14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

O n Monday Nathaniel smiled when the butler announced that John had come. He set down the quill he'd been using to update his ledger. "Send him in."

"He is in the morning room, sir."

"Well, then have him join me here."

"He asked that you join them in there ."

" Them ?"

Thompson's eyebrows rose.

What was the man getting at? Had Al or Eddie come with John? Why had they not just let themselves into his study?

He rose from his desk. "Very well."

Voices filtered out of the morning room as he approached. However, when Thompson opened the door, it was not one of his friends who sat across from John.

Melior ceased her animated story the moment he entered the room, her gaze finding her lap as it often did of late. It was strange when he compared it to her previously arrogant behavior.

But with him she'd been far more quiet, only discussing the commonest of subjects across the dinner table such as the warming weather, how she liked her room, the visits she'd received, and the food they ate. He hated it. If only he could call back the life he'd seen in her moments ago and splash it through their own interactions.

Stepping forward, he grasped John's outstretched hand. "Welcome home, my friend."

"Glad to be back." The smile in John's eyes spoke of his delight at escaping the city. If he did not have obligations in Parliament as a viscount, Nathaniel was quite certain John would never go to Town.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as they all took up their seats. Melior sat on the cream sofa covered in pink roses and green leaves, and he and John chose the matching green chairs across from her.

Turning to John, he asked, "What are your plans now that you have come back?"

John rubbed his pointed chin and glanced at Melior. She still studied her hands. "I had thought to offer my services to you."

"To me? What sort of service are we speaking of?"

"I… That is… You know how much I enjoy painting."

"Yes." Nathaniel waited for his friend to continue, knowing how much of a struggle it was for him to speak in front of such a beautiful woman as Melior.

"I thought I might paint a wedding portrait for you," John said so quickly that Nathaniel was not quite certain if he'd heard him correctly.

"A wedding portrait?" he asked.

Melior looked at John, excitement in her cobalt blue eyes.

John blushed. "If you do not wish it, I understand, I simply—"

"No, no. It sounds lovely." Melior leaned forward in her seat. "It has been a year or two since I sat for a painting and I would love to see your work, Lord Newhurst. I am unsure if you know, but I paint as well."

Of course she did. There was not one accomplishment that she did not have, Lady Kendall having hired the best masters in every art possible. Melior danced without flaw, embroidered elegantly, and played the pianoforte nearly as beautifully as she sang.

John rubbed the palms of his hands on his trousers. "I hope you will for… forgive my deficiencies then. I am by no means… a… a Michaelangelo."

Melior smiled brightly. "I am sure you are far more talented than I am, Your Lordship. It will be a delight to see your work. While I enjoy painting, I am not a master either."

"What medium do you prefer?" John asked of his own accord.

"Watercolor mostly, but I have dabbled in oils every now and then."

"My paintings are exclusively oil. I find watercolor difficult to control."

"It can be…"

Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips together, their conversation fading into the background of his mind. His wife's excitement at the prospect of a painting was natural, but John's sudden openness was not. Somehow, Melior had stumbled onto one of three topics his friend could converse on for hours. And one of which Nathaniel was completely ignorant.

Melior's dark eyebrows rose and fell with the conversation, her eyes alive with interest. Even the tip of her pert little nose expressed the life the topic poured back into her by bobbing slightly up and down as she spoke. He focused on the movement and for the first time noted how the curves at the tip created a heart-like shape. It was mesmerizing.

John smiled at something she said and Nathaniel frowned at her answering grin. Why did she have to flash such an inviting smile? Especially when it was not directed at him.

Melior glanced at Sir Nathaniel and her smile fell. His stern expression made her wonder if he was not as thrilled at the idea of Lord Newhurst painting them. Frankly, she was happy to be doing anything that afforded her to be with people as her husband seemed determined to avoid her. She'd spent far too much time alone in her room or the library the last two weeks—her afternoon teas with her new mother-in-law and the infrequent visits from neighbors the only reprieve from the loneliness.

