A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  “Has your artistic education exposed you to the female form in all its glory and fascination, Mr. Dorning?”

  “My own masculine curiosity did that, but yes, I’ve spent hours sketching nudes, painting them, and studying them. We’re odd creatures, when you take off our outer finery.”

  And this was an odd conversation. The naked female form had fascinated Oak in his youth, as it likely fascinated most young males. Then the female nude had become another challenge to sketch and paint. Something of the boy’s natural fascination had been lost as the artist had gained analytical skill, something lusty and sweet.

  “I might have some nudes in the attic,” Mrs. Channing said, moving toward the door. “If they fetch a good price, I hope the lumber rooms are full of naked ladies and bare-arsed Roman soldiers.”

  Money again. Money and plain speaking. Coin of the realm apparently mattered to Verity Channing, and the refined company of the artistic community did not.

  “If you want to raise cash fast, then sit for me, and I’ll paint you as Diana or Persephone. We can split the proceeds.” Classical subjects didn’t particularly interest Oak, but they were becoming popular and thus lucrative. “My brothers own an exclusive gaming hell, which passes for a supper club. They will display any work I complete without charging me. Their clientele is wealthy and frequently given to ostentation. Such people pay handsomely to hang a goddess or a series of goddesses on their walls.”

  Oak would rather do an honest portrait of Verity Channing, but a classical rendering would be interesting too.

  “That is kind of you,” she said. “I will consider it, but I’m not keen on modeling for anybody. I like my obscure life here in the shires, and not all of Society is open-minded where artists’ models are concerned.”

  True enough. “I wasn’t proposing to paint you in dishabille, madam.” Oak did not, in fact, like the idea of anybody picturing this woman naked, an oddly unartistic sentiment.

  “I know,” she said, coming close enough to pat his lapel. “You are wonderfully decent, Oak Dorning. I doubt you grasp how rare you are. Good night.”

  She kissed his cheek, patted his lapel again, picked up the lantern, and quietly withdrew.

  Visits to the nursery had become an occasion for Vera to dread, at least where Alexander was concerned, and yet, she did not want to linger over breakfast either. Mr. Dorning would inevitably arrive for his first meal of the day, and Vera wanted to put off that encounter, so up the steps she went.

  Alexander had not taken well to the regular discipline of Mr. Forester’s tutoring, and that was a troubling development. The previous year, while sharing a governess with Catherine, Alexander had been a lovely little boy who did as he was bid most of the time and never grew too fussy.

  Catherine’s governess had retired, Miss Diggory had joined the household in the role of finishing governess, and Mr. Forester had been hired in the capacity of tutor. Alexander had been sullen, moody, difficult and—to Vera, this was most troubling—unhappy ever since.

  “Good morning,” she said, taking one of the chairs in the schoolroom.

  Alexander kicked his feet against the legs of his stool. “Morning, Mama.”

  Jeremy appeared in the doorway to the corridor. “Stand when a lady enters the room, boy. How many times must I tell you that?”

  Alexander scrambled out of his seat. “But she’s my mama.”

  “Don’t be impertinent.”

  “I never had to stand when Mama came to visit before. When did she turn into a lady?”

  Jeremy looked to be hiding a smile. “She has always been a lady. The question is, when will you turn into a gentleman, hmm?”

  Bony little shoulders slumped.

  “Mr. Forester, if you would excuse us for a moment? I’d like to explain to Alexander that a drawing lesson will be added to his curriculum.”

  Alexander’s head came up. “More schoolwork?”

  “Don’t sass your mother, young sir. There will be consequences.” On that ominous note, Jeremy left the room.

  Rather than ask Alexander what sort of consequences followed impertinence, Vera closed the door. Writing out Bible verses never hurt a boy, and she must not undermine Jeremy’s authority as an instructor.

  “Drawing is an accomplishment that might come to you very easily,” Vera said, resuming her seat. “Your papa was fiendishly good at it.”

  “Papa is dead.” Alexander made no move to resume his seat, but stood, head down, hands behind his back, as if bracing himself for a scold.

