“Alexander was perfectly polite to me, though it’s clear he is not enjoying his studies.”
“Good,” Jeremy replied, smiling. “He needs to learn that life is not a romp, and we must do many things we don’t enjoy. If he’s absorbing that lesson, we are indeed making progress.”
That reply annoyed Vera. “We also need to learn that hard work earns us respect and respite, Mr. Forester. Please, have Alexander join me in my sitting room when his studies are through for the day.”
Jeremy pursed his lips, as if considering whether to comply with her direction. “You want to know how he gets on with Dorning, is that it? Probably a good idea. Artists are an impatient lot, and Alexander is not a quick study. You’re right that they might not get on so easily. I’ll send him to you, but please don’t spoil him with treats and sweets.”
He’s my son, and I’ll spoil him if I want to. Vera kept that sentiment to herself, because Jeremy, as usual, had a valid point. Supper in the nursery was served early, and too many sweets immediately beforehand were ill advised.
“I’ll expect Alexander in my sitting room this afternoon,” she said. “And I hope you will convey to the boy that I found his manners quite impressive.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Jeremy bowed and sauntered into the schoolroom, closing the door behind him.
Vera stood in the corridor, wanting to eavesdrop, wanting to fire Jeremy Forester without a character, and wanting to rail at a husband who wasn’t available to guide his son’s education.
“Patience,” she muttered. “Patience and persistence.” Soft footsteps had her turning, hoping she hadn’t been overheard. “Mr. Dorning, good morning.”
“Mrs. Channing.” He offered a bow and a smile. “Good day. Are we to inspect the attics this morning?”
He was all pleasant curiosity and gentlemanly good manners. No hint of a reaction to the fact that last night, she’d kissed him—a man she’d known barely two days. Should she be disappointed or relieved at his apparent indifference?
But then, a friendly peck on the cheek from a mature widow barely qualified as a kiss. “The attic steps are this way,” she said, moving off toward the end of the corridor. “The footmen’s dormitory takes up about a quarter of the top floor. The rest is for storage.”
Mr. Dorning followed her up the narrow, curving steps. The attics were not draped in cobwebs—the housekeeper was conscientious and the maids diligent—but the air was warm and close, even so early in the day.
“Will we need a lamp or two?” Mr. Dorning asked as Vera used a key to open a plank door.
“There are dormer windows, but I’ll send up candles if you need them.” She always had to gather her courage before entering the attics. She hadn’t grown up at Merlin Hall as Dirk had, and her memories of the attics were far from fond.
The key refused to fit the lock, or Vera’s hands refused to function. Mr. Dorning stood patiently at her back while she fumbled and mentally cursed and eventually got the blasted key jammed into the keyhole.
“It won’t open,” she muttered.
“Allow me.” Mr. Dorning stepped around her, which put them in close proximity. He twisted the key firmly, and the lock gave. “It merely wanted some strength. A good oiling will set it to rights.”
He made no move to step away, and Vera smelled both lavender and meadow grass on him. In the narrow confines of the landing, she was very much aware of his height and muscle.
“I kissed you last night,” she said. “I am not a loose woman, Mr. Dorning, but you seemed… I ought not to have presumed. It won’t happen again.”
He bent near. “I did not mistake a passing friendly gesture for a wanton invitation.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “No more than you would make that mistake should I offer such a gesture to you. Let’s inspect the attics, shall we?”
Chapter Four
Verity Channing was a problem. Oak reached that conclusion not because she was beautiful—he had, as he’d told her, seen many beautiful women, some of them wearing nothing but a smile of invitation. She was not a problem because she was apparently comfortably fixed. He was an earl’s son, and as such he frequently kept company with well-off gentry.
She was not a problem because she’d kissed him. He thoroughly enjoyed kissing—quite thoroughly—and a quick buss on the cheek would not have been remarked in the very churchyard, for heaven’s sake. Not unless rural Hampshire society was far