Elizabeth Brookwell gave a disparaging snort. ‘You think all gentlemen are handsome.’
‘I do not!’
‘Yes you do!’
‘Ladies, please!’ Helen interrupted firmly. ‘It is not for us to wonder why Mr Brandon has chosen to stand by the fence and watch us. He is perfectly within his rights to do so, and I am sure it is nothing more than curiosity. Now, kindly return your attention to the sky. If you will recall, I was remarking on the number of shades of blue to be seen. Who can tell me how many different shades there are?’
The question served to focus the attention of most of the girls back on their work, and gave Helen a legitimate reason to ignore Oliver Brandon. But she could not so easily dismiss the awareness of his presence standing some thirty feet away. It was all very well to say he was only there to observe the activities of girls at their lessons. It was another thing entirely to believe it.
Oliver stood by the gate and watched Helen de Coverdale conduct an art class for the small cluster of girls gathered around her. They had each brought easels, paints and papers with them, and from what he could see, they were all diligently trying to replicate the ever-changing shades of blue in the afternoon sky. Even from this distance, however, it was obvious that most of them would never be called upon to make a living from their art. But what about the woman standing in the middle of the circle? What had happened to bring about such a change in her life?
There was no question in Oliver’s mind that Helen de Coverdale was wasting her time here. With those full pouting lips and that blatantly sensual figure, she could have been one of the most sought after courtesans in London. Wealthy, aristocratic gentlemen would have vied with one another to offer her their protection, while handsome young bucks would have been lined up outside her door.
And who could blame them? Oliver had never seen such a combination of innocence and sensuality in a woman before. Her skin was itself a palette upon which an artist might sketch. But unlike canvas, it invited touch. Even from this distance, he had an overwhelming urge to run his fingers over her face and see if it felt as warm and as soft as it looked. And her movements fascinated him. Helen de Coverdale walked amongst the girls with the same languid grace she had demonstrated in the dining-hall; her hips following her legs in a movement that was decidedly provocative, yet totally instinctual. Her attire, a simple, round gown of unadorned muslin, was not designed to flatter her figure, yet the voluptuous curves of her hips and the fullness of her breasts caused it to appear enticing in spite of it being so plain. Furthermore, in direct contrast to what was expected of a woman in her position, she did not hide her hair under a cap or restrain it in a matronly style. The glorious tresses rippled freely down her back, falling almost to her waist in a dark, shimmering stream.
Yes, she was certainly a woman to be desired, Oliver acknowledged. And given what he had seen of her conduct in the library at Grovesend Hall, she was not inexperienced in the arts of love. But if that was the case, what was she doing here? Sophie had assured him that the teachers at the Guarding Academy were all of the highest moral character. Yet what he had witnessed of Helen de Coverdale’s conduct in the past had been impropriety, plain and simple. How could a woman like that be hired to teach moral rectitude to the young women in her care?
Suddenly, Oliver straightened. The lady in question had broken away from her girls and was walking towards him.
Without thinking, he pushed himself away from the gate and removed his beaver. She might be a lightskirt, but she was a woman, and his manners were too deeply ingrained to allow him to treat her any differently. Besides, to demonstrate such shocking lack of manners in front of a group of young girls who were even now casting secretive glances in their direction would have been the height of rudeness.
Nevertheless, Oliver kept his voice polite but cool as he sketched her a brief bow. ‘Good afternoon, Miss de Coverdale. I hope my study has not disturbed you.’
‘It has not disturbed me, Mr Brandon, but I fear you are affecting the concentration of some of my girls,’ Helen said quietly. ‘They are easily distracted by the presence of strangers, especially those about whom they are curious.’
Oliver had expected her voice to be as seductive as everything else about her, but he was surprised to discover that her eyes were not brown as he had first thought, but a most unusual shade of dark green flecked with bits of amber and gold. ‘I apologise for any disruption I might be causing, Miss de Coverdale. I was simply curious to see if you were as good an artist as Mrs Guarding led me to believe.’
The beautiful eyes grew wary. ‘You discussed me with Mrs Guarding?’
‘Of course. As I discussed all of the teachers I met this morning. I thought it only wise since my ward is to be a pupil here.’
Oliver knew he didn’t owe her an explanation, but neither did he wish to make her feel as though he had singled her out. Why he should be concerned with her feelings, he had no idea. After all, it was not his conduct that had engendered his current opinion of her.
‘Does your ward like to paint?’ Helen surprised him by asking.
‘Paint? Yes, I suppose she does. Gillian is skilled in a number of areas, including those of a more creative nature.’
‘Good. Then I look forward to the opportunity of working with her.’
‘That is what I would like to speak to you about, Miss de Coverdale,’ Oliver said stiffly. ‘I think there are things which need to be clarified—’
Suddenly, a clattering behind them, followed by smothered gasps and then a burst of feminine giggles, brought an abrupt end to their conversation.
‘Miss de Coverdale, come quickly!’ one of the girls cried. ‘Rebecca’s easel has fallen over and she is all spattered with yellow and blue paint.’
Helen’s eyes widened as she turned to survey the spectacle. ‘Dear me! Miss Walters, did I not tell you to make sure your easel was securely placed?’ She turned back around and Oliver was surprised to see not anger, but laughter bubbling in the depths of her beautiful eyes. ‘Forgive me, Mr Brandon, I fear I must return to my class.’
‘But it is important that we speak—’
‘I am sure whatever you need say to me can wait, sir.’
With that, she turned and hurried back towards her class. The girls were all clustered around the unfortunate Rebecca, ineffectually dabbing their small white handkerchiefs at the spots of yellow and blue paint on her smock. Oliver listened as Helen put one of the older girls in charge, and then watched her escort the stricken Rebecca back to the school. Once again, she did not spare him a second glance.
Oliver bit back a sigh of vexation. He was not used to being summarily dismissed, and certainly not by a woman like Helen de Coverdale. But she had made her position clear. Obviously if he wished to have any kind of private conversation with her, it was either going to have to be before her classes, or after them.
Helen was somewhat surprised that she did not see Oliver Brandon again that day, but she was not in the least surprised to receive a summons to the headmistress’s sitting-room later that afternoon.
‘I hope you do not mind my asking you here, Helen,’ Mrs Guarding began, ‘but I think you know the reason why.’
Helen sighed. She had long since come to realise that Eleanor Guarding was not only an intelligent woman but an intuitive one. She had obviously seen the look on Oliver Brandon’s face this morning—as well as on her own—and the interview now was about achieving an understanding of what those looks had been about. For the good of the school, of course.
‘Not at all,’ Helen said, taking the indicated seat in front of the headmistress’s desk. ‘I am sure you noticed my reaction to Mr Brandon.’
The headmistress smiled. ‘I am used to young women blushing in the presence of a handsome gentleman, but I thought your response indicated something more than just a touch of simple embarrassment.’
Helen