Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,52
money, as you yourself are in a commercial endeavor.”
“Indeed not. I like money very well. It is the means to independence and authority.”
As she had no recollection of his staff, he assembled them again to welcome her home.
“Thank you,” she murmured, once the servants had dispersed to their usual stations.
The closer they grew, the more he dreaded the eventual return of her memory. Yet in the shadow of this very fear, a seed of hope was germinating. “It is my pleasure and privilege to pave the way for you, madam.”
“Ah, this is not fair,” she teased. “A man with the voice of a siren shouldn’t also possess the honeyed tongue of a Casanova.”
Compliments—he couldn’t get enough of her compliments. “What can I say? God was in a generous mood the day He made me.”
She snorted good-naturedly. “But let it be noted He ran out of modesty before it was your turn.”
“Let those who have faults be modest, and let me be an unabashed paean to His power and glory.”
She laughed. “Blasphemy.”
“You like it,” he murmured.
She cast him a long, lingering look. “Will we stand about all day or will you eventually show me to my rooms?”
His heart thumped—this time not about the possibly imminent return of her memory. “Let us proceed upstairs, then.”
She lowered her voice. “Couldn’t you have said that without sounding blatantly suggestive?”
“Couldn’t you have heard my innocent words without twisting them into a blatant suggestion?” he whispered back.
She shook her head, grinning. The sight of her, delighted and companionable, was a dart in his heart. Millie was right: He should have admitted his true sentiments years ago. Then he wouldn’t be in such a state, dreading that his happiness would be ripped from him in the next minute.
They climbed the steps arm in arm. Before the door of her apartment, he swung her up into his arms. Almost as if she’d been expecting the gesture, she laced her hands behind his neck and turned her face into his jacket. “Hmm, I like how you smell.”
“How do I smell?” he asked, setting her down.
“Of tweed, leather-bound books, and a hint of tobacco. Like someone you aren’t—an old-fashioned country squire, perhaps.”
Her hands slowly slid down his sleeves, rather obviously feeling the musculature of his arms.
“By the way,” he murmured, “in case you haven’t noticed, I am also perfectly built.”
She tapped his jaw. “Cheeky.”
Her eyes brimmed with fondness. His heart stopped: This was how he’d always hoped she’d look upon him someday.
Bibliophile that she was, she headed in the direction of the bookshelves. “Go into the bedroom first,” he requested.
She turned around. “Did the good Lord also forget subtlety when He made you?”
“No, He didn’t. But He certainly gave you a dirty mind, my dear. I want you to see the bedroom, not use it.”
“Is it exceptionally pretty?”
He inhaled. “I think so.”
She opened the door. “So even if I don’t like it, I must shower compliments upon…”
Her voice trailed off. Her face lifted and her head swiveled slowly, taking in the panorama that had taken him years to complete, through many a frustrated Season, when reaching her had seemed no more feasible than holding starlight in his hands.
“Did you commission this?” she asked, her voice awed—reverent, almost.
His heart fell back into place. “I painted it myself.”
“It’s stunning. Breathtaking.” She turned around. “For me?”
“Of course.”
She approached one of the walls, the one with the view of the distant river, and touched her finger to a line of washing strung between two walls. “My goodness, did you paint these from the etchings I brought back from Tuscany? I recognize so many details.”
“Now you remember.”
When he’d visited Hampton House, not infrequently would he see her in her room, poring over old photographs, or standing before those prints from Italy, as if she were once again walking under the Tuscan sky, with her mother by her side.
“Did I not remember earlier?”
“No.”
“Have the etchings been lost?”
“No, but you haven’t visited the house in years. And even when you did, I doubt you took time to study the etchings. One stops paying attention to that which has been around a long, long time.”
He, too, had been around a long, long time.
She bent her head for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then she closed the distance between them and traced a finger over one of his brows. “It was utterly inexcusable on my part to not have recognized it earlier. Rest assured it is no reflection on your art, but only a terrible statement of