A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  This was a fabrication, or an improvisation, more like. White pigments, some of which were lead-based, were powerfully toxic. Dirk had kept his pigments locked up, but never his studio, for who would have dared intrude on that holy ground uninvited?

  Miss Diggory dipped a hint of a curtsey and withdrew, leaving Vera to sip cold tea and ponder the exchange. Tamsin had developed a curious inability to keep track of her penknives. Her understanding of mathematics apparently bordered on rudimentary, and she wasn’t able to provide Catherine a curriculum that challenged her in any subject.

  Bracken came in to clear the tray a moment later.

  Vera was tempted to ask him what he thought of Miss Diggory—and Mr. Forester, for that matter—but Bracken’s immense dignity prevented such informality. She would instead ask Oak for his opinion, and he would give it.

  That too, was a shift Vera could lay at his handsome feet. She took greater notice of her surroundings thanks to Oak Dorning’s observant company, and she considered ideas that Dirk Channing’s meek, devoted helpmeet would not have entertained.

  Perhaps Tamsin Diggory had been a poor choice. Perhaps Jeremy Forester wasn’t the ideal tutor for Alexander. Perhaps Richard Longacre was a fine source of artistic guidance, but not as knowledgeable when it came to finding staff for a nursery.

  He’d been a friend to Dirk and to Vera, but she honestly did not know Longacre all that well.

  What she did know was that she’d miss Oak Dorning sorely for the rest of her quiet, rusticating widowhood.

  “Oak wants the traveling coach sent up to Hampshire.” Valerian announced that development as if Oak had requisitioned every fungible asset Dorning Hall possessed. “He’s now trafficking in art, purveying the widow’s castoffs. He sent me a sketch of her.”

  Grey watched Valerian, the Dorning sibling with stores of self-possession equal to any social challenge, the king’s man, the consummate solver of human conundrums. Valerian paced the carpet in Beatitude’s private parlor like a mare in anticipation of foaling.

  “He sent me a sketch of the Channings as well,” Grey said, sanding the letter he’d just finished. “The little fellow stood on one side of his mama, the girl on the other. Quite charming.”

  Valerian halted before Grey’s desk. “You describe a family portrait, Casriel. It needs only the addition of a doting step-papa to be complete.”

  Beatitude had come to the same conclusion, though the prospect of Oak as a husband and step-father had not distressed her as it was clearly distressing Valerian.

  Valerian tossed himself into the chair opposite the desk. “We did not send Oak to Hampshire to become some widow’s…”

  “Plaything? I have never been a plaything, myself, but Oak is unattached, in full possession of his wits and his health, and embarking on a career in the arts. Plaything-ing might go with that territory.”

  “That is distasteful.”

  “The lady is Dirk Channing’s widow. A connection with her would stand Oak in good stead.”

  “Who is Dirk—? Wasn’t Channing the battle-scene painter? He romanticized the Irish uprising and made the Americans look brave. How did you come upon this information?”

  “The same way I come upon most information pertinent to my own siblings—through Beatitude’s good offices.”

  Valerian scowled. “Her ladyship’s in-law’s cousin’s neighbor’s parson’s wife has been spying?”

  “What a vulgar choice of word, Valerian. My countess is conscientious in her correspondence, and she wanted to chase down the rumors of untoward doings at Merlin Hall.”

  Valerian shoved to his feet. “What sort of name is that for a country manor, and what sort of untoward doings?”

  “As it happens, the rumors are quite old, having nothing to do with the present Mrs. Channing. The previous lady of the manor was more in the nature of a concubine whom Dirk Channing regarded as his muse. She either would not or could not marry Channing, and the girl in Oak’s family portrait is the fruit of that irregular union.”

  Valerian moved to the window, gazing out on a rainy morning trying to turn up sunny. Oak loved rain because it did interesting things to light. He’d walk around out in the rain, intermittently gazing straight up at the sky and sketching in pencil.

  Who would have thought a brother exhibiting such daft behavior would be missed every single time Dorset’s weather turned rainy—and often when it didn’t?