  “Alexander, I know scholarship doesn’t appeal to you just yet, but I admire your persistence. Mr. Forester says you’re making progress, albeit slow progress.”

  Nothing, not a sigh, not a glance. Alexander stared at the floor with more resignation than any martyr had shown in the lions’ den.

  “Do you hear me?”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Dorning will be your drawing instructor. He’s also teaching Catherine while he’s here, but I’ve asked that your lessons and hers be separate.”

  Alexander looked up, his expression dismayed. “Doesn’t Catherine want to be my sister anymore? She never visits the nursery. She and Miss Diggory are always in Miss Digg’s sitting room, and I’m not allowed in there.”

  “You’re not? Who made that rule?” Vera longed to brush her hand over Alexander’s brow, longed to sit him in her lap, even, but six-year-old boys loathed such coddling. Jeremy had been very clear on that subject.

  “Mr. Forester says I’m not to leave the nursery without his permission. I will earn my privileges.” That last was recited as if Alexander was quoting somebody.

  “You will leave the nursery with Mr. Dorning,” Vera said, hoping that fit with Mr. Dorning’s wishes. “If you’re to learn to sketch landscapes, you can’t do that in the nursery. Besides, it’s summer, and you should be outside from time to time.”

  Alexander resumed staring at the floor. “What about Mr. Forester’s rule?”

  “Mr. Forester answers to me.”

  “He says you tell him what to do.”

  Some other question lay within that observation, something Alexander did not want to ask directly. Vera knelt before him, desperate to see his eyes, the better to see into his soul.

  “You are struggling with the changes I’ve made here in the nursery,” she said, yielding to the impulse to put her hands on his shoulders. “I know that. You miss Catherine. You miss Mrs. Tansbury and her easy ways. It’s hard now, Alexander, but I am proud of you for trying, and I know you will adjust in time. Please be patient and don’t give up. Mr. Forester says you have the potential to be a very fine young gentleman.”

  Alexander stared past her shoulder. “What does that mean?”

  “It means your lessons won’t always be so difficult, and one day, you’ll be glad you worked diligently to master your schoolwork.”

  “I miss Papa.” He nearly whispered those words, as if afraid of being overheard. Alexander had barely been three when Dirk had died, but he likely did miss his papa, even if he couldn’t recall him very clearly.

  “I miss him too. I thank heaven every day that I have you and Catherine to remember him by.” Vera straightened lest she hug her little boy and mortify him past all bearing. “Mr. Dorning will come for you after lunch, and you are to give him your utmost attention.”

  “Will he beat me if I’m slow?”

  What on earth? “You have a vivid imagination, Alexander. Mr. Dorning is a patient man, and he says he enjoys teaching others about art. I’m sure he’ll have no cause to take up the birch rod.”

  Alexander sent a look of dread to the front of the room, where the old leather-handled birch rod had been resting in the corner likely since Dirk’s grandfather had been a lad.

  Jeremy must have been indulging in dire threats indeed. “Will you come see me when your lessons are done for today?” Vera asked, straightening. “I’ll want to know how your first drawing session went.”

  “I’m
not to leave the nursery without Mr. Forester’s—”

  “You aren’t to disobey your mama either, Alexander. I miss you. Before you took up scholarship with Mr. Forester, I saw much more of you.” Perhaps she ought not to have said that, because Alexander’s eyes clouded with confusion. When had he become so serious? So literal? She brushed her hand over his hair, still the silky fine tresses of a little boy. “When your lessons are through for the day, I will expect a visit.”

  This inspired no smile, no excitement. Alexander remained standing by his desk as if awaiting the headmaster’s inspection of the classroom.

  “You may sit, Alexander. I give you permission to sit.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll just have to stand again when Mr. Forester comes back. Good day, Mama. Thank you for coming by.”

  She was being politely dismissed by a six-year-old boy. Jeremy had told her to expect sulks and pouts, tantrums even, but Alexander wasn’t sulking or pouting, and he certainly wasn’t having a tantrum. He was simply waiting for her to leave.

