Sarah Mallory - Beauty And The Brooding Lord

* * *

Some half-hour later Serena asked Meggy to show her the way to the library. A glance in the looking glass on the dressing table told her the bruise on her cheek was now blue-black, but there was nothing she could do to hide it. However, it was not painful and Serena did her best to ignore it. Mrs Talbot had washed her muslin fichu and Serena crossed it over the bodice of her gown and tied it at the back, so no one would see the repairs, but there were shadowy marks on the petticoats, evidence of her struggle with Sir Timothy. As she descended the stairs, the whisper of her satin skirts taunted her. It was easy enough to replace a gown, but her lost reputation was an altogether different matter.

She had been oblivious to her surroundings last night and had no idea what Melham Court looked like from the outside, but from what she could see inside, it was clearly an old building and everything suggested it was well maintained. The wainscoting and the staircase, with its intricately carved balusters, were polished to a high shine and there was not a speck of dust on the windowsills. Fine paintings covered the walls and exquisite porcelain was displayed on side tables. Serena was in no mood to dwell on her surroundings, but there was an indefinable feeling of calm comfort about the house. Meggy left her in the staircase hall, where a waiting footman escorted her through the great hall, with its lofty vaulted roof, to the library.

Serena’s step faltered as the servant opened the door and it was with a definite straightening of the back that she stepped across the threshold. Lord Quinn was standing in the window embrasure, scrutinising a large framed canvas propped against one side of the bay. He did not appear to notice her entry and she walked across the room until she, too, could see the picture. It was a woman, half-naked, sitting on a velvet-covered couch and looking into a mirror held aloft by two red-haired cherubs. The painting glowed with colour, especially the golden sheen of the woman’s hair and the deep red velvet drapes that covered the lower half of her body.

She said, ‘Is that a Titian?’

‘Yes. Venus with a Mirror. ’

‘By the master, or a copy by his students? I believe there are several versions in existence.’ He looked at her in surprise and she explained, ‘My half-brother made a tour of Italy during the Peace of Amiens. He came back full of admiration for the old masters and talked of them to anyone who would listen.’

Serena stopped. She often encouraged Henry to tell her about art, especially when he summoned her to his study to criticise some aspect of her behaviour. She thought wryly that the situation now was not so very different. Lord Quinn had turned his attention back to the painting.

‘Experts are agreed this is by the master.’ He beckoned her to come closer. ‘Look at the brush strokes. He has given her a most natural complexion and the velvet is so fine one can almost see each thread.’

His enthusiasm was infectious and it distracted her from other, more disturbing thoughts, a dark, shadowy terror she did not want to face. She took another step towards the picture. ‘I like the way we see her reflection in the mirror.’

‘But look at her eyes,’ he said. ‘She is not actually looking in the mirror; her gaze is towards someone out of the frame. Her lover perhaps?’

He turned to her for an answer as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Serena felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. She was an unmarried lady, she should not discuss such things with a stranger. His look changed, as if he realised how inappropriate was their conversation and he turned away with something between a cough and a growl.

‘I beg your pardon. I should not be talking about Titian when there are far more important matters to discuss.’

There were indeed. Her spirits sank and she waited to be rebuked for her folly.

‘That bruise on your face, for example. Does it hurt?’

She blinked. ‘No...that is, only if I touch it.’

He nodded, then turned and walked across to the desk. ‘You must be wishing you were at home.’

No. I wish I could run away and hide from the world.

‘Of course.’

‘I took the liberty of writing to Lord and Lady Hambridge, to assure them that you are safe.’ He picked up a letter. ‘I sent it at first light and this has just arrived, express. They are on their way to fetch you.’

‘Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.’ She looked at her hands, twisting themselves together as if trying to wipe away the shame of it all. ‘Kinder than I have any right to expect.’

Her voice wobbled and she bowed her head to hide her tears.

‘Enough of that, madam. You were served an ill turn by a rogue. He is to blame, not you. You behaved foolishly, to be sure, but you have escaped quite lightly, in the circumstances.’ She kept her head down and dashed a tear from her cheek. She heard a couple of hasty steps and he was before her, holding out his handkerchief. ‘Come now, dry your eyes. Lord and Lady Hambridge will not be much more than an hour. What would you like to do until then?’

Serena wiped away the tears and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I had best return to my room.’

As she handed the handkerchief back to him he caught her fingers and she looked up quickly. His hazel eyes were fixed upon her and she felt the full force of his penetrating gaze.

‘If I were a doctor I would prescribe fresh air to put a little colour back into your cheeks.’ His brows snapped together. ‘There is no need to look like that, Miss Russington. I have no designs upon your virtue, but I would have you look less like a corpse when your brother comes to fetch you.’

His rough manner had its affect. For the first time since this whole sorry business had begun she felt like smiling, if only a little.

‘Very well, my lord. I shall take a turn in the gardens. If you will excuse me...’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘The place is a rabbit warren. I will not risk losing you.’

‘I must not take any more of your time,’ she protested.

‘Not at all. I should like to show you the gardens. Now run upstairs and fetch your shawl.’

* * *

Quinn escorted his guest out of doors, resigning himself to an hour’s tedium. He could have appointed a servant to accompany her, if he was so worried about the woman’s well-being, but something had made him speak, and once the words were out there was no going back. He led her out into the cobbled courtyard around which the old house was built. The west front with its central, castellated gatehouse was of sturdy stone, while the other three walls were all half or fully timbered, the upper stories jutted out and a haphazard collection of leaded windows overlooked the yard.

‘The building predates the Tudor monarchs, I think?’ she said, looking around.

‘Yes. It is medieval in origin but there have been alterations, over the centuries.’ He pointed out the most notable features. ‘Look up there. That room on the first floor was originally the solar, but it was rebuilt later and you can see Henry VIII’s emblems carved on the timbers. And over there, the open arcade running along the eastern side is one of the finest of its kind.’

‘And the clock face in the gatehouse tower, is that new?’

‘Yes. I installed that a few years ago, when we carried out repairs.’

He was reluctant to say too much for fear of boring her, but Serena appeared to be genuinely interested. She asked pertinent questions and he found himself telling her what he knew of the house’s history.

‘It was built for a wealthy farmer and passed into my own family only two generations back. My ancestors never cared for it,’ he told her. ‘There are few guest chambers and the reception rooms are small. The house does not lend itself to entertaining.’