The Disgraceful Mr Ravenhurst. Louise Allen

that badly cut gown. There had been softness, but also firmness against his outstretched arm when he had checked her fall. Her hair, which ought to be her crowning glory, was bundled ruthlessly into a thick net at her nape, presumably to disguise it as much as possible. Doubtless she had grown up being made to feel it was a handicap. His own sisters, Jane and Augusta, had escaped the family hair, and left him in no doubt about what a tragedy it would have been if they had not.

      Her hands, unprotected by gloves, were long fingered, strong and ink-stained, her walk a stride that easily kept up with his. He suspected she was unused to gentlemen paying her much attention and found that rather endearing. But why on earth did she dress as though determined to appear a frump? The hair he could understand, even though he deplored it. But why sludge brown and slate-grey gowns that seemed to have been badly altered from ones made for a larger woman?

      She tipped her head on one side, her lower lip caught in her teeth, then leaned forwards and touched her brush to the paper once more. ‘There. Finished.’

      ‘May I see?’ Jane or Augusta would have blushed and dimpled, pretending to be too modest to let a gentleman look at their work, while all the time waiting for praise. Elinor merely leaned forwards and turned her easel so he could look. ‘That’s incredible.’

      ‘It is?’ She was rather pleased with it herself, but she did not expect such praise.

      ‘You handle the drawing with such freedom. And the way you have so simply touched in the flowers with colour lifts the entire composition. I am envious of your talent.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She could not think of what else to say. She was unused to being praised and thought her work merely competent. ‘Recently I have been experimenting with a looser style. I must admit to being influenced by Mr Turner. He is very controversial, of course. It does not do for the sketches of record for Mama, of course, but I am enjoying experimenting. May I see what you have done?’

      Wordlessly Theo handed her his sketchbook. The drawing was precise, focused, full of tiny detail she had not noticed. It should have been cold, yet he had changed the position of the flowers so they wreathed the ancient figure with a tender beauty.

      ‘But that is lovely. You saw things that I never knew were there.’

      ‘I am used to having to be very precise.’ He shrugged and she realised she was embarrassing him.

      ‘I can see that. No, I mean the way you have used the flowers to echo the curve of the mantle and highlight the sweetness of her smile.’ She handed the book back. ‘I shall look more carefully in future for the emotion in what I am drawing.’

      Now she had really done it. Men did not enjoy being accused of emotion, she knew that. Theo was packing away his things somewhat briskly, but he looked up and his eyes smiled. ‘Perhaps we can learn from each other.’

      I expect to be in the area for some days. A week or two perhaps, he had said. They could go sketching together again.

      ‘I am sure we can, if you have the time.’

      ‘I hope so. My plans are uncertain.’ Theo folded her easel and his own stool. ‘Shall we explore some more?’

      They wandered through the church, peering into corners, admiring carvings. ‘Is your mother interested in domestic architecture as well?’ Theo asked.

      ‘Yes, although she has not made such a study of it. Why do you ask?’ Elinor moved a moth-eaten hanging to one side and sneezed as she disturbed a cloud of dust.

      ‘There is a very fine and ancient chateau in the village of St Martin, beyond St Père. I have…business with the count. Perhaps she would care to visit with me when I call. I would not be surprised if he did not invite us all to stay.’

      ‘Really?’ Elinor had clambered up on to a rush-seated chair to study the stained glass more closely. ‘Staying in a chateau sounds fascinating, but why should he ask us?’

      ‘Count Leon spent much of his life in England with his father during the French wars. They were refugees. I am sure he would welcome English visitors.’

      ‘You must mention it to Mama,’—who would not have the slightest qualms about moving into a chateau full of complete strangers if it interested her, Elinor knew full well. ‘Have you—?’ The ancient rush work sagged beneath her feet, then began to give way. ‘Theo!’

      ‘Here, I’ve got you.’ He swung her down easily and set her on her feet.

      ‘Thank you—you have saved me again.’ Elinor began to brush down her skirts. ‘I have been scrambling over the wreckage in the basilica for hours without so much as a turned ankle and today I am positively accident prone.’

      ‘Cousin—why do you wear such frightful gowns?’ Theo said it as though it was a pressing thought that had escaped unbidden.

      She could still feel the press of his hands at her waist where he had caught her. Shock and indignation made her voice shake, just a little ‘I…I do not!’ How could he?

      Chapter Three

      ‘Yes, you do,’ Theo persisted, seemingly forced to speak. He did not appear to be deriving much satisfaction from insulting her dress sense. ‘Look at this thing, and the one you wore yesterday. They might have been designed to make you look a fright.’

      ‘Well, really!’ A fright indeed! ‘They are suitable.’

      ‘For what?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Prison visiting?’ Although what he had to be irritable about she had no idea. She was the one being insulted.

      ‘Suitable for the sort of life I lead. They are practical. I alter them from old ones of Mama’s.’

      ‘A well-tailored gown in a colour that suits you would be equally practical. Green or garnet red or amber.’

      ‘What business have you to be lecturing me about clothes?’ Elinor demanded hotly. Theo looked equally heated. Two redheads quarrelling, she thought with a sudden flash of amusement that cut through the chagrin. She was not ready to forgive him, though. He might think her a dowd—he had no need to say so.

      ‘If you were my sister, I would—’

      ‘I am not your sister, I am thankful to say.’

      ‘You are my cousin, and it irritates me to see you dressing so badly, just as it would irritate me to see a fine gemstone badly set.’

      ‘A fine gemstone?’ she said rather blankly. Theo was comparing her to a gemstone? Some of the indignation ebbed away to be replaced with resignation. He was quite right, her gowns were drab beyond description—even tactful Bel had told her so.

      ‘As it happens, I have a couple of walking dresses that Bel bullied me into having made. I will wear one of those if we call at the chateau; I would not wish to embarrass you in front of your friends.’ She was willing to concede he had a point, although she could not imbue much warmth into her agreement.

      ‘That was not what concerned me—I am sorry if I gave you the impression that it was.’ He regarded her frowningly for a moment, then smiled, spreading his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I truly am sorry. I spoke as I would to an old friend, out of bafflement that a handsome woman would diminish her looks so. But you rightly tell me to mind my own business; a chance-met cousin has no right to speak in such a way. I did not intend to hurt your feelings.’

      And he had not, she realised, disregarding the blatant flattery of him calling her handsome. If she was honest with herself, she recognised in his outburst the same exasperation that sometimes led her to blurt out frank, or downright tactless, comments. She could remember demanding outright of a drooping Bel if she and Ashe were lovers. In comparison with that, a blunt remark about clothes was nothing.

      ‘I know you did not. Let us go and have our luncheon,’ she