  “The widow is raising her husband’s by-blow?” Valerian asked.

  “Apparently so, and Oak described the relationship as loving.”

  Valerian lowered himself to the window seat. “We must like her for that, mustn’t we?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Oak will like her for that. What else do we know of her?”

  “She’s the daughter of a wealthy squire, country born and bred, never made a come out. Hasn’t any use for London Society and is quite, quite pretty.”

  Valerian pulled a folded paper from an inside coat pocket and studied the bottom half of the page. A red wax stain made a half circle across the top of the paper, suggesting a letter from Oak.

  “He doesn’t sketch her as pretty,” Valerian said, brows knitting. “He sketches her as lovely. You can’t tell from these drawings which is the step-child. That will matter to Oak.”

  It mattered to Grey, whose daughter Tabitha called Beatitude Mama, though they were no blood relation. “He sketches Mrs. Channing as loving.”

  Valerian put the letter back in his pocket. “Oak draws what he sees, to hear him tell it, but Emily says there’s a difference between a portrait and a likeness. Oak usually draws a very accurate likeness.”

  “Probably the result of all the botanical work he did for Papa.”

  Valerian was on his feet again. “No, it’s the other way ’round. The botanical sketches were accurate because Oak drew them. Now he’s making little portraits on his letters, portraying rather than copying onto paper what he sees with his eyes. This is serious.”

  “Oak is overdue for a serious encounter.” Beatitude had made that suggestion. Grey hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  “Oak cannot afford a serious encounter with this woman, Grey. She’s a widow, and they are a canny lot, but how can she have missed that he’s determined to take his place in London, while she apparently wants nothing to do with Town?”

  Grey dumped the sand from his letter back into the tray in the corner of his blotter. “Sometimes, the person who seems out of reach is the very person we’re meant to hold most closely in our hearts.”

  “You refer to my dearest Emily. She was more than out of reach. She was beyond my dreams.”

  “No, she wasn’t. I refer to Beatitude. I was determined to marry money, she hadn’t any to speak of, and yet, I could not imagine sharing my life with any woman except her. I had confused money and wealth. I wanted money, I needed wealth.”

  “Wealth, Casriel? We’re still notably without means, as titled families go.”

  “Our circumstances are improving, but even without means, we are wealthy in the things that matter. We are respected, we are healthy, we are more or less in charity with one another, except for Sycamore, who glories in the role of sibling provocateur. We are finding the spouses we are meant to share our lives with. The only thing we lack, at least as far as our bachelor brothers are concerned, is common sense.”

  “Oak is very sensible. He simply keeps most of his conclusions to himself.”

  Grey folded the letter he’d written and used a spill from the jar on the mantel to carry a flame from the hearth to the wax jack.

  “Is that a letter to Oak?” Valerian asked as the wax dripped onto the paper.

  “It is.”

  “You are letting him know the traveling coach will be along directly?”

  Grey blew out the taper, leaving a hint of smoke and beeswax on the air. “Alas, no. Beatitude has requisitioned the coach to do some shopping in Dorchester—or she’s about to. I am helpless to deny her, so Oak mu
st apply to Sycamore for the use of his traveling coach.”

  “You’ll leave Oak stranded in the wilds of Hampshire?”

  “For as long as possible.”

  “Devious,” Valerian said as Grey pressed the family seal into the warm wax. “I like it.”

  In Dorset, Oak had lived with a growing sense of frustration. His dreams had all pointed to London—success as a portraitist was possible only in London—though he’d lacked a plan for getting there.

  Then Casriel had gone up to Town in search of a countess and come home matched with his heart’s desire. Willow had found his dear Susannah in London. Sycamore was thriving in London, and Ash appeared to have found a way to support himself in the capital as Sycamore’s conscience and business associate.

  Oak had concluded that the first step in any plan to succeed in London had been to simply go to London. From Winchester, he could travel to the capital in a long day, if the roads were dry and the post chaise teams sound. He told himself regularly that he should set a departure date, pack up Vera’s attic paintings, and be on his way.

