Page 5 of Fair as a Star

Her eyes met his. “Do you?”

“Naturally,” he said. “It’s one of my treasures.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Nonsense.”

“It is.” A glint of humor shone in his gaze. “Do you know, I rather envy my brother. He has a lifetime of such artfully stitched linens to look forward to. Nearly invisible dragonflies and damselflies and whatever other insects take your fancy.”

“Insects. Really. I do occasionally stitch other things.”

“Such as? I can only recall ladybirds and centipedes—”

“I’ve never embroidered a centipede in my life.”

“Caterpillars, then.”

She failed to suppress a smile. “It was butterflies, you wretch. As well you know.”

He flashed her a grin. “Ah, yes. Quite right. I expect you’ve given them up, now that you’ve turned your attention to damselflies.”

“No, indeed. Butterflies are still my favorite subjects.” She was endlessly fascinated by their delicate majesty. By their wings, as colorfully patterned as the stained-glass windows in a great cathedral.

But it was more than that.

“I like things that change into other things,” she said. “That have the ability to transform into something beautiful.”

“Everything you stitch is beautiful,” he said.

The compliment filled Beryl with a warm glow. Despite her protestations, she took pride in her whitework. His recognition of it meant the world to her. “You’re very kind to say so.”

“It’s the truth, merely.”

Up ahead, the road split in two at the trunk of an enormous oak. The Grange was to the left, Rivenhall Park to the right.

She and Mark came to a halt.

There was no more point in delaying. It was time to go home. To see her mother and sister, and to face her future with Henry. Beryl no longer felt suffocated by the prospect. Being with Mark had given her room to breathe, just as it always did.

“I’d best go the rest of the way on my own.” She slid her arm from his. “Thank you for accompanying me this far.”

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly. In church on Sunday, if not before.” On impulse, she stretched up to press a brief, grateful kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye for now.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move or even seem to breathe. As she turned away from him to walk down the left branch of the road, she had the strange sense he was still standing where she’d left him. Frozen to the spot, watching her.

She didn’t look back to find out.

Mark entered the library at Rivenhall Park, shutting the door behind him. The dark wood-paneled room was unchanged from his father’s time. Bookcases laden with heavy leather-bound volumes still lined the walls, and a rich red-and-gold Aubusson carpet still covered the floor. The faint residue of pipesmoke lingered in the air. Father’s favorite blend. And at the opposite end of the room, in lonely splendor, was a mahogany desk of truly magnificent proportions. Father’s desk.

But not anymore.

Behind it, his head bent over a ledger, sat Mark’s older brother, Henry.

Sir Henry, now.

He looked so much like their father that Mark almost recoiled. But he was no longer a lad. He was a man of thirty. A sensible clergyman who had long since ceased being intimidated by his brother’s granite exterior.

Crossing the room, he came to stand in front of the desk. He saw no utility in mincing words. “I’ve just encountered Miss Burnham.”