Worst of all, though, the man had been able to carry on a coherent conversation in a situation that ought to have left any mere mortal awash in mortification. What sort of upbringing produced such savoir faire?
And from what progenitor had he acquired eyes the hue of bluebells blooming in shade?
“Mrs. Channing, good morning.” Mr. Dorning bowed over her hand as she sat at the head of the breakfast table. “You are looking well this morning.”
While you are looking dressed. “Mr. Dorning, help yourself to the offerings on the sideboard and have a seat. I trust you slept well?”
“Quite. And yourself?”
He looked well rested and exceedingly self-possessed, but then, artists were generally nonchalant about nudity, a skill Vera had never acquired.
“Storms make me nervous,” she said. “I once saw a tree struck by lightning. A young oak in all its wet leafy splendor one moment, then illuminated brighter than day the next.”
He collected a plate from the table and went to the sideboard. “Did the tree survive?”
“No. At first, I thought my eyes must have deceived me, for there was no fire, but a few moments later, the highest branch was in flames despite the rain. The tree was consumed from within.” An oddly disturbing sight, for there had been no helping that tree, no saving it as might have been done if the fire had been where the rain could put it out.
Mr. Dorning heaped a pile of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “How old were you?”
“Eight. I spent that summer with my grandmother in Sussex. I’ve disliked storms since.”
A second large spoonful of eggs joined the first on his plate. “I enjoy a dramatic sky, but I know better than to be out in bad weather if I can help it. Would you care for more eggs?”
Did he intend to consume the entire tray? “No, thank you. Do you drink tea or coffee?”
“Tea will do,” he replied, taking the seat at her left side, “or chocolate if you have it.”
Vera set a rack of toast by his elbow, as well as a pot of chocolate, the butter plate, the honey pot, and a basket of cinnamon rolls.
“Tell me about your paintings,” he said, draping his table linen across his lap. “My equipment and supplies will be a few days getting here, but I’d like to see the canvases this morning if you can spare the time.”
Mr. Dorning’s manners were almost delicate, and yet, he ate with the businesslike focus of a large, fit, hungry male. Vera had forgotten what that looked like and how gratifying the sight.
“I’ve found more old paintings since last we corresponded. My husband claimed they were worth a pretty penny, though Dirk’s judgment was often colored by optimism. He said this house held more treasures than he had time to catalog, but I suspect he was mostly repeating family legends.”
Mr. Dorning set down the chocolate pot without pouring himself a serving. “Dirk? Dirk Channing? You are his widow?”
She hadn’t seen this reaction for several years and found Mr. Dorning’s astonishment discomfiting.
“I have that honor. Were you acquainted with my late husband?”
“I met him once at a lecture. I would not say we were acquainted. I had just gone up to university, where my family was desperately hoping I’d outgrow my artistic fancies. They longed to see me safely pursuing a career in the Church, of all things.”
He took up the butter knife and added a full pat to a half slice of toast. “Dirk Channing’s paintings of the American rebellion and the Irish uprising convinced me that art is more than simply adornment for the idle rich. He was kind to a youth much in need of kindness, told me to be patient, dedicated, and determined. I have been dedicated and determined ever since.”
Dirk had been so many things. A rascal, a romantic, a genius, and a fool. Then he’d been ill, and none of those other roles mattered. To be reminded that he had also been generous and encouraging was heartwarming.
“Have you been patient, Mr. Dorning, or did you flirt with the temptation to join the Church after all?”
He considered his toast, and Vera had the sense he was about to offer her platitudes rather than confront a sensitive topic.
“I am from a large family,” he said. “Two sisters, six brothers. My oldest brother inherited the usual mixed blessings—land and standing—and he would and will provide for any sibling in need. Our lot as younger sons has been to aid him in any regard we can, whether that’s laying a hedge, balancing a ledger, clearing a ditch, or standing up with the wallflowers when Dorning Hall hosts entertainments. My art is an indulgence in that context. I have been as patient as possible, but I haven’t submitted to the exhibitions, haven’t made the right connections. It’s time I got on with my aspirations.”
