Miss Serena's Secret, page 11
She nodded, enshrouded by the voluminous cloak to look like an ancient Norse enchantress. “But I hope you are not too cold.”
“Thank you, I am not.” Rather, he felt a little warm.
She moved backward, but the extra length of his cloak tangled beneath her feet and she slipped. Jerking forward he grasped her arm and pulled her upright, too close to his pounding chest.
Harry stared into eyes as luminous as a starlit sea, gazed at pink lips and wished to learn their softness, wished for the first time he was not her host, that he did not know Carlew, that his best friend had not charged him with the responsibility of protecting his sister-in-law, that she was simply a lady whom he could kiss without any stain of guilt at all.
He drew back.
Her smile was tremulous. “I … seem to be much in your debt this afternoon, my lord.”
“Not at all.” He cleared his throat, hoping the slight squeak went unnoticed. He shifted to the window, glancing at the rain still pouring from the sky. “It seems we shall be here a little longer.”
Her little sigh curled disappointment in his heart.
“What is the purpose of this place, anyway?”
He glanced back at her. “The temple was built as a folly by my grandfather, and used as a summer house.” Amongst other things. But he would not share about the many rendezvous the temple of love had seen.
“It is very quiet.”
“Except when heavy rain is falling. I never noticed how loud it could be.”
“You probably had your mind on other things.” The look she shot him was innocent—wasn’t it?
He swallowed. “I wonder, would you tell me about what first drew you to your art?”
“I … I have not thought on my reasons at great length.”
“Then perhaps just share a snippet?”
She stared at him, her lips pushing into a small pout, before she licked her bottom lip in a way that again tugged desire from deep within. “I … I have always enjoyed creating. I love being able to create something from nothing.” Her gaze dropped, her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. “I imagine it is how God felt, creating the world.”
“You imagine yourself as God?”
“Of course not!” Her eyelids lifted. Scorn flashed in the blue depths of her eyes.
“Forgive me.”
Her eyes flickered then she nodded. “I simply mean I can understand what is said in Genesis, how in the beginning, before God created, the world was empty and formless.” Her gaze grew searching. “You do know your Bible, sir?”
A question, not a statement. “Of course.”
“Do you believe it?”
He smiled. “You begin to sound like Carlew, my dear.”
She stared at him a moment longer, something like disappointment clouding her eyes, her features. “You are not a man of faith.”
Statement, not question.
“I … I—”
“If you cannot answer, then your answer is obvious.” Her lips pursed in such a way that he knew she was disappointed.
“I do not meet your brother-in-law’s high standards.”
“No.”
The word shafted home, piercing his heart. Now he knew disappointment.
Her lips curled to one side. “Not yet, anyway.”
He managed a wary chuckle, wondering at this chit of a girl. Most young ladies’ chatter left him wishing for a pack of cards and far more interesting turns around a table. It was rare to meet someone who drew forth pieces of his heart he’d had no intention of sharing, whose conversation could hold his attention as much as her face did.
“So we have established you enjoy art as a way to emulate God.”
“To glorify God, not be like Him,” she corrected, eyes narrowing.
He felt the invisible cord of connection between them drawing thin, and hastened to get in her good graces once more. “And was someone the inspiration for your art?”
“Lavinia.”
“The Countess of Hawkesbury?”
“I used to sometimes see her outside, sketching or with her water-colors. I liked the freedom such activity gave her.”
“Like my grandmother.”
“Yes. I gather Lady Bevington has not always adhered too closely to social convention.”
“Such keen powers of observation.” Her cheeks tinged pink at his words, and he was strangely glad he seemed to hold the power to disconcert this cool miss. “But you stopped.”
She stiffened, staring at him wide-eyed.
“My dear Miss Winthrop, I do not mean to cause embarrassment, but I gather ceasing art was not by choice.”
“You … you do not know?”
He shook his head.
She turned away, moving to the window where the rain pattered ceaselessly.
