A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,4

might have been done if the fire had been where the rain could put it out.

Mr. Dorning heaped a pile of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “How old were you?”

“Eight. I spent that summer with my grandmother in Sussex. I’ve disliked storms since.”

A second large spoonful of eggs joined the first on his plate. “I enjoy a dramatic sky, but I know better than to be out in bad weather if I can help it. Would you care for more eggs?”

Did he intend to consume the entire tray? “No, thank you. Do you drink tea or coffee?”

“Tea will do,” he replied, taking the seat at her left side, “or chocolate if you have it.”

Vera set a rack of toast by his elbow, as well as a pot of chocolate, the butter plate, the honey pot, and a basket of cinnamon rolls.

“Tell me about your paintings,” he said, draping his table linen across his lap. “My equipment and supplies will be a few days getting here, but I’d like to see the canvases this morning if you can spare the time.”

Mr. Dorning’s manners were almost delicate, and yet, he ate with the businesslike focus of a large, fit, hungry male. Vera had forgotten what that looked like and how gratifying the sight.

“I’ve found more old paintings since last we corresponded. My husband claimed they were worth a pretty penny, though Dirk’s judgment was often colored by optimism. He said this house held more treasures than he had time to catalog, but I suspect he was mostly repeating family legends.”

Mr. Dorning set down the chocolate pot without pouring himself a serving. “Dirk? Dirk Channing? You are his widow?”

She hadn’t seen this reaction for several years and found Mr. Dorning’s astonishment discomfiting.

“I have that honor. Were you acquainted with my late husband?”

“I met him once at a lecture. I would not say we were acquainted. I had just gone up to university, where my family was desperately hoping I’d outgrow my artistic fancies. They longed to see me safely pursuing a career in the Church, of all things.”

He took up the butter knife and added a full pat to a half slice of toast. “Dirk Channing’s paintings of the American rebellion and the Irish uprising convinced me that art is more than simply adornment for the idle rich. He was kind to a youth much in need of kindness, told me to be patient, dedicated, and determined. I have been dedicated and determined ever since.”

Dirk had been so many things. A rascal, a romantic, a genius, and a fool. Then he’d been ill, and none of those other roles mattered. To be reminded that he had also been generous and encouraging was heartwarming.

“Have you been patient, Mr. Dorning, or did you flirt with the temptation to join the Church after all?”

He considered his toast, and Vera had the sense he was about to offer her platitudes rather than confront a sensitive topic.

“I am from a large family,” he said. “Two sisters, six brothers. My oldest brother inherited the usual mixed blessings—land and standing—and he would and will provide for any sibling in need. Our lot as younger sons has been to aid him in any regard we can, whether that’s laying a hedge, balancing a ledger, clearing a ditch, or standing up with the wallflowers when Dorning Hall hosts entertainments. My art is an indulgence in that context. I have been as patient as possible, but I haven’t submitted to the exhibitions, haven’t made the right connections. It’s time I got on with my aspirations.”

“You are ambitious.” Vera ought not to fault him for that, but ye gods, ambition had driven Dirk nearly to Bedlam.

“I have dreams,” he said, smiling at his toast. “I suspect you do too.”

Vera had nightmares, though most mothers could likely say the same. “I have plans, Mr. Dorning. I plan to see those old paintings cleaned up and sold off. I will show them to you as soon as I’ve met with my housekeeper and made a call on the nursery. I hope to unearth all the treasure Dirk claimed he bequeathed to us—and to sell the lot of it. What good is treasure that remains buried?”

Vera looked up from stirring her tea to find Mr. Dorning studying her. His expression was abstracted, his gaze narrow. He wasn’t frowning, so much as he was visually investigating her.

“May I?” he asked, his hand poised near her chin.

She knew that look, knew that particular intensity in a man’s eyes, though