“You are ambitious.” Vera ought not to fault him for that, but ye gods, ambition had driven Dirk nearly to Bedlam.
“I have dreams,” he said, smiling at his toast. “I suspect you do too.”
Vera had nightmares, though most mothers could likely say the same. “I have plans, Mr. Dorning. I plan to see those old paintings cleaned up and sold off. I will show them to you as soon as I’ve met with my housekeeper and made a call on the nursery. I hope to unearth all the treasure Dirk claimed he bequeathed to us—and to sell the lot of it. What good is treasure that remains buried?”
Vera looked up from stirring her tea to find Mr. Dorning studying her. His expression was abstracted, his gaze narrow. He wasn’t frowning, so much as he was visually investigating her.
“May I?” he asked, his hand poised near her chin.
She knew that look, knew that particular intensity in a man’s eyes, though she hadn’t seen it for ages. She’d told herself that grief and the passing years had safeguarded her from this sort of attention, but she’d apparently been spinning a tale for her own amusement.
She nodded.
Mr. Dorning shifted the angle of her jaw, such that the morning sun pouring through the windows struck her profile. The heat of the summer morning was soothing, though a lady was supposed to avoid direct sunlight at all costs.
“You’ve a faint scar,” he said, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “A childhood injury?”
His fingers were warm, his touch confident. He doubtless handled his models. Most artists did, most male artists.
“Fell from a tree, got scratched on the way down.”
He withdrew his hand. “I beg your pardon for my forwardness, but your looks are striking, as you have probably been told more often than you care to recall. Might I sketch you if some free time arises?”
His casual question brushed over a very bad idea. Dirk had begun wooing her with the same request, and from there, matters had blossomed in unforeseen directions.
Vera stalled by taking a sip of tepid tea. “You needn’t flatter me, Mr. Dorning. Dirk always said beauty is boring. Artists are supposed to know that. Quirks and unexpected flaws, asymmetries and imperfections are what make a subject worthy of notice.”
“Perhaps to your husband you were merely beautiful,” Mr. Dorning replied, buttering another half slice of toast. “To me, you are interesting.”
He smiled and saluted with his toast, and Vera realized she had invited trouble into her home. Serious, handsome trouble. Oak Dorning was equally poised whether wearing a towel or London morning attire. He could compliment without flirting, and he wanted to sketch her.
Sketching meant artist and subject shared proximity, sometimes close proximity, and often conversed for the duration of the exercise. Sketching meant allowing an artist to inspect, touch, arrange, and question his subject.
Sketching, when Oak Dorning wielded the pencil, would be dangerous.
Vera was mentally rehearsing a demurral, some reference to summer being a busy time at a functioning estate and motherhood putting endless demands on her energy, when Jeremy Forester sauntered into the breakfast parlor.
Blond, scholarly, and slightly rumpled, he was in every way a welcome diversion from Mr. Dorning’s darker and more intense presenc
e, much less from thoughts of sketching.
“Good morning, all,” Jeremy said, bowing in her direction. “I take it this fellow is the estimable Mr. Dorning, who braved the storm to join us at Merlin Hall. I’m Jeremy Forester, tutor to the terror. Don’t suppose you’d like to teach him the rudiments of drawing? I say, Mrs. C, might I have that teapot?”
Mr. Dorning rose and bowed. “Good morning, Mr. Forester, pleased to make your acquaintance. Who or what is the terror?”
Jeremy launched into a doting, not entirely factual description of his responsibilities regarding Alexander, while Mr. Dorning sipped his tea and demolished cinnamon buns. Men looked at mothers differently, or some men did, regarding a woman with children as either out of bounds or devoid of feminine allure.
Mr. Dorning offered her the basket of cinnamon buns before passing it across the table to Jeremy.
“He’s my favorite kind of little boy,” Jeremy was saying. “Thoroughly rotten, lazy, and smart. I’ll make a decent scholar of him despite his natural inclinations.”