His neck prickled with foreboding as the silence stretched, as she stood unnaturally still. What could it be? Such talent would not cease from high expense; Carlew could certainly afford to pay. Was it her mother’s doing? Her sister’s? No. There was some mystery here.
“Forgive me. I would not wish you to share if it distresses—”
She jerked her head no.
Quiet filled the little room again. Experience had shown the temple’s ability to block the outside world. Somehow the persistent rain, the cocoon of shadows, made this feel a space safe for sharing intimacies far more important than any he’d ever imparted or received before. What had stolen away her passion?
He did not realize he’d spoken aloud until he heard her whisper, “My … my art master.”
What? “He would be a fool to not recognize your talent.”
She shook her head once more.
For a moment he struggled to understand. Surely she didn’t mean … ? No. Dear God, no.
Something white and hot quickly swelled within, raging through his soul. So this was why Carlew had warned him away. This was why she had no inclination for society, why she seemed skittish with men, with him. A thousand questions burned; he swallowed them. Poor girl. The poor, sweet, beautiful girl.
Harry slowly unclenched his hands. “I am very sorry.”
She shrugged, her back still to him.
He wanted to do something, to say something, to help her feel better, to take away her pain, but nothing sprang to mind, except a kind of enormous relief that he had never acted on any impulse to hold her—or kiss her. “You have my word that I will not speak of this to anyone.”
“Thank you.”
Harry turned away, fingers clenching again. What had Carlew done? What would Father have done had someone tried to hurt Melanie? Emotion rose in his chest again. Men like that should be horsewhipped! Should be strung up by their—
“Lord Carmichael.”
He pivoted to see her looking at him, that half smile curving her lips.
“You may ask Jon what measures he took, though I don’t believe they were quite so extreme.”
“I said that aloud?” At her nod, his neck heated. “I beg your pardon.”
“Why?” Her eyes flashed most unserenely. “That is exactly what should happen to men like him.”
He chuckled, and a few seconds later she joined in, their shared laughter bouncing around the little room, breaking the tension. “You are not quite what I expected, Miss Winthrop.”
“Not so meek and mild?”
“No.”
Their gazes connected once again, and for a moment, something warm twined between them, curling tenderness in his heart, swirling something that felt like hope. He blinked, stepped back, away from her, away from danger, and glanced outside. “The rain has ceased.”
“Oh, good.” Her lips twisted into a half smile. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, my lord.”
“I could never dream such a thing possible. I always endeavor to please.”
“Would it be rude of me to admit I am not surprised?”
He grinned, relieved to see the sparkle back in her eyes. “Not only rude, but unladylike,” he dared tease. “Yet refreshingly honest.”
They shared smiles, and another moment of connection. Yes, Miss Serena Winthrop was refreshing, her honesty something he’d never encountered with a young lady before. The fact that she would dare entrust him with such vulnerability only increased his esteem for her. What strength of character must she possess to have undergone such a trial yet still be able to smile? Harry looked away, conscious of a tumult of emotions within. He’d long found her outward appearance appealing, but what he’d witnessed these past weeks in her kindness to her sister, her patience with Melanie’s children, her quick wit, and her trusting him just now, made her seem like she had become an unlooked-for friend. It was ridiculous, considering their disparity in age and fortune, but this surge of protectiveness, these tender feelings she evoked, made her seem infinitely more precious.
His heart panged. If only Carlew had not extracted such a promise from him. He drew in a deep breath, then cleared his throat. “Are you ready to return?”
The blonde head nodded. “At the risk of more unladylike honesty, I must confess to feeling rather hungry.” Her habitual composure dissolved in a gasp. “And isn’t tonight the night of your mother’s important dinner?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WELMSLEY HAD SO far proved relatively informal, so it came as something of a shock to realize just how different tonight’s dinner would be. Serena descended the grand staircase to discover the guests waiting in the hall. She glanced around: Catherine, Jon, the viscount—how had he managed to change so quickly and look so debonair?—Melanie smiling up at her plain blond husband, the earl and countess, and a dozen others whose expressions ranged from hauteur to—from the younger males at least—something approaching admiration.
