A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,95

mama ought to read as faint praise indeed.

Miss Diggory’s character had merited slightly warmer words, but only slightly.

“That sounds like something Oak might have cooked up,” Sycamore said, peering at the spines of bound volumes on the library shelves. “Polite, not quite dishonest, expedient.”

Vera missed Oak already, which boded ill for her return to Merlin Hall. She wanted to sit down with a strong cup of tea and a few biscuits, put her feet up on a pillow, and stare at nothing for a good twenty minutes. She was back in London, in part because Oak was here, but not entirely.

“Have you something in particular you wish to say to me, Mr. Dorning?” For he did seem to be lingering beyond the requirements of a polite host.

“Forthright,” he said, turning his back on the books. “I like that, and I will take the liberty of returning the compliment. My brothers and I were raised in Dorset.”

Oh no, not this speech, not here, not now. Not ever. “And in Dorset,” Vera said, stalking off across the Axminster carpet, “young men are safe from the wiles of scheming widows. Alas, not so in Hampshire, where an unsuspecting fellow can be set upon by the likes of me, who was so underhanded and devious that I waved actual paintings at your virginal artist brother. Is that what you were about to say?”

Finely arched brows drew down. “I doubt Oak is a virgin. The quiet ones generally get away with the most mischief, I always say.”

“I like your brother, Mr. Dorning. I like him, I respect him, and I owe him more than mere wages for the work he did. I don’t know what rumors you’ve heard, but I would never attempt to manipulate or take advantage of—”

Mr. Dorning was holding up a hand. “This conversation has gone off in quite the wrong direction. It might surprise you to learn that in Dorset, we have our share of merry widows, merry wives, and merry maids. We have merry lads, too, come to that, and probably a few merry sheep, but I digress. My brothers are comely fellows with plenty of charm and good manners. I tell you in all modesty that the Dornings are well liked. We don’t put on airs, and we do look after our tenants and neighbors.”

Vera crossed her arms. “Do you look after one other?”

“Ma’am?” Sycamore looked genuinely puzzled.

“I’m sorry. My memories of London are unhappy, and I underestimated the effect on my mood of coming back here. I am tired and out of sorts.” And I miss Oak. “Please continue.”

“I am the youngest brother,” Sycamore said, ambling along the bookshelves. “My station in life required that I keep track of my older siblings. They mistakenly referred to that as spying on them, but no matter. I have a forgiving nature; I overlook their error. In the course of my keeping track, I had reason to learn that every one of my older siblings had a sweetheart or two. I have a niece as a result of one of those forays into romance on the part of my oldest brother.”

“Tabitha,” Vera said. “Oak misses her.”

Sycamore came to a halt beside a statue of some winged goddess holding a wreath aloft. “He said that to you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because Oak doesn’t talk about such things. He goes off and sketches dragonflies. He does miniatures of Hawthorne’s children and shows our solemn little Greta how to draw flowers. He doesn’t maunder on about private matters.”

Since when had missing a loved one become a private matter? “He admitted to missing you, Mr. Dorning, and to being lonely. I don’t think telling you that violates a confidence.”

Sycamore peered at the head of his mahogany walking stick—a unicorn. “You make my point for me,” he said. “My brothers all had their youthful romances. Some of them had several youthful romances at once, but not Oak. He was in love with his art, with light and water and colors and all manner of whatnot. When Ash took a fancy to the vicar’s daughter, Oak drew him a little sketch of her. When Hawthorne became infatuated with both of the Dunsworth twins at once… I digress yet again. Oak does not become smitten, but he is smitten with you.”

“That is not my fault.” And I am smitten with him too.

Sycamore propped his walking stick against his shoulder. “Mrs. Channing, you insist on seeing accusation where I intend only deepest respect. Oak does not fall in love with mere