no doubt, for business sense was not a feminine accomplishment of which a woman boasted.
“I used to play the pianoforte, but I was thankful to surrender my lessons once it became apparent I had no aptitude.”
“You may have been better than you know. I’m sorry I never heard you play.”
“You would have been sorrier still had you done so. My instructress threatened suicide, but she was ever highly strung.”
He chuckled, though he seemed more obliged to be amused than in truth touched in his humor. Rietta studied him. He met her eye so steadily that she looked away first. His tone had been light, even bantering, but his eyes were as serious and focused as cannon mouths lifting inexorably toward their target. Yet his natural mark sat on the other side of the room.
Rietta quickly grasped the perfect explanation for Sir Nicholas’s singling her out. He no doubt realized that Blanche was highly sought—five minutes here with her other suitors would have so informed a blind man. Winning her sister’s approval might just be the feather that tipped the scales in his favor. With Rietta’s approval, he might run tame in the house and if she could be brought to sing his praises, Blanche would soon echo them,
Perhaps that might be true in ordinary households, but Rietta knew he was wasting his time. No one had influence over Blanche, least of all her unyielding sister. Besides, even if she could act upon Blanche the way a breeze moves a feather, Rietta flattered herself that she was too downy a bird to be caught that way twice. Never again, she thought.
As the clock in the hall struck a deep note, Rietta gathered up her work. “I’m afraid that we must say good morning, Sir Nicholas. My father prefers that we entertain morning visitors for only half an hour at a time.”
“That is customary, is it not?”
“I am surprised you know of that, sir, seeing how you have been out of the country,” Rietta said.
“My sisters see to it that I stay reasonably well informed. I hope to see you at Greenwood very soon, Miss Ferris, and for more than half an hour.”
He held out his hand. Rather clumsily, Rietta transferred all her supplies so that she might slip her fingers into his grasp. To her surprise, he bent his dark head low and brushed his lips warmly against the back of her hand. She felt as if dark wings had passed over her and shivered.
Nick felt her tremble. Though she had instantly suppressed the reaction, it had happened. He raised his head and thought how well the bright carnation in her cheeks became her. She was rather too colorless and pale, excepting her splendid hair.
He found himself strangely reluctant to let go of his one chance to touch her. Her skin was soft and lightly fragranced with lavender. His memory of her, overlaid by David Mochrie’s unflattering report, had become distorted overnight until he’d been surprised to find her young, quite attractive, and pleasingly slender, rather than elderly, ugly, and painfully skinny.
Under the scrap of lace pinned to the crown of her head, her hair was more gold than red. Though ruthlessly pulled off her face and bound into a chignon, tiny sprigs had worked free to emphasize with natural curls the lines of temple and cheeks. She had a small cluster of freckles on her nose and eyes of so many shades of green that she could have given a few to Ireland. He had a sudden vision of her dressed in a low-cut gown of grass-green silk with nothing but her unbound hair for ornament. White muslin, however maidenly, didn’t suit her.
Nick bowed over Rietta’s hand once more, not merely brushing over the back but pressing there, showing more by a kiss than he’d intended for today. She pulled away with some strength and straightened. “Sir!” she said in a sharp whisper. He saw her glance toward the others but the men were clustered so close about Blanche that they had no eyes for anything else.
“Flirting with me won’t help you reach your goal,” she
“I used to play the pianoforte, but I was thankful to surrender my lessons once it became apparent I had no aptitude.”
“You may have been better than you know. I’m sorry I never heard you play.”
“You would have been sorrier still had you done so. My instructress threatened suicide, but she was ever highly strung.”
He chuckled, though he seemed more obliged to be amused than in truth touched in his humor. Rietta studied him. He met her eye so steadily that she looked away first. His tone had been light, even bantering, but his eyes were as serious and focused as cannon mouths lifting inexorably toward their target. Yet his natural mark sat on the other side of the room.
Rietta quickly grasped the perfect explanation for Sir Nicholas’s singling her out. He no doubt realized that Blanche was highly sought—five minutes here with her other suitors would have so informed a blind man. Winning her sister’s approval might just be the feather that tipped the scales in his favor. With Rietta’s approval, he might run tame in the house and if she could be brought to sing his praises, Blanche would soon echo them,
Perhaps that might be true in ordinary households, but Rietta knew he was wasting his time. No one had influence over Blanche, least of all her unyielding sister. Besides, even if she could act upon Blanche the way a breeze moves a feather, Rietta flattered herself that she was too downy a bird to be caught that way twice. Never again, she thought.
As the clock in the hall struck a deep note, Rietta gathered up her work. “I’m afraid that we must say good morning, Sir Nicholas. My father prefers that we entertain morning visitors for only half an hour at a time.”
“That is customary, is it not?”
“I am surprised you know of that, sir, seeing how you have been out of the country,” Rietta said.
“My sisters see to it that I stay reasonably well informed. I hope to see you at Greenwood very soon, Miss Ferris, and for more than half an hour.”
He held out his hand. Rather clumsily, Rietta transferred all her supplies so that she might slip her fingers into his grasp. To her surprise, he bent his dark head low and brushed his lips warmly against the back of her hand. She felt as if dark wings had passed over her and shivered.
Nick felt her tremble. Though she had instantly suppressed the reaction, it had happened. He raised his head and thought how well the bright carnation in her cheeks became her. She was rather too colorless and pale, excepting her splendid hair.
He found himself strangely reluctant to let go of his one chance to touch her. Her skin was soft and lightly fragranced with lavender. His memory of her, overlaid by David Mochrie’s unflattering report, had become distorted overnight until he’d been surprised to find her young, quite attractive, and pleasingly slender, rather than elderly, ugly, and painfully skinny.
Under the scrap of lace pinned to the crown of her head, her hair was more gold than red. Though ruthlessly pulled off her face and bound into a chignon, tiny sprigs had worked free to emphasize with natural curls the lines of temple and cheeks. She had a small cluster of freckles on her nose and eyes of so many shades of green that she could have given a few to Ireland. He had a sudden vision of her dressed in a low-cut gown of grass-green silk with nothing but her unbound hair for ornament. White muslin, however maidenly, didn’t suit her.
Nick bowed over Rietta’s hand once more, not merely brushing over the back but pressing there, showing more by a kiss than he’d intended for today. She pulled away with some strength and straightened. “Sir!” she said in a sharp whisper. He saw her glance toward the others but the men were clustered so close about Blanche that they had no eyes for anything else.
“Flirting with me won’t help you reach your goal,” she
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