A Gentleman's Promise

Chapter Three

I hardly saw Daniel  over the next few days, save the brief time we sat opposite one other at dinner. It almost felt like Damien was deliberately excluding me. It didn't phase me much; he'd been like this before. However, I was far too happy when he informed us he'd been called into town for urgent business and wouldn't be back till late evening.
We saw him off. Although he didn't say anything, he shot me a knowing glare as he left. His lack of trust in me hurt a little, though it was expected. We wouldn't have done anything anyway. Daniel was my friend and if Damien disliked my friendship with the man then he should never have introduced us.
"And thus we are alone." Daniel mumbled. "Do you have any plans for the rest of your afternoon, Katherine?"
"I believe I have some embroidery to do. Why, what do you have planned?"
"Oh nothing really. I'll keep you company if you want."
We walked to the parlour together in comfortable silence. I'd left my embroidery bag on the chair in the corner by the fireplace. Damien didn't like me 'leaving things around'; he liked things put away in draws or cabinets but I was a firm believer that everything had its home out where I could see them. To be honest, if I put my things away in draws I'd forget they existed, so I kept them out.
I had a nice little corner in the parlour. I had the embroidery bag on the chair; the sewing box on the table next to it, and the knitting bag underneath the chair. The chair itself was upholstered, with a cover I had embroidered with flowers for Damien's birthday. He wasn't keen on it, unfortunately, but it gave me a nice place to sit out the way.
I was content to get on with my needlework but Daniel seemed stuck for things to do. He's first reached for one of the books on a side table but stoped at the end of the first page, and put back down. He then walked over to the window to look at the grounds round the front of the house. Christ I hadn't noticed how much those floorboards creaked when you walked over them - maybe I had just learnt to avoid - but I was sure he was trying to distract me. I was trying to sew the outline of a frog but he was looking more like a frog that someone had sat on or dropped a very heavy book on.
When he finally lost interest at staring at grass and trees, he sauntered over to me to watch what I was doing. He leaned on the side of the chair, watching my hands from over my shoulder. I hated him watching me fail. God it made me want to throw the whole damn thing into the fire so we could both laugh at how terrible it was and be done with it. After a long pause I had to say something:
"Are you here to criticise or are you just trying to make me nervous?"
"Neither. I just like watching you work. Who's it for?"
I - why didn't he criticise it? He was supposed to have commented on the terrible stitching or made some patronising comment about how good it was. And yet he didn't.
"It's for my sister. It's her birthday in a few weeks -June 27th, to be exact."
"And I'm assuming she likes frogs and flowers and suchlike."
"Very much so. She has a pond in the garden of her house in London that is always full of frogs. I'm sewing it from memory so it's a little difficult."
"I'm sure."
He leant forward, so his head was nearly resting on my shoulder, to watch me fill in the eyes. I could hear his breathing - feel the warmth of his skin. I was sure I'd fumble the stitches, my fingers were so tense.
The fabric of his shirt brushed against my wrist as he moved his hand closer to mine. I nearly jumped out my skin when he lightly touched the back of my hand.
"Your hands are shaking."
"So they are!" I could hardly stop my voice from shaking. God I was a mess. My heart was racing fit to burst.
I stood up quickly and discarded my embroidery on the table next to my chair.
"It is too nice of a day to sit inside. Shall we walk round the garden?"
"I would love to."
He did not question my sudden desire to move but I could see the slight curiosity in his eyes. Eyes were fascinating. A mans words were often woven with deceit but his eyes would always tell you the truth - or so I had been told by my sister. She liked poetic sentiment but I'd always preferred things clear and concise.

"Gosh. How hot it is already!" He remarked.
Was I not paying attention for that long? I must've been terrible company.
"But you don't have a fan! Let me go fetch one for you. Don't want you getting all hot and bothered now, do we."
I could feel my cheeks starting to turn pink. His choice of words - either he chose them incredibly carefully with the intention in mind or he paid them no heed at all.
"You are too kind."
"Not at all."