A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,43

lurking in Dirk’s gallery, but speak of this to no one.”

Oak moved the candles away from the painting. “Are you jealous of her, Vera?”

“Envious, maybe.” Even in shadow, the woman’s dreaming, utterly pleasured smile was the central message of the painting. “She is well loved, in all senses. If Dirk ever did a portrait of me, he’d have caught me adding needlework to some seat cushion or tallying my ledgers.”

“I beg leave to doubt that assessment.” Oak took Vera in his arms, the embrace having nothing of desire about it. “Though a woman can be lovely and tempting even when she’s working at her ledgers.”

Vera allowed herself the pleasure of his embrace, the comfort of it. She’d gone years without the simple bodily joy of adult affection, and that Oak could offer her a hug—no innuendo or arousal in evidence—raised him further in her esteem.

He bore the faint scents of linseed and turpentine, good smells to Vera. His rangy frame and muscular build were novel, a contradiction to the cliché of the artist as a fussy, pale, excitable creature given to flights, inebriation, and sulks. Oak was wonderfully solid and delightfully male, and his embrace was a haven at the end of a trying day.

“Will you come to bed with me?” Vera asked, stepping back.

He took her hands in his. “Nothing would please me more. Just give me another half hour here to—”

A tap sounded on the door.

“Who could that be?” Vera asked, putting two yards between herself and the man she intended to spend the night with. For good measure, she picked up the empty tray.

Oak opened the door. “Come in,” he said, his tone pleasant.

Bracken remained in the corridor. “Excuse me, madam, Mr. Dorning.” He held a tray complete with a porcelain teapot. “I thought Mr. Dorning might be hungry, having missed his supper.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Oak said, “and never let it be said food went to waste when a Dorning was in the room, but Mrs. Channing kindly provided me a snack.”

“I’ll leave this with you nonetheless,” Bracken said, setting the tray on the worktable. “Madam, I can take that down to the kitchen for you.”

Vera passed over the empty tray. “Thank you, Bracken. Are we locked up for the night?”

“Of course, madam. I bid you good evening.” Bracken bowed slightly and withdrew.

“Bless the fellow, he brought a meat pie,” Oak said, closing the door and surveying the offerings. “A pint of summer ale and what looks like an apple torte.”

“Oak, he brought a warning.”

Oak left off inspecting the tray. “A delectable one, if so. For whom is this warning intended?”

“I don’t know, but as soon as he asked the kitchen to prepare a tray for you, somebody probably told him I had asked for one not thirty minutes earlier. Bracken came up here to interrupt whatever we were about.”

Oak braced his hips against the worktable. “All Bracken interrupted was a conversation. Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know. On the one hand, Bracken is the self-appointed guardian of Merlin Hall, and I would never question his loyalty.”

By candlelight, Oak looked tired, worn, and a little rumpled—abundantly kissable, in other words. The studio, however, afforded no chaise, no cot, no place to accommodate a couple’s frolics. Perhaps that was by design?

“I am not at all offended that Bracken has an eye on your safety, Vera, but I chose this room for more than its northern exposure and windows.”

“You did?”

“The door locks.” Oak brandished a key from an inner coat pocket. “The only other key is on your set, according to the housekeeper. Catherine’s mother will be safe from discovery and so, in a passionate moment, would we be safe from discovery. While I enjoy a quick tup against the wall, that’s hardly the sort of first impression as a lover I want to make on you.”

“Give me an hour,” Vera said. “You do know where my rooms are?”

“I do. The next hour will be the longest of my adult life.”

Vera left him in his studio, smiling and looking devilish. She went straight to her room and prepared for bed, though all the while, she was plagued by a question.

What on earth was a tup against the wall?

Oak finished the food Bracken had brought and locked the studio. He returned to his room in a state of semi-distraction. On the one hand, his body anticipated a tryst. His mind, however, was caught up in the conundrum of Dirk Channing’s treasures.

What if another spectacular nude hid beneath every mediocre