Thank the heavens for Lady Stanford or her days would be unbearable. She had found something of a friend in the sweet woman as they talked of the latest fashions intermixed with bits of neighborhood gossip, which seemed to be Lady Stanford's favorite pastime. That and hinting at Melior and Nathaniel's future children. It was something Melior had learned to laugh at, but secretly pricked her heart.

And while there were days that Lady Stanford's illness made her too weak to be good company, she never barred Melior from their daily visits. On those days, Melior had found solace in simply sitting with the lady while she slept or describing some of her favorite activities in London.

But it was not enough. She was used to being surrounded by people.

Fearing Sir Nathaniel might refuse his friend, she said, "Is it not a generous offer, Sir Nathaniel? You, of course, have already seen your friend's work, but I am exceedingly curious to see his finished masterpiece."

"I would not call it a masterpiece." Lord Newhurst's blush spread to his ears.

"Don't be so modest, John. You know your attention to detail is second to none." Sir Nathaniel sat back and laced his fingers together over his stomach.

The two friends looked at each other and Melior was relieved to see Sir Nathaniel's defensive stance soften.

"When would you like to start?" he asked.

"I thought we might begin tomorrow, if you are both amenable?"

Tomorrow? Melior was disappointed. Could they not begin today? It seemed she was destined to spend another quiet day in the library.

"Very good," Sir Nathaniel said, "Now come with me to the study, John. I have a new book about steam engines that has some fantastical ideas of how they might be used."

Lord Newhurst cast her a hesitant glance, his blue eyes asking a question her husband had not even taken into consideration.

She rose from the sofa. "I suppose I shall leave you both now."

Sadness clouded Lord Newhurst's face and he peered at his friend. The man was more perceptive than she had given him credit. Not wanting to see any more of his pity, she bid them a good day and left.

Melior entered the library. On her first visit to the room, she'd delighted in its tall, well-stocked shelves and elegant furnishings. The dark wood contrasted beautifully with the pink and cream furniture, creating a comfortable space she usually adored. But today it felt oppressive.

She found a copy of Robert Burns' poems and took up her favorite spot on the pale pink settee. For twenty minutes she tried to decipher the Scottish words, the difficult task nearly wiping away the pain of the rejection she'd felt when her husband dismissed her. But when the clock struck the new hour her mind wandered and her chest began to ache.

She rubbed the spot hoping to dismiss the very physical reaction, but it did not diminish the fact that she seemed to be unwanted by everyone.

Not having received any correspondence these last few weeks, she'd taken it upon herself to write Edith and Agatha, but there had been no response. And with each day that passed, she wondered if she'd actually receive one.

Even Eddie had not responded to her letters. She'd counted on him to be a regular correspondent—even if he had never been one before. He was the only person—other than Uncle Percy—who had not completely deserted her in all of this, and yet every morning she was met with an empty silver salver… and every night she was met with a solidly closed door.

She picked up a pillow and cuddled it to her chest. At first she'd been relieved Sir Nathaniel stayed in his own chamber, but as each night passed she began to wonder if there was something abhorrently wrong with her, and no doubt there was. The realization of who she'd become over the last five years still pricked at her.

Sir Nathaniel had been kind when company was over and cordial at dinner. But he'd given her no indication as to how he expected their marriage to proceed, leaving her to wonder if they would ever have anything more that stilted conversations between them.

For her own part, she wished for something more. She would even settle for a friendship. But other than those disastrous dinners, he never sought her out, never asked her questions—why, he hardly even looked at her.

Then again, she had not searched him out either. Once or twice she'd thought of making up a reason to visit him in his study, but then dismissed it. He'd only told her where to find him as a social nicety, not because he wanted her there.

Only during the few instances he'd displayed a bit of possessiveness had she dared to hope that he had a little interest in her as a woman. Had she been wrong?

The gentlemen of London always waxed poetic about her beauty, but perhaps it had more to do with her connections than her features. Was she not as desirable as she'd previously assumed?

