ignored it. He had simply accepted it as part of the Abby he knew.
And here she now was, one of the select few contributing to the records of the Royal Gardens.
He couldn’t have felt more proud of her if he’d taught her to paint himself. Turning, he caught her watching him, and smiled. “It’s truly impressive, Abby.”
She was pleased—he could see it in her eyes, in the smile that curved her lips. She shrugged and set aside the pot she’d been cleaning. “I enjoy it.”
They went downstairs. As one, without need for any words, they headed for the front door. Adrian opened it—they looked out—he shut it quickly. Their eyes met; they both grimaced.
A raw wind was blowing, laying a coating of fine ice on the snow. There was no sign of any thaw. Leaving the kitchen to Agnes, Bolt, and Tom, they retreated to the parlor. They spent the rest of that day, and the next, snug in its warmth, reading, playing chess, talking, remembering, making plans for Bellevere.
Over the last, Abby was reticent. To her mind, heshould be making such plans with the lady he was preparing to marry. She was tempted to ask outright who that lady was, but her courage failed her. The Adrian who sat beside her on the sofa was not the same Adrian of long ago. He had changed—he was certainly more complicated. And definitely more dangerous, especially to her equanimity.
“I haven’t been to Bellevere since your father’s funeral, so I really can’t tell you any more than you know yourself.”
“But you must meet the Crochets in the village—I’m sure Mrs. Crochet must bewail the conditions.”
“What she bewails is the fact the house isn’t used—I’ve never heard her say anything about it falling apart.” Abby waited only a heartbeat before saying, “Actually, there was something I meant to ask—you mentioned yesterday that Farnsworth has had another book published. Have you read it?”
She’d discovered he read extensively, even more than she. She’d give her eyeteeth to have the free run of his library. In lieu of that, she picked his brains, giving her endless topics with which to distract him.
On the fifth day after the blizzard, the temperature rose. Tom was out early clearing the front path. Millie Watkins arrived midmorning with the news that the village was stirring. Abby was therefore not surprised when she glimpsed the Reverend Mr. Felix Bosworth picking his way up the front path.
She opened the door and waved him in. “Good morning, Mr. Bosworth. Out checking your flock?”
“Indeed, indeed, my dear Miss Woolley.” Afterstamping his shoes free of snow, Bosworth stepped over the threshold. A man of average height, somewhat corpulent, with thinning dark hair brushed across his balding pate, he took Abby’s hand between his and beamed at her. “I came here as soon as I heard the way was clear. I could not possibly know peace until I assured myself that you and your dear aunt were in good health.”
“On that score, I can set your mind at rest.” Retrieving her hand, Abby shut the door and gestured to the parlor, unable to stop herself from adding, “It was only an average blizzard—we get them every year.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Mr Bosworth had been the incumbent of the small village church for three years, so could hardly claim ignorance. He bestowed an unctuous smile on Abby as he followed her into the parlor. “But with two delicate ladies living alone, you know, one always has to wonder…”
Whatever it was Mr Bosworth had wondered, the thought was dispelled—thrown to the winds—when his protuberant eyes alighted on the lounging male figure slowly coming to his feet, leaving the small sofa where he’d been sitting close by Abby.
Abby fought to hide a smile. Since retrieving his case, Adrian had been gracing the house dressed to the nines, the epitome of a stylish London gentleman—a rakish, dangerous, exceedingly handsome one. When, goaded by the effect his appearance was having on her,
And here she now was, one of the select few contributing to the records of the Royal Gardens.
He couldn’t have felt more proud of her if he’d taught her to paint himself. Turning, he caught her watching him, and smiled. “It’s truly impressive, Abby.”
She was pleased—he could see it in her eyes, in the smile that curved her lips. She shrugged and set aside the pot she’d been cleaning. “I enjoy it.”
They went downstairs. As one, without need for any words, they headed for the front door. Adrian opened it—they looked out—he shut it quickly. Their eyes met; they both grimaced.
A raw wind was blowing, laying a coating of fine ice on the snow. There was no sign of any thaw. Leaving the kitchen to Agnes, Bolt, and Tom, they retreated to the parlor. They spent the rest of that day, and the next, snug in its warmth, reading, playing chess, talking, remembering, making plans for Bellevere.
Over the last, Abby was reticent. To her mind, heshould be making such plans with the lady he was preparing to marry. She was tempted to ask outright who that lady was, but her courage failed her. The Adrian who sat beside her on the sofa was not the same Adrian of long ago. He had changed—he was certainly more complicated. And definitely more dangerous, especially to her equanimity.
“I haven’t been to Bellevere since your father’s funeral, so I really can’t tell you any more than you know yourself.”
“But you must meet the Crochets in the village—I’m sure Mrs. Crochet must bewail the conditions.”
“What she bewails is the fact the house isn’t used—I’ve never heard her say anything about it falling apart.” Abby waited only a heartbeat before saying, “Actually, there was something I meant to ask—you mentioned yesterday that Farnsworth has had another book published. Have you read it?”
She’d discovered he read extensively, even more than she. She’d give her eyeteeth to have the free run of his library. In lieu of that, she picked his brains, giving her endless topics with which to distract him.
On the fifth day after the blizzard, the temperature rose. Tom was out early clearing the front path. Millie Watkins arrived midmorning with the news that the village was stirring. Abby was therefore not surprised when she glimpsed the Reverend Mr. Felix Bosworth picking his way up the front path.
She opened the door and waved him in. “Good morning, Mr. Bosworth. Out checking your flock?”
“Indeed, indeed, my dear Miss Woolley.” Afterstamping his shoes free of snow, Bosworth stepped over the threshold. A man of average height, somewhat corpulent, with thinning dark hair brushed across his balding pate, he took Abby’s hand between his and beamed at her. “I came here as soon as I heard the way was clear. I could not possibly know peace until I assured myself that you and your dear aunt were in good health.”
“On that score, I can set your mind at rest.” Retrieving her hand, Abby shut the door and gestured to the parlor, unable to stop herself from adding, “It was only an average blizzard—we get them every year.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Mr Bosworth had been the incumbent of the small village church for three years, so could hardly claim ignorance. He bestowed an unctuous smile on Abby as he followed her into the parlor. “But with two delicate ladies living alone, you know, one always has to wonder…”
Whatever it was Mr Bosworth had wondered, the thought was dispelled—thrown to the winds—when his protuberant eyes alighted on the lounging male figure slowly coming to his feet, leaving the small sofa where he’d been sitting close by Abby.
Abby fought to hide a smile. Since retrieving his case, Adrian had been gracing the house dressed to the nines, the epitome of a stylish London gentleman—a rakish, dangerous, exceedingly handsome one. When, goaded by the effect his appearance was having on her,
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