These last she ignored, moving to her sister’s side. Catherine’s wide-eyed surprise at her earlier ramshackle appearance had necessitated hurried explanations while she exchanged her sodden gown for this far more elegant one and allowed Anna to quickly make something of her damp hair. She smoothed the cream silk skirts, lifted her chin, and approximated a look of coolness.
Peters appeared, dressed impeccably as ever, and sounded a gong. “Dinner is served.” Melanie slid to her side and began a quick recitation of names and pedigrees as the guests walked into the dining room.
The earl offered his arm to the diamond-drenched Viscountess of Rotheringham, whose husband escorted the countess. The married couples were separated as tradition demanded and entered the room paired off according to rank, Lord Carmichael taking in a Mrs. Milsom, whose pairing left Serena feeling a kind of loss even before Melanie was escorted away.
“Excuse me, Miss Winthrop, may I have the honor?” Mr. Cravenwood, a gentleman of minor rank—second son of a neighboring baronet, so Melanie had whispered, but of very good fortune—held out his arm.
“Thank you.” She took his arm, working to suppress the nerves in dealing with a young man whose appreciative eyes upon her entry had made her freeze inside. Would she forever feel uncomfortable with gentlemen? Although she did not feel quite so with Lord Carmichael …
The next-to-last to be seated, she glanced around the table, noting her position between Mr. Cravenwood and the blond and taciturn Lord Rochdale. Sighing internally, she pasted a polite smile on her face and focused on the magnificent table. A rococo epergne centered the table, intricately decorated with gilt-laden birds and flowers, topped with a silver pineapple, the symbol for hospitality. Low vases of white roses—doubtless fresh-picked from the tiered garden—sat between heavily festooned silver candelabrum of beeswax candles. The family crest adorned the gleaming silver cutlery, and similarly marked the gold-and-turquoise Sèvres dinner service. A dozen delectable aromas teased her senses from the multitude of dishes, while above, a great chandelier complete with ormolu sunbursts shimmered candlelight through the sparkling crystal and across the guests and table.
Grace was said, a prayer that sounded as if the earl spoke regularly to his heavenly Father, then the white soup was served. Soon the hubbub of conversation and clank and clatter of spoons and forks made it easy for her to withdraw from the polite civilities and observe the lady seated opposite.
Mrs. Lillian Milsom was a curvaceous brunette, dressed in a chili color known as Aurora, with a smile as wicked as her repartee. Compared to her vivid plumage Serena felt as insignificant as a sparrow, a sparrow dressed in white, perhaps, but a sparrow nonetheless. Rubies the size of pigeon eggs glinted at Mrs. Milsom’s breast, drawing the notice of the men gathered—save Jon, the earl, and, somewhat surprisingly, the viscount. Courteous as ever, he gave attention that was all decorous, but in other moments, he seemed quiet, almost distracted. Was he also thinking about this afternoon?
Mrs. Milsom seemed to notice Lord Carmichael’s lack of interest as she leaned closer to him, her low-cut gown displaying her buxom figure to advantage, murmuring in undertones suggestive of intimacy. More than one glance was sent across the table, as she eyed Serena with a look half disdain, half speculation.
For her own part, Serena endeavored to appear unruffled, but her usual poise felt strained tonight, stirred by the strangest afternoon she’d experienced in a long while. Her joy at painting had been severely tried by the viscount’s unfortunate clumsiness, but it was the ensuing conversation that had really played havoc with her emotions.
Her insides twisted uneasily. Had she erred in sharing something of the truth of her pain? Had her admission given him a disgust of her? Is that why he refused to look at her now? She could hardly account for why she had been so revelatory, save the viscount had seemed strangely trustworthy, strangely safe, someone whose open kindness helped her to see him as deserving the regard Jon held for him. What kind of man could irritate her so much then look at her so kindly she wanted to weep? Why did he seem to treat her as a little sister one minute and then the next stand so close, his eyes dropping to her lips, almost as though he wanted to kiss her?
