stone with a shining leaded roof of fish-scale tiles. Emmie glimpsed rows of dormer windows, rounded turrets, and elegantly carved pilasters.
“How lovely.” She made the mistake of looking at him, at those deep-set silver eyes, and said the first thing that occurred to her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He was looking at her oddly again. She’d said something wrong—again.
“You’ve never seen the chateaux of France?” he asked. “Just where was this French boarding school you attended, Miss de Winter?”
“Oh. Well—for shame, my lord. I try to compliment your house, and you find fault with me.”
Emmie didn’t breathe while she waited for him to respond. Drat this man. He made her feel as ifthere were mad butterflies in her brain. He was frowning at her, not in his usual ill-humored manner, but in confusion. Finally he smiled and bowed.
“You’re right. Please forgive me.” His arm swept around. “The garden is Italian, and too formal for my taste, but I love the galleries.”
Relieved to have escaped another blunder, Emily glanced around the court. Then she turned to stare at the house again, aghast. She’d been looking for a spiral, and she’d found it, or rather, them. There were spirals everywhere. Spirals formed one of the elements of the friezes that separated the first and second floors, and the second and third floors. A pattern of sculptured wreaths, tendrils, grotesque figures, and spirals repeated itself over and over. Spirals decorated the architrave over the portal for the front door. They were on decorated piers that surmounted the architrave; they were on ornate gables carved over the dormer windows of the house. She even saw spirals on keystones in the rounded arches of the galleries.
“
La chambre sur la spirale
,” Emmie muttered to herself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing, my lord.”
“You said something about a room. Are you tired?”
“No, no. I’m quite interested in architecture, although I don’t know as much as I would wish.”
“Allow me to give you a tour of the whole house, then.”
“I should enjoy that,” Emmie said. What luck. He was going to show her everything right away, and she’d get a better idea of where to start looking.
North offered his arm again. As Emmie laid her hand on his sleeve, he said, “Have you no quotations about houses with which to regale me?”
“I can think of none. Where are we going?”
“To the gallery,” North said as he led her beneath a rounded arch and into darkness.
Emmie stopped at once. “I can’t see.”
“Wait a moment.”
“I still can’t see.”
She felt his hands on her arms as she was turned away from the sunlight. “Don’t look at the light or your eyes will never adjust.”
Blinking rapidly Emmie found she could distinguish him standing in front of her. She could smell a hint of some clean-scented soap, and her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and looked away from him. “What did you want to show me?”
“Do you really enjoy Shakespeare, Miss de Winter?”
“Yes, but what has that to do with—”
“Because since we’ve met I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never met a young lady who could quote Shakespeare, or who even wished to read him. You’re different.”
The sound of his voice zinged from her ears to her spine! She had to get away from him and compose herself. Drat. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t play a part she’d managed easily in the past?
“I think we should go inside. I’m sure Lady Ottoline expects me.”
“No, she doesn’t. Listen to me, Emmie: ‘Is it thy will thy image should keep open/ My heavy eyelids to the weary night?/ Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,/ While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?’ ”
She had always loved words, reading, and literature—what little she got of it—and now Valin’s phrases lifted her into a world inhabited by them alone. If there was magic, it was
“How lovely.” She made the mistake of looking at him, at those deep-set silver eyes, and said the first thing that occurred to her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He was looking at her oddly again. She’d said something wrong—again.
“You’ve never seen the chateaux of France?” he asked. “Just where was this French boarding school you attended, Miss de Winter?”
“Oh. Well—for shame, my lord. I try to compliment your house, and you find fault with me.”
Emmie didn’t breathe while she waited for him to respond. Drat this man. He made her feel as ifthere were mad butterflies in her brain. He was frowning at her, not in his usual ill-humored manner, but in confusion. Finally he smiled and bowed.
“You’re right. Please forgive me.” His arm swept around. “The garden is Italian, and too formal for my taste, but I love the galleries.”
Relieved to have escaped another blunder, Emily glanced around the court. Then she turned to stare at the house again, aghast. She’d been looking for a spiral, and she’d found it, or rather, them. There were spirals everywhere. Spirals formed one of the elements of the friezes that separated the first and second floors, and the second and third floors. A pattern of sculptured wreaths, tendrils, grotesque figures, and spirals repeated itself over and over. Spirals decorated the architrave over the portal for the front door. They were on decorated piers that surmounted the architrave; they were on ornate gables carved over the dormer windows of the house. She even saw spirals on keystones in the rounded arches of the galleries.
“
La chambre sur la spirale
,” Emmie muttered to herself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing, my lord.”
“You said something about a room. Are you tired?”
“No, no. I’m quite interested in architecture, although I don’t know as much as I would wish.”
“Allow me to give you a tour of the whole house, then.”
“I should enjoy that,” Emmie said. What luck. He was going to show her everything right away, and she’d get a better idea of where to start looking.
North offered his arm again. As Emmie laid her hand on his sleeve, he said, “Have you no quotations about houses with which to regale me?”
“I can think of none. Where are we going?”
“To the gallery,” North said as he led her beneath a rounded arch and into darkness.
Emmie stopped at once. “I can’t see.”
“Wait a moment.”
“I still can’t see.”
She felt his hands on her arms as she was turned away from the sunlight. “Don’t look at the light or your eyes will never adjust.”
Blinking rapidly Emmie found she could distinguish him standing in front of her. She could smell a hint of some clean-scented soap, and her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and looked away from him. “What did you want to show me?”
“Do you really enjoy Shakespeare, Miss de Winter?”
“Yes, but what has that to do with—”
“Because since we’ve met I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never met a young lady who could quote Shakespeare, or who even wished to read him. You’re different.”
The sound of his voice zinged from her ears to her spine! She had to get away from him and compose herself. Drat. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t play a part she’d managed easily in the past?
“I think we should go inside. I’m sure Lady Ottoline expects me.”
“No, she doesn’t. Listen to me, Emmie: ‘Is it thy will thy image should keep open/ My heavy eyelids to the weary night?/ Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,/ While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?’ ”
She had always loved words, reading, and literature—what little she got of it—and now Valin’s phrases lifted her into a world inhabited by them alone. If there was magic, it was
Similar Books
