A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,57
probably engaged in a happy tumble, a shared moment that signified nothing, provided it bore no consequences.
Oak would have been doing likewise, had Vera allowed it, but her situation meant that instead they’d talked, they’d spent time together, they’d shared a different sort of intimacy. The romping was all quite lovely, and Oak hoped to do a lot of it with Vera, but the other…
The other was precious, and fascinating, and would haunt Oak’s heart long after he’d made the trek to London, there to knock on the Academy’s door until they admitted him to their numbers.
Chapter Eight
“Dorning says you have inherited a bit of your papa’s talent.”
Mr. Forester sauntered along the crushed-shell walk, swinging his walking stick at the fading roses. He connected with a bush, scattering pink petals all over the earth and the walkway.
Catherine resented the interruption, but she did not resent an opportunity to converse with Mr. Forester more or less privately. He was interesting, almost as interesting as the way bright sunlight turned the side of a blade of grass white.
“Mr. Dorning is a talented instructor. I wish Step-mama had come upon him earlier.”
“Do you?” Mr. Forester gazed out across the garden, his mind clearly focused on something other than a passing discussion with a mere girl. “I’m not surprised. Your mind is a good deal brighter than the terror’s, and you are ever so much more pleasant to look upon.”
Catherine sat a little straighter and wished she’d put up her hair that morning. “You aren’t to call Alexander the terror anymore, are you?” That had been decided at breakfast three days ago. Catherine wanted to verify with Alexander that Step-mama’s directions were being followed in the schoolroom, but hadn’t found the opportunity.
“Whatever I call him, he remains a moody and indifferent scholar, doesn’t he? May I join you?”
A gentleman asked such permission of a lady. “You may. Is Alexander at his drawing lesson?”
“Yes, and thank the benevolent powers for that.” Mr. Forester took a seat a mere foot from Catherine, splayed his legs, and ranged an arm along the top of the bench. “The little blighter about drives me barmy.”
That was an insult to Alexander, also a confidence of sorts. “Perhaps you drive him barmy too. He’s a small boy. You’re a grown man. If you don’t like being his tutor, maybe you should look for another post.”
Mr. Forester’s smile blossomed into a grin. “I love a woman with a temper. Perhaps you inherited that from your papa too.”
“I simply made a suggestion, Mr. Forester. And if I have a temper, I suspect that’s of my own making. Papa was ever sweet and patient with me.”
Mr. Forester closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “As Mr. Dorning is sweet and patient with you?”
The question hinted at unkind conclusions, perhaps about Catherine herself, more likely about Mr. Dorning.
“Are you jealous because he’s an earl’s son?” Not that Mr. Dorning ever mentioned his family’s title. Catherine had looked him up in Debrett’s, and though he was far down along the succession, his brother was the present Earl of Casriel.
“I am absolutely jealous of him,” Mr. Forester replied, opening his eyes, “but not because of some dusty old title he probably longs for in his secret dreams. I am jealous because he’ll be off to London in a few weeks and because until we are rid of him, he gets to spend an hour each day with you.”
Mr. Forester slanted a look at her that she could not fathom. Was he gauging her reaction to his remark, sorry he’d been so honest, or teasing her?
“Mr. Dorning is unfailingly proper with me, I assure you.” He had the knack of… Catherine did not know what to call his knack. He was always going on about light and perspective and compositional elements, but he’d not peached on her about taking a bit of air without Miss Digg’s permission. He’d acted as if putting up her hair was simply what one did before dinner. He spoke to her as if she was worth educating, not an extra duty imposed between the tasks he’d rather see to.
Mr. Forester set the bottom of his walking stick on the ground between his knees and batted the handle from hand to hand. To lounge with his legs spread like that was not quite seemly, but the occasion wasn’t exactly a royal garden party either.
“The proper ones are the fellows who bear the most watching, my dear Catherine. Has he tried to kiss you