Page 14 of Sin and Serendipity

He settled for a safe one, instead.

“Do you like art, Miss Wrencroft?”

She hesitated, long enough that he began to wonder if she meant to ignore him, but finally she nodded. “I do. Very much.” She extended a gloved hand toward the painting before them, her lips turning up at the corners. “This painting is a particular favorite of mine. It’s a beautiful work, isn’t it?”

Robert knew next to nothing about art, but pretended to study the piece in contemplative silence, for the sake of his pride, if nothing else. It was an oil painting—he knew that much, at least—and depicted a group of fishermen in their skiffs, attempting to bring in a day’s catch amidst a raging storm.

“It’s…certainly a harrowing scene,” he said finally.

Ellie nodded, her gaze trained on the painting. “I think that’s why I like it so much.”

He turned to her with a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

She was silent for a moment, her head cocked to one side as she considered her answer. “It depicts an experience I will never know,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “A life I will never know. This is one of the greatest things about art, I think. Every piece is a conduit, a portal…a way to borrow a single moment in time from someone else’s existence. It’s incredible.”

Robert stared, his eyes roving over her face as her words took root in his mind. Bloody hell. She was incredible. Every moment he spent with her only made him admire her more.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, a faint blush staining her cheeks as her gaze met his. “I shouldn’t have gone on like that.”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I’ve never thought about art in that way before. You taught me something new today.”

A slow smile graced her lips, shy but pleased, sparking her eyes until they shone like burnished gold. A dangerous warmth began to spread through Robert’s chest, and he swallowed, forcing his gaze away.

She is not for you.

He let the words wash over him, repeating them again and again in his mind until the curious warmth began to cool.

“I take it you are not an art lover, then?” she asked a moment later, her tone quizzical rather than reproving.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he cleared his throat. “I like music. But watercolors and sculptures and the like?” He shook his head. “That was my brother, George’s, passion. He was the artist in the family. He could go on and on about art for hours, and often did.” A smile touched his lips.

Ellie was silent for a moment, and then: “Is he…?”

Robert nodded. “He perished at Toulouse.”

“I am sorry for your loss, my lord.”

“Thank you.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not the only man who lost his brother in the war, of course. Some suffered even greater losses than my family did.”

“That may be true,” she said, “but it does not diminish your own loss. Or lessen the pain any.” Her words, and her gaze, were soft with compassion.

Swallowing past the sudden knot in his throat, Robert turned to stare at the painting with unseeing eyes. “No, it doesn’t,” he said, his voice gruff. “I still miss him. Every day.”

Ellie studied Lord Darrington’s profile, her heart aching for him, for the pain he still suffered over the loss of his brother. So many men had died during the war, their families left to pick up the pieces and carry on, never to be the same again.

Not for the first time, she sent up a quick prayer of thanks that her own family had been spared such a grievous loss, even as a pang of guilt struck her that so many, like Lord Darrington, had not been so lucky.

“You mentioned sisters the first time we met,” she said, steering the conversation to a hopefully happier topic. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Four.” His lip curled up in a playful grimace. “George and Freddy came after me, but my sisters, Margaret and Penelope, are older than I am, and both delighted in ordering me about when we were growing up.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “Come to think of it, they still do.”

Ellie laughed. It was obvious the viscount cared for his family a great deal. He spoke of them all with such affection in his voice, and it wasn’t every gentleman who would accompany his mother to an art gallery when he, himself, did not care to go.

She liked that about him. Rather a lot, actually.

“I know all about overbearing older sisters,” she said as they resumed their stroll through the gallery. “I have five of them.”

Lord Darrington’s brows shot up. “Five older sisters? God forbid. Two is more than enough for me, thank you.”