  Vera found Jeremy in the corridor. “Mr. Dorning will come by for Alexander after lunch, and I’d like to see my son at the end of his school day.”

  “He’s in a bit of a mood lately, Mrs. Channing. Not exactly on his best behavior.”

  Vera was in a bit of mood, and Jeremy’s relentless, faintly damning good cheer wasn’t helping. “Alexander was perfectly polite to me, though it’s clear he is not enjoying his studies.”

  “Good,” Jeremy replied, smiling. “He needs to learn that life is not a romp, and we must do many things we don’t enjoy. If he’s absorbing that lesson, we are indeed making progress.”

  That reply annoyed Vera. “We also need to learn that hard work earns us respect and respite, Mr. Forester. Please, have Alexander join me in my sitting room when his studies are through for the day.”

  Jeremy pursed his lips, as if considering whether to comply with her direction. “You want to know how he gets on with Dorning, is that it? Probably a good idea. Artists are an impatient lot, and Alexander is not a quick study. You’re right that they might not get on so easily. I’ll send him to you, but please don’t spoil him with treats and sweets.”

  He’s my son, and I’ll spoil him if I want to. Vera kept that sentiment to herself, because Jeremy, as usual, had a valid point. Supper in the nursery was served early, and too many sweets immediately beforehand were ill advised.

  “I’ll expect Alexander in my sitting room this afternoon,” she said. “And I hope you will convey to the boy that I found his manners quite impressive.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Jeremy bowed and sauntered into the schoolroom, closing the door behind him.

  Vera stood in the corridor, wanting to eavesdrop, wanting to fire Jeremy Forester without a character, and wanting to rail at a husband who wasn’t available to guide his son’s education.

  “Patience,” she muttered. “Patience and persistence.” Soft footsteps had her turning, hoping she hadn’t been overheard. “Mr. Dorning, good morning.”

  “Mrs. Channing.” He offered a bow and a smile. “Good day. Are we to inspect the attics this morning?”

  He was all pleasant curiosity and gentlemanly good manners. No hint of a reaction to the fact that last night, she’d kissed him—a man she’d known barely two days. Should she be disappointed or relieved at his apparent indifference?

  But then, a friendly peck on the cheek from a mature widow barely qualified as a kiss. “The attic steps are this way,” she said, moving off toward the end of the corridor. “The footmen’s dormitory takes up about a quarter of the top floor. The rest is for storage.”

  Mr. Dorning followed her up the narrow, curving steps. The attics were not draped in cobwebs—the housekeeper was conscientious and the maids diligent—but the air was warm and close, even so early in the day.

  “Will we need a lamp or two?” Mr. Dorning asked as Vera used a key to open a plank door.

  “There are dormer windows, but I’ll send up candles if you need them.” She always had to gather her courage before entering the attics. She hadn’t grown up at Merlin Hall as Dirk had, and her memories of the attics were far from fond.

  The key refused to fit the lock, or Vera’s hands refused to function. Mr. Dorning stood patiently at her back while she fumbled and mentally cursed and eventually got the blasted key jammed into the keyhole.

  “It won’t open,” she muttered.

  “Allow me.” Mr. Dorning stepped around her, which put them in close proximity. He twisted the key firmly, and the lock gave. “It merely wanted some strength. A good oiling will set it to rights.”

  He made no move to step away, and Vera smelled both lavender and meadow grass on him. In the narrow confines of the landing, she was very much aware of his height and muscle.

  “I kissed you last night,” she said. “I am not a loose woman, Mr. Dorning, but you seemed… I ought not to have presumed. It won’t happen again.”

  He bent near. “I did not mistake a passing friendly gesture for a wanton invitation.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “No more than you would make that mistake should I offer such a gesture to you. Let’s inspect the attics, shall we?”

  Chapter Four

  Verity Channing was a problem. Oak reached that conclusion not because she was beautiful—he had, as he’d told her, seen many beautiful women, some of them wearing nothing but a smile of invitation. She was not a problem because she was apparently comfortably fixed. He was an earl’s son, and as such he frequently kept company with well-off gentry.

