A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,44

painting in the gallery? Vera refused to sell them, for reasons Oak understood, but then what was to become of Channing’s best work? The problem wasn’t one Oak could confide to anybody at the Academy, save perhaps to Richard Longacre.

Longacre had been a friend to Channing and had recommended Oak for Vera’s restoration work. Writing to him would not do, for letters could fall into the wrong hands, but a jaunt into London might present an opportunity to discuss the matter in person.

Oak took particular care with his ablutions and still had another half hour before he could join Vera. He sat down to sketch, a habit he’d found more satisfying than making a written entry in some journal at the end of the day.

He sketched Alexander holding the ribbons, the boy for once smiling and energetic. He sketched Bracken, exploring why vigilance on such a man took the appearance of unrelenting disapproval. Something in his eyes, something about the way his mouth suggested clenched teeth…

By the time Oak put down his sketch pad, well over an hour had passed. Vera would think ill of him for that. He thought ill of himself too.

He traversed the corridors swiftly, seeing not a soul. The night porter would doze in his nook near the front door, but Vera did not require a footman to remain on duty through the night as well.

Oak opened Vera’s door without knocking and found himself in a sitting room. The gracious formality of Merlin Hall was nowhere in evidence here. A green velvet upholstered sofa sat across from the hearth, a deeply cushioned reading chair angled at the end of the sofa. The walls held sketches, mostly of Catherine and Alexander, but also two of Dirk. One with each child.

The floor was covered by a green, white, and gold Turkey carpet, the draperies were also green. A maroon afghan lay draped along the back of the sofa. This room would flatter a redhead wonderfully, but where was the book, embroidery hoop, or pair of knitting needles that suggested Vera actually spent time here?

A landscape hung above the mantel, perhaps a rendering of the farm where Vera had been born. The opposite wall held more landscapes. They bore Dirk Channing’s signature brushwork, but none of the verve and daring of his wartime images and none of the complexity of his portraits.

Vera had chosen the calmest and least passionate of her husband’s works to keep in her private space. Why was that?

Oak crossed the room to the only other door and tapped quietly. “Vera?”

Nothing, not a peep. He pushed the door open and entered her bedroom, which was illuminated by only a banked fire. If there was art on the walls here, he’d have to inspect it on another occasion. The room was dominated by a four-poster bed, and the contour of the quilt suggested somebody was in that bed. The hangings were drawn back as was typical in summer.

“I lost track of the time,” Oak said, removing his jacket and draping it over the chest at the foot of the bed. “Started sketching away the remains of the day and fell into the puzzle of Bracken’s eyes. Alexander has Dirk’s chin.”

Vera remained unmoving and silent on the bed. Perhaps she was unhappy with a lover who’d made her wait.

“Vera?” Oak sat on the chest to pull off his boots, then shed his waistcoat and shirt and laid them over his jacket.

The lady was apparently asleep. Should he wake her, go back to his own room, leave a note—assuming he could find writing paper and a pencil?

In a few weeks, he’d be in London, and this opportunity to share something special with a lovely woman would be gone. He folded his breeches and stockings on top of his waistcoat, leaving his handkerchief on the bedside table. The steps were on Vera’s side of the bed, so Oak had to more or less hike himself onto the mattress.

Even the rocking of the bed did not awaken Oak’s sleeping beauty, suggesting the lady was exhausted.

Oak was not exactly bursting with energy himself. Perhaps a short nap was in order. One wanted to make an excellent first impression, complete with cuddling before and after, rather than a peck on the cheek and inconsiderate snoring.

He leaned over to kiss Vera’s brow, then sank into the sweet embrace of the clean sheets, soft pillows, and a comfortable mattress. Ye gods, was there any pleasure on earth to compare with that moment when a tired