turned out to be a meal of sausage and bread and cheese; hardly the dainty tidbits she was used to, but welcome all the same. Her nerves had for once gotten the better of
her appetite, and this was the first solid food she'd eaten since the day before.
When Farnham returned to clear their plates—apparently, the other servants were on holiday—Nic showed her to her room.
It was tinier than her maid's chamber at home, with a single window overlooking the back garden, now
a tangle of winter brown. The bed was narrow, the washstand chipped, and the Persian rug had seen better days. Dust grimed the painted baseboard, though the floor had at some recent time been swept.
Nic seemed to see nothing wrong in offering these amenities to her.
And why should he? she scolded herself. He had no reason to think she'd known better.
"It's very cozy," she said, forcing a smile.
"Well, the fireplace draws. And we never stint on coal. You're welcome to use as much as you like."
Hm, she thought, squinting at the loaded bucket. Was she expected to stoke the fire herself? She supposed she could manage. She'd seen housemaids do it often enough. To hide her consternation, she moved to the mantel. A painting hung above it, a nice one. If she recalled her "finishing" in art, it was a copy of Correggio's Jupiter and Io . The cloudlike god was as sooty and thick as London fog, which
didn't stop the nymph he held from swooning in his misty arms.
Merry could imagine all too easily why Nic liked it.
"The water closet is across the hall," he was saying. "Nothing fancy, but you'll have it to yourself."
"I'm sure that will be fine," she said, though she wasn't sure at all. She nodded at the painting. "Did you copy this?"
He smiled and joined her. "Yes, I did. You have a good eye." He tapped the simple wooden frame. "I began my studies in Vienna . My master had a habit of tossing his students' paintings in the fire. This
was the first of my efforts to escape the blaze. Ever since, I've had a fondness for Correggio."
"I suppose you studied all over Europe ."
His expression grew distant. "I've seen a fair amount of it. Geneva . Florence . And Paris , of course,
when politics allowed. It's good to know the world is bigger than the place you live."
"I've never been out of England ."
He looked down at her, his gaze warming as he wound one of her curls around his finger. Those eyes of his ... They were like molten silver, made even brighter by their short, dark fringe of lashes. She didn't know which moved her more: the kindness they held, or the banked erotic fire.
"Where would you travel if you could?" he asked;
She struggled to think with the heat blooming thick inside her. "The Forbidden City ," she said. "Or
maybe Rome ."
He allowed her hair to spring free of his hold. " Rome might be more practical than China , but I suppose you can go anywhere in your dreams."
His tone was so smoky, so suggestive, she felt compelled to step back. Here again was his persuasion,
the sensual charm no woman could resist.
His mouth curled knowingly at her retreat, his eyes half-lidded with enjoyment. "I'll let you freshen up and rest then, shall I? We serve dinner at eight. You can eat with me, or Famham can bring you a tray, whichever you prefer. It'll be simple fare until my cook returns, but I'm sure we'll manage."
"I'm sure," she agreed, her response embarrassingly ragged. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for showing me to my room. And thank you for taking me on."
His smile deepened, lending his eyes a glow that said the pleasure was all his. He stepped backward to
the threshold, then laid his finger beside his nose.
"I'll see you later, Mary Colfax," he said, and closed the door behind him.
Reality struck like a cartload of bricks as soon as she was alone. She, who had never left the bosom of her family except to visit female friends, now shared a
her appetite, and this was the first solid food she'd eaten since the day before.
When Farnham returned to clear their plates—apparently, the other servants were on holiday—Nic showed her to her room.
It was tinier than her maid's chamber at home, with a single window overlooking the back garden, now
a tangle of winter brown. The bed was narrow, the washstand chipped, and the Persian rug had seen better days. Dust grimed the painted baseboard, though the floor had at some recent time been swept.
Nic seemed to see nothing wrong in offering these amenities to her.
And why should he? she scolded herself. He had no reason to think she'd known better.
"It's very cozy," she said, forcing a smile.
"Well, the fireplace draws. And we never stint on coal. You're welcome to use as much as you like."
Hm, she thought, squinting at the loaded bucket. Was she expected to stoke the fire herself? She supposed she could manage. She'd seen housemaids do it often enough. To hide her consternation, she moved to the mantel. A painting hung above it, a nice one. If she recalled her "finishing" in art, it was a copy of Correggio's Jupiter and Io . The cloudlike god was as sooty and thick as London fog, which
didn't stop the nymph he held from swooning in his misty arms.
Merry could imagine all too easily why Nic liked it.
"The water closet is across the hall," he was saying. "Nothing fancy, but you'll have it to yourself."
"I'm sure that will be fine," she said, though she wasn't sure at all. She nodded at the painting. "Did you copy this?"
He smiled and joined her. "Yes, I did. You have a good eye." He tapped the simple wooden frame. "I began my studies in Vienna . My master had a habit of tossing his students' paintings in the fire. This
was the first of my efforts to escape the blaze. Ever since, I've had a fondness for Correggio."
"I suppose you studied all over Europe ."
His expression grew distant. "I've seen a fair amount of it. Geneva . Florence . And Paris , of course,
when politics allowed. It's good to know the world is bigger than the place you live."
"I've never been out of England ."
He looked down at her, his gaze warming as he wound one of her curls around his finger. Those eyes of his ... They were like molten silver, made even brighter by their short, dark fringe of lashes. She didn't know which moved her more: the kindness they held, or the banked erotic fire.
"Where would you travel if you could?" he asked;
She struggled to think with the heat blooming thick inside her. "The Forbidden City ," she said. "Or
maybe Rome ."
He allowed her hair to spring free of his hold. " Rome might be more practical than China , but I suppose you can go anywhere in your dreams."
His tone was so smoky, so suggestive, she felt compelled to step back. Here again was his persuasion,
the sensual charm no woman could resist.
His mouth curled knowingly at her retreat, his eyes half-lidded with enjoyment. "I'll let you freshen up and rest then, shall I? We serve dinner at eight. You can eat with me, or Famham can bring you a tray, whichever you prefer. It'll be simple fare until my cook returns, but I'm sure we'll manage."
"I'm sure," she agreed, her response embarrassingly ragged. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for showing me to my room. And thank you for taking me on."
His smile deepened, lending his eyes a glow that said the pleasure was all his. He stepped backward to
the threshold, then laid his finger beside his nose.
"I'll see you later, Mary Colfax," he said, and closed the door behind him.
Reality struck like a cartload of bricks as soon as she was alone. She, who had never left the bosom of her family except to visit female friends, now shared a
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