  Pursue the dream he’d cherished since boyhood.

  In London.

  Noisy, stinking London, where Verity had no desire to be, ever.

  He’d tried to explore why she was so averse to the metropolis, but the conversation was invariably waylaid by desire. Somebody started kissing somebody else, hands grew busy and inventive, and doors were locked. For the past week, Oak had been sharing Verity’s bed for the most of every night, though she occupied his thoughts nigh constantly.

  And here he was again, sauntering into her bedroom at the end of the day, helpless to waste what little time they had left together.

  “How does Alexander seem to you?” Vera asked, untying his cravat.

  “He seems like Alexander. Serious, shy, intelligent, and unusually complicated for such a little fellow.” He put Oak in mind of himself as a boy, in fact. “Why do you begrudge me the pleasure of undressing you, Verity Channing? By the time I join you of late, you are in your nightgown and dressing gown. I am denied the experience of unbuttoning, unlacing, and unwrapping you.”

  And he wanted that experience, wanted to look forward to it at the end of every day.

  Her hands paused. “And I never start my day with the sight of you as you don your finery. Never hear you using your toothpowder behind the privacy screen, never see you making the odd faces men make when they shave. I will never see you at your bath, never ambush you some rainy morning as you lounge about in a banyan and pajama trousers.”

  She drew the jacket from his shoulders and hung it over the back of her reading chair. When she would have unbuttoned his waistcoat, Oak caught her hands.

  “Come to London with me.”

  She shook free of his grasp and started on his buttons. “And live with you in an unsanctioned union? How would that reflect on my children, Oak? How would that reflect on me?”

  “I didn’t mean—” What had he meant? “You could stay at my brother’s town house. I can have Will or Grey or Valerian come up to Town. A sister-in-law or two will make your visit plausible, and I’ll stay with Sycamore and Ash if I can’t find my own quarters. Nothing unsanctioned about it.”

  Though his brothers would think he’d run mad, and they’d be half right. Oak wasn’t traveling all the way to London to once again be the butt of fraternal humor.

  Vera finished unbuttoning his waistcoat and started on his shirt. “Assuming your siblings are willing to drop everything, travel to London, and idle about Mayfair while I find excuses to tryst with you, what then? I have no real friends in London, you must pursue your aspirations, and I am responsible for this property. Harvest does not happen without management on hand, Oak. Alexander and Catherine need a mother, and as to that, I’m not sure Miss Diggory and Mr. Forester are the best staff I can find for my nursery.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Vera drew off his waistcoat and hung it over his jacket. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they are involved in a not-discreet-enough liaison, not mere stolen kisses. I nearly walked in on them canoodling in the guest room across from my studio.” He held out his hand, and Vera removed a sleeve button from his cuff. “I thought a cat had got stuck behind a closed door, but no cat makes that sort of thumping and groaning.”

  She undid the second sleeve button. “Dear heavens. I want to scold them, but…”

  But Oak was involved in a fair amount of thumping and groaning with Vera, and the two situations weren’t that different. That admission made Oak want to kick heavy furniture and paint battle scenes.

  “I don’t begrudge anybody shared pleasure with another willing adult,” Oak said, “but the business requires discretion.”

  Vera put his sleeve buttons on the clothes press. “Something like that. I’ve asked Mr. Forester to tutor Catherine in mathematics. If he’s blatantly accosting Miss Diggory, I’m less comfortable with that arrangement. Am I being ridiculous?”

  Vera appeared more confident in the role of lady of the manor than she truly felt. Oak had come to this realization only gradually, as their late-night visits shifted from an immediate, mutual devouring, to this cozy domesticity followed by mutual devouring.

  “Miss Diggory might be doing some of the accosting,” Oak said. “For Forester’s sake, I hope she is. The issue isn’t that they enjoy each other’s company, it’s that I’ve become aware of it.”

  He tugged off one boot then the other, and Vera set them at the foot of the bed. His stockings came next, but he kept his breeches on and took a seat in the reading chair.

