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She crossed her arms around herself. ‘My father is alive and he has no care of his treatment of us.’ She shuddered. ‘Not even a letter to see if we lived or died. Perhaps that is part of the reason I had to travel to England. If I’d merely wanted to escape Stephanos, I could possibly have found a French sailor from one of the vessels in the harbour. And I could have used them to send a message to the museum in France.’
‘I would hope you are pleased you chose Ascalon.’
‘Malista. Yes.’ She looked to the rain-splattered window.
He stared at her, his mouth straight. He took her hand, his grasp overpowering her. He pulled her to stand in front of him and the room was silent. He touched her cheek and held her arms. ‘I am better than the French sailors.’
Even though she felt no true joy, her lips did curl up. ‘I said you were better.’
‘Not with conviction.’
‘You’re an earl.’
His voice was petal soft. ‘And, sweet, you’re a goddess. You outrank me.’
Chapter Thirteen
Melina’s fingers traced the delicate lace at the capped sleeves of the dress the seamstress had brought that morning. This gown was more colourful—only because the brown was darker and the ribbon bows at the sleeves were pink. The dress fit better, too, and the fabric was silk. Her birthmark showed at the edge of her bodice, peeking out, reminding her of her link to her sisters. She had asked the seamstress to make sure the mark showed.
When Warrington first saw her in the garment, he took a step backwards.
The step might have concerned her, except the look in his eyes could have lit a candle, and it caused an answering flame to spark deep within her stomach.
And she felt stronger, just from the way he looked at her. A woman might grow used to such attention. She walked towards him. He smiled. Even the silk against her felt more luxurious when his eyes brushed over her.
Warrington hurried her to the hackney. He’d said a chaperon wasn’t necessary, as they’d keep the shades drawn in the carriage and not be in public.
As the vehicle lumbered along, Melina could not help stealing glances at the street. The houses. She could not believe a world of so much opulence and then, sometimes, such sad people trudging along. And young boys dressed in tatters. Running freely. Without parents nearby.
The vehicle stopped in front of a home and she looked out. She had to gasp to get a breath of air.
‘Is a king’s home as big at this?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the grandeur. This creation was someone’s masterpiece. Birds flew from a small fountain and a tree had low branches spreading out gracefully, like welcoming arms. Each blade of grass looked exactly as if an artist painted it.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘And as far as I know Hawkins doesn’t have a country house, only this one.’ He moved out of the conveyance and reached back to lend her his hand.
‘I would say it is enough.’ She put her foot on the lowered platform from the side of the hackney and slid her gloved fingertips into his outstretched hand. ‘I was impressed when I saw your home. Five families could live in the town house. The whole of Melos could live in this one.’
‘But Hawkins doesn’t truly own it. His wife’s family does.’
Melina stopped her footsteps and looked to Warrington, raising a brow. ‘So could she toss him from it?’
‘I doubt it would be that simple.’ He put a hand at her back. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter. A woman who wants to make her husband unhappy does better to stay at his side.’
She moved up the steps of the grand house—comparing the mansion to the rooms she’d lived in her whole life.
Melina stopped for a moment, thankful the knowledge of her father’s life never reached Melos. At least, she hoped her mother never knew.
While she remained at the door, unable to move forward, Warrington stood beside her, one palm on the small of her back. He reached towards the gleaming knocker. He gave two quick raps.
She sighed, movement exaggerated. ‘The poor man. Living in a sad state such as this. Nothing to do all day but the one thing he loves. He didn’t travel to Melos for revenge. You don’t leave riches to live as he did. He is truly mad for his art.’
He patted the small of her back.
When the butler opened the door, Warrington gave the servant a nod. Warrington’s hand slid to Melina’s side as he walked into the house. He moved between her and the butler, and she had no choice but to step with him. Melina noted the scent of paint. Even after artwork dried enough to be hung, it could be months before the lingering smell of the pigments left it. And she imagined in this house, the scents never completely left.
