Her mouth curved upward, wondering again if he was teasing.
“No, it’s true,” he stated, apparently reading her expression. “I would show you except he only merited a very small pencil rendering that is tucked away in a little-used bedchamber at Lynd Park, the Gregory family estate in Lancashire. Mayhap you’ll visit me there someday and I can show you,” he finished, the timbre of his voice turning low and silky.
Her heart gave a flutter, a sudden vision of standing with him in a small bedchamber inside his country home making her blood grow warm.
“For now, however,” he said in a smooth transition, “let me show you a portrait of my mother.”
Mutely she followed, willing her pulse to return to its usual steady rhythm.
The painting was large and hung in a position of prominence in the center of the gallery. Its frame was feminine, the gold-painted wood carved with sweeping sprays of dogwood blossoms and tiny trailing leaves. As for the subject, she looked serene and young, perhaps newly married then and dreaming of the future as she sat on a stone bench in a well-manicured garden. A small black and tan spaniel lay sleeping, curled next to her pink satin slippers, the hem of her matching gown with its panniered skirts from an earlier era barely brushing the grass.
Kind.
It was the first word that came to mind when she looked at Nick’s mother. Kind and lovely with a delicate beauty that seemed to glow from within. In that moment, Emma knew exactly where Nick came by his humor, happy delight shining outward from the soft smile and gentle grace that had been captured with finesse by the artist.
“She was beautiful,” Emma said quietly.
“Yes. Inside and out.”
She could see why he’d remarked that his older brother favored her, their coloring and the general shape of their faces merely masculine and feminine versions of the same.
“You must miss her a great deal,” Emma said. “My mother died when I was twelve, and I have often wondered what my life might have been like had she lived.” Although given the war-torn nature of the Continent, she would likely have been sent abroad to school no matter her mother’s wishes or survival. Perhaps in the end she would have known her no better than she did now. Still, what she wouldn’t give to have her back.
Nick laid a hand on her elbow. “I suppose I am lucky to have had my mother into adulthood, then. But come, before the both of us fall into the dismals. Let me show you the rest of the collection of colorful Gregory ancestors and relations.”
By the time their tour was finished, he had her laughing again, telling her one absurd—and likely exaggerated—story after another.
“What do you say to that cup of tea now?” he questioned, placing the candelabra on a nearby side table. “I know I could do with a brandy after dealing with this checkered lot.”
“You are far too harsh on your own relations, my lord. I found them most fascinating.”
“That’s because you haven’t met any of them in person, except Aunt Felicity, of course, and she’s in a class all by herself.”
Emma laughed again. “She is at that.”
“The drawing room again, or shall we venture somewhere less formal and take our nightcap in the library?”
Just then, the clock rang out in the hall, announcing the hour with a series of bass chimes.
Eleven o’clock.
Early for city hours, she supposed, but not for her. She was still accustomed to the hours she had kept at school, where she was normally in bed by ten and drifting off to sleep by now. She yawned at the thought, her body reminding her of how little rest she had enjoyed of late.
“Or perhaps you would prefer to retire for the evening,” he said, as she lowered the hand she’d raised to cover her open mouth.
“Forgive me, my lord, but it has been a long day.”
“Nick,” he said gently. “Surely we can dispense with the formalities, at least when we are alone.”
Emma wasn’t sure that was a wise idea. Yet in that moment, she couldn’t seem to deny him. “Very well. Nick.”
He smiled. “Emma.”
Before she knew what he intended, he reached out and skimmed the back of one knuckle over the curve of her cheek and across her temple, pausing to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.
Fire blossomed in a sizzling arc across her skin, her lips parting on a sharp, swift inhalation. She shivered and lost herself in the silvery depths of his eyes.
“Loose curl,” he murmured.
“What?” she whispered, wondering if he could hear the erratic thrumming of her heart where it pounded beneath her breasts.
“You must have lost a hairpin,” he explained. “No doubt it will turn up eventually.”