He cleared his throat. “It’s lovely, Celia. A real talent you have.”

Juliet shot him a queer expression from behind the canvas before handing it back to Celia. “Would you care to see Helena’s?” she asked. The slight upturn of the right corner of her lips gave him pause.

Slowly he nodded, whispering a prayer he’d at least be able to distinguish the object in the painting and not have to ask. “Perfection,” he lied, blinking rapidly to clear the image from his mind. What in the blazes had the girls been painting on those canvases? He raked his hand through his hair. A few months ago he learned his girls lacked any musical inclination whatsoever; apparently they couldn’t paint, either. Hopefully Juliet could find some sort of feminine pursuit they could master. If not, he better start putting money away for their dowries now. A quick movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. “What are you painting, Juliet?”

She shrugged. “Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”

She never took her eyes from her canvas as she said those words. He stepped closer to where she was sitting, then sank down to his haunches, bringing his eyes level with Juliet’s hand. “Papa!” Helena squealed in his ear.

He turned his head to look at his middle daughter. “Yes?”

“What color clothes do you want?”

“Pardon?” he asked, his jaw tightening. The last time she’d asked that question, he woke up the next morning to find all of his cravats covered with colored ink.

Helena gestured to her canvas. “Your clothes, what color do you want them?”

“That’s me?” he asked, immediately coughing to cover the hitch in his voice. He looked back at the painting and cocked his head to the right. Then to the left. Then squinted. How was that supposed to represent him? When Juliet first showed it to him, he thought it looked like a very well-fed, but horribly disproportioned starfish. Now that he’d studied it a bit better, he’d amended his opinion. It didn’t look so much like a starfish, but perhaps more like an angry bear. Yes, a hairy, angry bear standing on his hind legs with his arms up in the air. “Helena, why did you paint Papa with such an unhappy look on his face?”