He smiled at Vera, and she obligingly smiled back, though Mr. Dorning wasn’t smiling. She’d been married to an artist, so she knew what that distracted, half-puzzled expression meant.
In his head, Oak Dorning was already drawing her likeness, and that was not a good thing.
Chapter Two
Oak had originally put Verity Channing’s age at early to mid-twenties, but morning light suggested she was somewhat older. Not yet thirty, would be his guess, and her looks were unlikely to change substantially over the next fifteen or even twenty years.
She cared for her complexion, though she was also blessed with good, durable bone structure. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, a defined chin that stopped short of angularity. Good teeth too. He had become distracted by the sight of her biting into a cinnamon bun then licking her fingers.
What sort of girl had she been, and what had prompted her to marry the much older Dirk Channing?
“I can introduce you to my charge,” Jeremy Forester said when Mrs. Channing had taken a quiet leave of the table. “He’s a nosy little bugger, always fidgeting. Mostly, the lad’s bored. Widows tend to coddle their sons, and next thing you know, we have a stage-play villain where a decent young man should be. I’m about to eat my third cinnamon bun, unless you care to arm-wrestle me for the basket.”
“Perhaps another time. I’ve eaten my fill of sweets.” Oak would be famished by noon, which prompted him to butter two more pieces of toast and make them into a sandwich.
“You needn’t tuck away a snack,” Jeremy said. “Mrs. Channing doesn’t run that sort of household. Old Bracken plays the stern majordomo, because a widow must be careful, but we’re free to impose on the kitchen for a tray if we’re peckish. Late at night, I’ve been known to raid the larder, though you mustn’t tell Alexander. He has a boy’s exalted notions of fairness, which are most inconvenient when a tutor is a mere mortal fellow. More tea?”
“Please.”
Forester poured for them both. “You’re wondering if she’ll pay you on time, but you don’t want to make a bad impression by raising that question with a near stranger. I asked Miss Digg the same thing before we’d shared our first cup of tea.”
“Who’s Miss Digg?”
“Tamsin Diggory, the governess. She and I are distantly connected by marriage, or steps, or halves, or removes. I never can quite recall which.”
Forester put three lumps of sugar in his tea before going on. “Miss Digg sometimes takes breakfast with Catherine on the upstairs terrace, though I suppose I ought to call her Miss Catherine. She’s fourteen, and that is such a difficult age, particularly when you’re enduring it in your step-mama’s household. Alexander is a squirmy, saucy, naughty little boy, but that’s the extent of the challenge he poses. He’s educable, as we all were at six years of age. Catherine is a female who fancies herself the toast of London one minute and Mrs. Siddons’s more talented understudy the next. Lord, I do love a good strong cup of tea.”
Oak generally preferred a quiet start to his day, but Forester put him in mind of noisy, nosy brothers, a not-unpleasant association.
“Wages are paid timely in this household?” he asked.
“To the penny, absolutely. Mrs. Channing is a good employer. I haven’t been here that long myself—only arrived in April—but she’s fair, doesn’t put on airs, listens when I have advice to offer regarding her son, and looks after her domestics. Take your time dusting off those old portraits, Mr. Dorning. Hampshire’s as pleasant a place to spend your summer as anywhere.”
Jeremy winked at him, then took a slurp of tea.
“If a fellow would rather be in London,” Oak said, “Hampshire can be isolated.”
“Do you have a particular reason for preferring London? I can’t afford Town myself. I go up to visit an uncle at Yuletide, and I suppose the city air isn’t so bad in spring and fall, but the coal smoke in winter and the stink in summer disagree with me.”
“The Royal Academy is in London,” Oak said, regretting the admission as soon as he’d made it. His brothers regarded his artistic aspirations with fond puzzlement now, but growing up, he’d been the butt of more fraternal humor than any one boy should have to endure.
He’d hidden in trees to escape his brothers’ notice, and found the perspective offered by a higher vantage point worth sketching for its own sake.