  “Alexander does not like to return to the schoolroom,” Oak said, patting his knee.

  Vera cuddled into his lap without further prompting. The weight of her, the feel of her in his arms, settled some unrest that talk of canoodling and skulking had agitated.

  “I see that,” she said. “I watch him pelting across the garden at the beginning of his outings with you, then see him trudging back to the house an hour later. He becomes a different child, and yet, Mr. Forester says he’s making progress.”

  “Shall I question Alexander about his studies?” Oak asked, stroking Vera’s back.

  “Please. I have already become that great superfluity in a boy’s life, his mother.”

  Oak kissed her cheek. “You are not superfluous to him or to me. I’ll have a word with him and report back. Is the vicar coming to luncheon tomorrow?”

  They chatted about the local parson and his wife, about Catherine’s talent, about what sort of puppy Alexander might like. All the while, Oak was aware of a pleasant, humming arousal, a quiet joy to be ending the day yet again with a woman he esteemed and desired. The closeness Vera offered him in these domestic discussions called to him, every bit as much as the intimate pleasure did.

  And that was…. That was lovely, though why in the bloody hell did these delights have to be mere passing pleasures?

  Rather than dwell on that frustrating topic, Oak introduced Vera to the experience of sex against a sturdy wall, sex on all fours, and then—what desperation had come over him?—sex in a reading chair.

  Chapter Ten

  Vera lay in Oak’s arms, torn between the peace that follows passionate lovemaking and the turmoil that had been growing since she’d first kissed him. Oak offered her an intimate friendship, and for a man intent on the worldly sophistication of London, perhaps that was an offer easily made, a bargain cheerfully kept.

  For Vera… inventive lovemaking was only a small piece of what Oak’s version of friendship yielded her. He was attentive to the children, kind, and patient; he brought a level of learning and graciousness to conversation at meals; he made a fine impression on Vera’s neighbors. He was affectionate—ye saints and angels, was he affectionate—and Vera had missed the profound pleasure of an undemanding, caring touch.

  “I can hear your thoughts,” he said, his fingers trailing over her arm. “You are already up and about, taking the day by storm
.”

  The cool, sweet notes of a mistle thrush’s song warned of approaching dawn. Vera wanted to close and lock the window, climb back in bed, and pull a pillow over her head.

  “You give me much to think about.”

  He slipped an arm around her waist. “Happy thoughts, I hope.”

  Well, no. Not exactly. She would not burden him with foolish entreaties to stay on at Merlin Hall, but she could share with him other thoughts.

  “Those paintings you found, of Anna and the other women, they explain some of the behavior Dirk’s friends exhibited toward me.”

  “Bad behavior.”

  “Dirk told me not to read too much into harmless banter. The fact that they reserved their overtures for when Dirk was absent suggested much of it was disrespectful.”

  “They treated you the way a fool treats any woman who takes off her clothes for money, and they assumed that you—like Anna—were of that ilk.” Oak rolled to his back. “I was fortunate to have Stebbins Holmes as teacher for my live-model classes. He tolerated no crudeness toward the models, no vulgar jokes. If a woman was willing to disrobe for a young man’s edification, her generosity was to be respectfully appreciated, or old Stebby sent the miscreant packing.”

  “You never drew live male models?”

  “Less frequently, as every male artist has his own form to study, doesn’t he? Why didn’t you insist Dirk put his foot down when his friends overstepped?”

  Vera remained on her side, facing the window, her back ranged along Oak’s warmth. She loved the pleasure of lying close like this, but she also preferred not to have Oak watching her face in the predawn gloom. He saw much, sometimes too much.

  “I did not know if they were overstepping, Oak. My brothers were often ribald, but not if they knew I could overhear them. Perhaps standards for wives were different, I reasoned, or perhaps standards for artists’ wives were different. Perhaps a bumpkin such as I ought not to be so prudish. I learned to avoid our guests once the brandy started flowing and to stay off the back stairs if I was alone.”