And why, for that matter, did she want him to?
She winced internally, hitching her lips higher to maintain the aloof smile. What a fool she was, a ridiculous, romantic fool, to think such things, especially now he knew something of her story. Granted, they had exchanged some long glances and shared amusement at some quips, but in every other way they were too dissimilar. He did not even believe in God! What kind of man did not believe in God? No, she did not even truly know his character, so the fluttering feelings he evoked had to be quashed. He might have made her feel safe—for a few moments at least—but he was all wrong for her.
Serena peeked through her lashes to where he sat, between Mrs. Milsom and Catherine. He looked extraordinarily handsome tonight, dark hair swept to one side in casual elegance, neckcloth neatly tied, white teeth flashing as he laughed. Serena fingered her small string of pearls, a gift from Papa when she turned sixteen. Modest, especially in comparison to some of the other gems on display tonight, but at least she looked far better than the drowned rat she had resembled this afternoon when they had eventually made it back to the house. She fought another shiver as the memory rose.
All the long hike up the stairs, the viscount had kept up a steady patter of silly stories, even as they were caught in yet another rain shower. They finally arrived on the terrace, sodden, red-faced yet laughing, to be greeted by a group of early arrivals, chief amongst them the beautiful Mrs. Milsom.
After kissing the viscount on both cheeks she’d leaned back, surveying him with a smile. “Well, I certainly did not expect to see you looking quite so dishabille.” Green eyes had flickered over Serena’s odd ensemble. “And you found a little friend to play with in the rain. Hello.”
Serena, aware her appearance was causing whispers among the guests, had drawn herself up and eyed her with all the coolness she could muster. “Good afternoon.” With a nod for all and sundry, she turned to the viscount. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. Now, if you would give me the paint box, I would be much obliged.”
But he had refused, saying, with a glint in his eye, “I shall endeavor to remedy my earlier recklessness, and ensure you have what you need for tomorrow.”
“Where will you find more madder?”
“I believe I am acquainted with a lady who might just have cupboards of spare paints hidden away.”
“Well, if you are charming enough, perhaps she might give it to you.”
“Do you doubt my ability to charm, Miss Winthrop?” He’d looked deep into her eyes.
Her heart had thudded. “Not at all, sir. Your expertise in such matters is widely known.”
For a moment, something like hurt had flashed in his expression, before a smile appeared. “Apparently not expert enough. Now there is a challenge.”
Mrs. Milsom made it very plain that she did not appreciate their banter, as she continued to make loud comments about their state of dress. Her obvious interest in the viscount had prickled confusing disappointment across Serena’s heart, making her wonder if the viscount had ever visited the temple with her, and if so, just what they had got up to.
Chewing the inside of her bottom lip at the indecent thought, she tore her gaze away, only to encounter Jon’s troubled expression. She pushed her lips up to reassure him, but while he offered a nod and a small smile, his brow remained knit. Was he that concerned over her absence this afternoon?
Her gaze dropped to her plate, the half-finished pigeon pie curling ribbons of nausea through her stomach.
“Miss Winthrop, I see you do not care for pigeon,” Mrs. Milsom observed from across the table.
Serena stiffened, conscious all eyes now attended her. As Mr. Cravenwood drew her attention to a plate of gammon, Mrs. Milsom said sotto voce, “It takes a sophisticated palate to appreciate such things.”
Heat filled her chest, but Mr. Cravenwood was insisting on serving her more food, so she turned and offered him a smile. “Thank you, sir, but I am quite satisfied.” She glanced back to catch the viscount’s frown before he averted his face. What—?
“Miss Winthrop, I understand you are fresh from the schoolroom,” Mrs. Milsom said.