  She was not a problem because she’d kissed him. He thoroughly enjoyed kissing—quite thoroughly—and a quick buss on the cheek would not have been remarked in the very churchyard, for heaven’s sake. Not unless rural Hampshire society was far more censorious than its Dorset counterpart.

  Verity Channing was a problem because Oak liked her. He liked that she troubled over her step-daughter’s feelings, that she was protective of a by-blow many women would have refused to acknowledge much less raise. He liked that she dined at the same table with the tutor, governess, and whatever Oak was. He liked that she didn’t put on airs and wasn’t vain. He liked very much that she seemed oblivious to her own fine looks.

  And he had, despite all sense to the contrary, liked that she’d kissed his cheek, perhaps in thanks, perhaps in welcome. He’d liked very much the unexpected spark of daring that had prompted her to make the overture.

  And none of this liking would advance his ambitions where the Royal Academy was concerned, or land him the paying commissions on which he could build an independent career. His brothers—Willow, then Casriel, followed by Hawthorne and Valerian—were finding lovely ladies to marry and establish households with. Sycamore and Ash made an excellent livelihood from The Coventry Club, leaving Oak… sitting in a tree and sketching ferns.

  He must focus on gaining entry into the Royal Academy, not on a lovely widow rusticating in Hampshire.

  Mrs. Channing swept past him into the gloom of the attic, her faint floral fragrance blending with the scents of dust and old wood. Weak light filtered in through dormer windows, more light than Oak had expected in a mere storage room.

  “I do not make a habit of kissing strange men, Mr. Dorning,” she said, facing away from him. “You were kind to Catherine, and that touched me, and I still should not have… I should not have kissed you.”

  So they were to have a discussion. Very well. “Why not? Kissing is enjoyable, provided all parties to the activity do so consensually.”

  “Because…” She turned slowly. “One should not kiss strangers in the first place.”

  “One should not be caught kissing strangers, perhaps. What’s in the second place?”

  She drew a finger across the shelf of a sconce that held an empty oil lamp. “I haven’t wanted to. Kiss any strangers, that is. Kiss anybody.”

  Oak pushed the door closed. “You have been in mourning.” He took out a handkerchief, dusted off the top o
f a sea trunk, and gestured for the lady to take a seat, which she did. “Might I have the place beside you?”

  “We’re discussing kisses, Mr. Dorning. You need not stand on ceremony.”

  “And yet, you call me Mr. Dorning.”

  He was rewarded with a slight smile. “Oak, then. I loved my husband.”

  Oak waited, having the sense that Mrs. Channing was airing her thoughts on this topic for the first time.

  “Dirk loved me too,” she went on, “though he wasn’t in love with me. We weren’t daft like that. He was affectionate, kind, and patient. He courted me with all the decorum and respect a lady longs for, and that was balm to my soul. When a young woman is pretty, people assume she’s also worldly, that she knows how to handle innuendos and advances. I was a complete gudgeon.

  “My father inherited from his father,” she said, “also from uncles and brothers, and thus Papa ended up with very large land holdings. He was a glorified farmer who had no idea what to do with a pretty daughter. My step-mother’s notions on that topic were far from kind. Dirk was passing through the Midlands on a sketching tour when he came upon me having a good cry at our fishpond.”

  A good cry over what? “Did his age bother you?”

  “Not a bit. We got into an argument about the proper technique for skipping a stone, and then he asked to meet my parents. He was a fit and handsome eight-and-thirty. I was eighteen and desperate to leave my step-mother’s household. From many perspectives, the match was entirely appropriate.”

  The attic made a peaceful confessional, with morning sunlight slanting through the windows. The attic was also quiet enough that Oak could hear the slight hitches and hesitations in Verity’s breathing as she recited the tale of her courtship.

  “Was the match entirely appropriate from your perspective, Verity?”

  “My friends call me Vera.”

  She had friends, then. Oak wanted to meet them, to ensure they were true friends and not merely local gossips.

  “Was the match entirely appropriate from your perspective, Vera?”