Oliver watchedPolly leave the room. The moment she did so, his smile faded and he moved quickly toward the small side table between those narrow windows. There, he picked up the small miniature once more and studied it intently.
He knew where he had seen the man in that portrait before. Captain Winters had been on the same train that had brought him from London to York. What had happened at York? Why had the man not taken the train from York to Newcastle? Had he done so and Oliver had just missed it? But if so, then why had he not yet reached Mansford Hall?
Oliver knew that he could not say anything to Polly about it. She already insisted on believing that her brother was alive, and he was not so convinced of Mr. Winters-Beaton’s account of things that he would not entertain that possibility. But if he spoke of seeing the man on the train, he would only shore up that belief and if he were wrong, then she would be devastated.
The epiphany had hit him halfway through the act of cutting down the single Scotch Pine he’d found near the perimeter of the stone fence that surrounded the house and garden. Trudging back to the house, through the snow, lugging his prize behind him, he’d been waiting for a chance to get into the parlor and examine that portrait more closely. Now, having done so, he was almost certain that he had seen Captain Winters.
“You are terribly fascinated by my brother’s portrait,” she commented, coming back into the parlor carting a sewing basket.
“Just thinking that you all don’t look very much alike,” he said. “For which I am very thankful.”
“You do not find him handsome?” she teased.
“I’m hardly the one to consult about another man’s handsomeness… but I would not alter a single thing about you. You are lovely, just as you are.”
She said nothing, but the sweet smile that played about her lips was a lovely sight. If he could, Oliver thought, he’d make her smile like that every day.
The enormity of that thought settled over him. That somehow, after only a few days, he was looking at forever with her should have been terrifying to him. And yet, it was not. It felt right. So very, very right.
“Let’s see what glorious things you’ve brought us to deck our tree with,” he said.
Polly then opened her sewing basket, pulling out lengths of ribbon and pretty buttons. There were scraps of fabric, as well. “I think we can make it look presentable, at least.”
“I think we can do anything…if we do it together.”
NINE
December 18th—Evening
Dinner had been simple. A hearty stew, with bread followed by leftover apple tarts. A cheery blaze popped and crackled in the fireplace. Elspeth was warming herself before it and snoring softly. More greenery and ribbons had been added to the mantle and candles cast a soft glow over the room, the flickering light making the various buttons and baubles that were strung on the tree glisten.
They were settled together on the small settee. Polly’s head rested on his shoulder and he had his feet stretched out before him, resting on a small footstool. It was a very domestic scene, like an old married couple. And it felt right. Peaceful and yet there was the promise of something more—with Polly so close to him, there was always that underlying heat, the insistent hum of desire ready to spring to life.
“I like this,” he said softly.
“The tree?”
“That’s certainly part of it,” he admitted. “But no. I like being with you. I like how easy it feels, how comfortable, and how right it feels.”
She sat up then, a slight frown drawing her brows into a furrow. “But?”
“There are no buts,” he said. “Just an observation and a statement of my appreciation for you.”
Her frown eased then. “Oh. Well, in the spirit of reciprocity, I enjoy being with you. Not just… well, the physical intimacies. But just this. And I know it won’t last forever—that you’ll go back to your life in London and I will stay here.”
His life in London.It wasn’t very much of one. He felt hemmed in by it, trapped to the point that he would seek out boxing matches just to ease the tension that invariably built up inside him while living in his small set of cramped rooms and working in an even smaller office. His position with Denby and Clarkson had only been granted to him as a favor to his father. They were, after all, one of the more prestigious firms in London, and the son of a marquess was to work for a solicitor, it should at least be one of some renown.
“London has its charms… but it also has its many, many flaws. I’m beginning to see the joys of country living. If it’s the right bit of country and the right woman to share it with.”
Polly’s eyes widened, then lit with delight. “Maybe the cards and the tea leaves were right after all.”
He didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t a believer in the art of fortune telling, per se, but he did believe in the magic that was Polly Winters.
But there was no chance to discuss that further. A knock sounded on the front door and Polly bounded up from the settee. “It isn’t Claymore,” she said. “He won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“I’ll get the door,” Oliver stated. “You sit.”
“It’s Cecil,” she stated flatly. “I can feel his malice seeping in already.”
