A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,97

step.” Though the Finchley twins were difficult young women. Rather than regard their portrait as the indulgence of a loving parent, they seemed bored and resentful toward the whole undertaking.

As was—how could this be?—Oak himself.

“Come,” Vera said, holding out a hand to him. “Making love in the middle of the day feels naughty, and I haven’t felt naughty since we left Merlin Hall.”

Oak by contrast hadn’t felt right since leaving Merlin Hall. London in summer was hot and smelly, true, but it was still London. Still the thriving epicenter of British culture, and still where Oak needed to be.

He took Vera’s hand, followed her into the bedroom, and closed and locked that door too. “This is a lovely house.”

“You sound surprised.” Vera began untying his cravat. “Sycamore and Ash have two others. I gather they are slowly investing their profits in real estate, and Ash explained that your family also owns a shop that sells botanical remedies and fragrances.”

She draped his cravat over the clothes press and started on the buttons of his waistcoat.

“My father was a passionate amateur botanist, and Dorning Hall has many acres devoted to his specimens and experiments. My brother Hawthorne, ably overseen by Casriel and assisted by Valerian, is turning Papa’s passion into a business venture.”

Vera stepped behind him to take off his coat, then his waistcoat.

“Your family is very enterprising,” she said, laying his clothing over the back of the chair at the escritoire. “I admire that. My brothers will live and die on their acres. They will never see London and won’t care that they’ve missed it. Sleeve buttons.”

Oak held out one wrist then the other so she could undo his cuffs. “Vera, might I kiss you?” This whole business was going forth a little too predictably, even briskly.

She put his sleeve buttons on the blotter of the escritoire. “I was hoping you’d ask.” She approached him and stepped into his embrace. “I miss you.”

Some of the tension that had been hounding Oak since arriving in London eased. “I’ve missed you too. Sycamore took you to our shop, didn’t he?”

“Ash did. How can you tell?”

She’d abandoned her usual floral fragrance for one of the Dorning blends. A meadow-y, grassy scent with a hint of lemon.

“My sister-in-law Margaret is becoming something of a parfumier. You’re wearing one of her creations.” Vera was also wearing too many clothes. And Oak would do something about that, soon. “Holding you feels good,” he said. “Holding you…”

He kissed her cheek, and she kissed his mouth. “I have had such dreams of you, Oak Dorning. The nights in London are short, but also very long.” She emphasized the last word with a glancing caress to his falls, behind which nothing much had grown particularly long.

What the hell is wrong with me? He was in London, finally being paid to create fine art, enjoying an afternoon tryst with a woman he adored, and life was going swimmingly—wasn’t it?

“Boots off,” Vera said, stepping back. “We have only so much time, and I have plans for you, sir.”

Perhaps that was the problem, Oak mused, pulling off his boots. They had only so much time. They had hours for this encounter—time to make love, talk, nap, and make love again—but in the larger sense, their time was almost gone. Vera might still be in London on the staff’s next half day, but what about the week after that?

“I have plans for you as well,” Oak said. “May I see to your hooks?”

Vera turned and presented him with her nape. That she was eager to be intimate with him was lovely, but must they be so rushed about their intimacy? Could true intimacy be rushed?

He peeled her out of her clothing, and punctuated the disrobing with a kiss here and a caress there. Vera was soon down to her shift, and Oak wore only his breeches.

He did not want to remove them, which made no bedamned sense at all. “Let’s cuddle a bit,” he said. “My mind is still wandering off to my last sitting, and that is not where it should be.”

Vera treated him to a slow, thoughtful perusal. “I have realized something about my marriage.”

Not something happy. “Tell me.”

“Dirk was unfaithful to me.”

Oak gathered her in his arms. “I am sorry. You re-created yourself to be the wife he needed and wanted, and infidelity was no sort of recompense.”

“I don’t mean he slept with other women, though he well might have. I mean he put art before all else, even the children.