“So you’re a serious artist,” Forester said, making a joke of the observation. “If you’re looking to Mrs. Channing to become your patroness, you’re bound for disappointment. The late, great, much-lamented Mr. Channing rather put her off artists. I gather he was the mercurial sort. I don’t intend to let such tendencies take root in the boy.”
“Mr. Channing apparently left his family awash in old paintings, which I hope to restore to salable quality. That is the extent of my engagement and of my ambitions here.” That Forester would imply otherwise sat slightly ill with Oak. A widow of means generally needed those means—if Mrs. Channing was even as comfortably situated as she appeared to be.
Why sell art unless the coin was needed? But then, cinnamon buns, roaring fires, and a well-stocked breakfast buffet didn’t argue for want of means. The lady’s finances were none of Oak’s business, provided he was adequately and timely compensated for his efforts.
“She’s pretty,” Forester said, considering his tea. “You get used to that. She’s also a genuinely nice woman, which comes as something of a surprise.”
A full stomach and a decent night’s sleep made idling around the breakfast table much longer an impossibility. After a long day shut up in a coach, Oak needed to move.
He also, though, needed to get off on the right foot with Jeremy Forester. “Are nice women a rarity here in Hampshire? We have some in Dorset, and my brothers have a knack for marrying nice women.”
Forester pulled a face. “I realized before completing my first year at university that to be a fortune hunter takes some means. One must have lodgings, decent attire, and belong to a club or two. My uncle paid for my education, he wasn’t about to pay for me to idle around Town, dangling after women who could buy and sell my family forty times over. I saw the pretty ladies in their fine carriages every afternoon in Hyde Park, and they had no time for me. The local widowers and swains would dote on Mrs. Channing even were she a shrew, but she’s not.”
She also hadn’t remarried, which struck Oak as curious. “Do you suppose she’d allow me to paint her portrait?”
“Ah, so that’s your interest. Makes sense.” Forester swirled his tea, nodding as sagaciously as if he were some sort of professional tea taster employed by Twinings to perfect their blends. “You’d have to ask her. Catch her in the right mood, and she might allow it. Be charming and winsome, though she’s not much for outright flirtation. Miss Diggory warned me about that. Still, getting Verity Channing to sit for you would be quite a coup, and a man can but try, right?”
Oak left Forester sorting through the remaining
cinnamon buns, looking for the largest of the lot no doubt.
A portrait of Verity Channing, done right, could launch Oak’s career. She was stunning, complicated, somewhat familiar to the artistic community as Dirk Channing’s widow, and as far as Oak knew, nobody had done her portrait yet. He could submit the finished painting for inclusion in the Academy’s annual exhibition, and if chosen, paying commissions would be sure to follow.
He was halfway to the front door, hoping to locate Bracken, when it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Mrs. Channing about last evening’s intruder in his rooms, nor had she mentioned the incident. Did she think Oak had gone larking up the corridor in nothing but a towel for the pleasure of taking the evening air?
Exactly how mercurial had Dirk Channing been, and why hadn’t he ever painted his lovely wife’s portrait?
“But what do we know of this widow?” Grey Dorning, Earl of Casriel, asked. “Who are her people, and why did Oak hare off to restore her paintings when he could have whiled away his summer here, amid the home vistas of Dorsetshire?”
Valerian Dorning poured his oldest brother two fingers of brandy, though afternoon had not yet yielded to evening. Clouds to the north promised rain, which meant Valerian needed to be on his way.
First, his lordly brother required sorting out. “Oak has painted every vista Dorning Hall has to offer,” Valerian said, passing Casriel the half-full glass. “You told the lot of us to go forth and make our way in the world. Oak is an artist. He’s making his way.”
Casriel, mannerly to his bones, waited until Valerian had filled his own glass. “To the health of our ladies.”
Valerian lifted his drink a few inches. “To the health of our ladies.” Emily, his wife, was a blessing recently added to his life, and he looked forward to ending his day in her company. “Oak found this job on his own, and I suggest we leave him to it.”
Casriel prowled over to the library desk, a massive expanse of carved mahogany that could have done service as an altar for pagan sacrifices.
A Lady's Dream Come True Page 2
