A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,28
trying to convince her of its merits, but he’d hit on a necessary distinction. She did not want a bedroom convenience, and she did not want to remarry.
She did, very much, want Oak Dorning.
She rose and kissed him, then gave him another pat. “I will leave you here to compose yourself, while I find someplace quiet where I can consider the past hour and your interesting offer. The first group of paintings requiring restoration are in that stack.” She pointed to a Holland cover in the corner. “And I will see you at dinner.”
He rose in one lithe movement, his smile mostly in his eyes. “Will you retire to your bedroom to have a short lie-down?”
“I’m not tired, if that’s—”
He leaned in, glossed a hand over Vera’s breast, and smiled. “Begone, please. I must compose myself, and with you looking adorable and very likely wearing nothing under those skirts, that I cannot do.”
“You cannot?”
He waved a hand toward the door. “Have mercy, Vera.”
“I believe I will have a short lie-down,” she said, starting for the door. “And, Oak?”
“Madam?”
“In summer, I rarely wear more than a light petticoat under my skirts.” She slipped through the door, closing it softly behind her, the sound of Oak’s laughter following her down the winding steps.
Oak enjoyed children. He enjoyed the breathtaking honesty of the very young, the brooding complexity and shifting moods of the adolescent. He liked the openheartedness of little children and the amazing wisdom that often flashed through youthful innocence. He also enjoyed the out of doors, which he considered to have been his first studio.
He was not enjoying the company of Master Alexander Channing. The boy was an accomplished practitioner of the Grand Sulk and hadn’t a word to say unless a direct question was posed to him. Oak concluded a short lecture on the need to study a subject before putting pencil to paper, while Alexander kicked his legs against the bench and stared at the garden’s crushed-shell walk.
“Have you any questions, Alexander?”
He looked up to the corner of the manor where the nursery was housed. “What if I can’t draw?”
“Life goes on,” Oak said, though the question took him somewhat aback. “Nobody must draw, but everybody who aspires to a life of gentility should have some appreciation for art.”
“My papa could draw anything. He was brilliant.”
Brilliant might be in a six-year-old’s vocabulary as an expostulation. Alexander wasn’t using the word in that sense.
“My papa was brilliant at botany,” Oak said. “He knew every tree, shrub, and flower in Britain. Knew which ones like bogs, which ones like shade, which ones are fit only for the conservatory. I can draw them all, but I will never have the knowledge he had of plants. I am not my father.”
Alexander peered over at Oak and ceased the infernal drumming of his heels against the bench. “Was your papa ashamed of you, sir?”
The earl had despaired of his sons loudly and often, but Oak had never doubted that his father was proud of all his children.
“My papa was pleased with me when I tried hard to better myself, and he was disappointed in me when I slacked.”
A silence ensued while Alexander shot another furtive glance in the direction of the nursery.
“We have a bog,” he said. “It’s in the woods, and it’s dangerous. A quaking bog is always dangerous. Mrs. Tansbury used to say that.”
Some children expressed themselves more effectively with action than words. “Can you show me where the bog is?”
“You want me to take you there?”
“I like to work out of doors,” Oak said, rising from the bench. “I do better with landscapes when the vista is immediately before me. I would not want to ramble into this bog all unawares when I’m out searching for a pretty view to sketch.”
“Mr. Forester will scold me if I go near the bog.”
Good heavens, did this child have no natural confidence? “We’ll stay far back from the quaking part, and I will tell Mr. Forester that you were showing me the general direction only for the sake of my safety. A considerate host would do as much for any guest.” And someday, Merlin Hall and all its holdings would belong to this withdrawn, uncertain boy.
“Very well.” Alexander quit the bench and trudged up the garden path. “We can go out the back gate. I must not get my shoes dirty or get any mud on my clothing.” The child sounded as prim as an aging maiden auntie.