A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,23

more censorious than its Dorset counterpart.

Verity Channing was a problem because Oak liked her. He liked that she troubled over her step-daughter’s feelings, that she was protective of a by-blow many women would have refused to acknowledge much less raise. He liked that she dined at the same table with the tutor, governess, and whatever Oak was. He liked that she didn’t put on airs and wasn’t vain. He liked very much that she seemed oblivious to her own fine looks.

And he had, despite all sense to the contrary, liked that she’d kissed his cheek, perhaps in thanks, perhaps in welcome. He’d liked very much the unexpected spark of daring that had prompted her to make the overture.

And none of this liking would advance his ambitions where the Royal Academy was concerned, or land him the paying commissions on which he could build an independent career. His brothers—Willow, then Casriel, followed by Hawthorne and Valerian—were finding lovely ladies to marry and establish households with. Sycamore and Ash made an excellent livelihood from The Coventry Club, leaving Oak… sitting in a tree and sketching ferns.

He must focus on gaining entry into the Royal Academy, not on a lovely widow rusticating in Hampshire.

Mrs. Channing swept past him into the gloom of the attic, her faint floral fragrance blending with the scents of dust and old wood. Weak light filtered in through dormer windows, more light than Oak had expected in a mere storage room.

“I do not make a habit of kissing strange men, Mr. Dorning,” she said, facing away from him. “You were kind to Catherine, and that touched me, and I still should not have… I should not have kissed you.”

So they were to have a discussion. Very well. “Why not? Kissing is enjoyable, provided all parties to the activity do so consensually.”

“Because…” She turned slowly. “One should not kiss strangers in the first place.”

“One should not be caught kissing strangers, perhaps. What’s in the second place?”

She drew a finger across the shelf of a sconce that held an empty oil lamp. “I haven’t wanted to. Kiss any strangers, that is. Kiss anybody.”

Oak pushed the door closed. “You have been in mourning.” He took out a handkerchief, dusted off the top of a sea trunk, and gestured for the lady to take a seat, which she did. “Might I have the place beside you?”

“We’re discussing kisses, Mr. Dorning. You need not stand on ceremony.”

“And yet, you call me Mr. Dorning.”

He was rewarded with a slight smile. “Oak, then. I loved my husband.”

Oak waited, having the sense that Mrs. Channing was airing her thoughts on this topic for the first time.

“Dirk loved me too,” she went on, “though he wasn’t in love with me. We weren’t daft like that. He was affectionate, kind, and patient. He courted me with all the decorum and respect a lady longs for, and that was balm to my soul. When a young woman is pretty, people assume she’s also worldly, that she knows how to handle innuendos and advances. I was a complete gudgeon.

“My father inherited from his father,” she said, “also from uncles and brothers, and thus Papa ended up with very large land holdings. He was a glorified farmer who had no idea what to do with a pretty daughter. My step-mother’s notions on that topic were far from kind. Dirk was passing through the Midlands on a sketching tour when he came upon me having a good cry at our fishpond.”

A good cry over what? “Did his age bother you?”

“Not a bit. We got into an argument about the proper technique for skipping a stone, and then he asked to meet my parents. He was a fit and handsome eight-and-thirty. I was eighteen and desperate to leave my step-mother’s household. From many perspectives, the match was entirely appropriate.”

The attic made a peaceful confessional, with morning sunlight slanting through the windows. The attic was also quiet enough that Oak could hear the slight hitches and hesitations in Verity’s breathing as she recited the tale of her courtship.

“Was the match entirely appropriate from your perspective, Verity?”

“My friends call me Vera.”

She had friends, then. Oak wanted to meet them, to ensure they were true friends and not merely local gossips.

“Was the match entirely appropriate from your perspective, Vera?”

She tugged at her cuffs. “For the first year, we were happy. Dirk took me to Portugal and Italy. Everywhere we went, he was lionized. I see now that we traveled only to the affordable places where artists tend