Was she so undesirable that he did not even want her to produce an heir? Perhaps, like her mother, he had hopes of her dying and leaving him to marry someone else.

She sucked in her breath. Was there someone else? She'd never even considered that he might be pining for another woman. Had she destroyed his chance at happiness with this mystery lady? That must be it.

Guilt settled in her stomach. She'd lamented only her own ruined life, never considering what she'd done to his. From her position he had only to gain a beautiful, well-connected wife, a large dowry, and the prestige of having married above his station. But what had Sir Nathaniel given up to save her from Mr. Fairchild?

Had he been hopelessly in love? Was there even now a young woman crying herself to sleep with grief?

Melior shook her head.

She'd been reading one too many romantic novels of late. If Sir Nathaniel had been so close to a happy marriage he would not have offered for her… would he?

The door opened and she dropped her feet to the floor, whisking her spectacles under an embroidered pillow.

A maid wheeled Lady Stanford into the room and Melior stood to greet her mother-in-law, covertly slipping the book of Burns under the pillow as well.

"Mama, are you feeling better today?" It was an inane question. Of course she was, as she'd not been out of bed since Melior had come to Havencrest, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. No one had ever caught her in such an undignified state. Her own mother would have been appalled at the way she'd lazed about.

"I am. I hope you do not mind me joining you. The housekeeper informed me that you enjoyed spending your days in the library, and I thought we might take tea here."

Melior beamed. "That would be lovely."

"Good, because I have already ordered it."

A footman entered behind the pair, a large tray in hand. Melior gawked at the amount of food. How much did Lady Stanford expect her to eat?

"This looks delicious." She retook her seat.

"Yes, and you must eat as much as you like. You have grown far too thin these last two weeks."

Melior wanted to squirm under her mother-in-law's scrutiny, but her mother had always detested extra movement. Perfectly proper young women were composed at all times. She shook her head, trying to dislodge her mother's reprimand, and with it the influence she'd had on her life. Her gowns had become a little loose, but she'd not thought it noticeable. It was hard to eat when one had little appetite…and when it was hard to see one's meal.

"I shall do my best, Mama." Placing two cucumber sandwiches and a small vanilla cake on her plate, she leaned back and began to nibble.

Lady Stanford rubbed the handles of her chair with gnarled fingers. "I am sorry, my dear, but would you mind pouring the tea?"

Melior immediately sat forward, placing her plate on the small table. How could she have been so thoughtless? Somewhere in her mind she understood that as the new mistress of the house it was her responsibility, but her current relationship with Sir Nathaniel felt more like a long-standing guest than the lady of the house.

"My apologies." She picked up a cup realizing that every other time they'd taken tea, Lady Stanford had asked the footman or a maid to pour. Had she been waiting all this time to see if Melior would take the initiative? Perhaps that was why the servants seemed to turn their noses up at her.

"Do not fret, Melior. It can be difficult adjusting to a new home and new expectations."

Yes it was, especially when those expectations were so undefined. Again, her mind wandered to the many nights she'd stared at a closed door.

She blinked, trying to stay in the present. "Sugar and cream as usual?"

Her mother-in-law nodded. Melior poured the hot water carefully into the porcelain cup, hoping she would not embarrass herself by spilling. The pink and yellow that speckled the cup made her smile. On the third day that she'd taken tea with her mother-in-law, she'd admired the cups, a part of her wishing she had her spectacles so she could see the fine details. Lady Stanford had taken note and asked if she liked the roses that dotted the exterior, to which she'd answered in the affirmative all the while grateful for the information she could not see. Ever since, the set had been the one to come on their tea tray.

Lady Stanford was a dear.

The library door opened with a bang and Melior startled, sloshing hot liquid over the side of her cup and onto her delicate hand. She hissed in pain.

Setting her cup down, she grabbed a linen to cover the burn.

"My apologies," Lord Newhurst said, a sheepish expression on his face. "I forget your library door does not weigh as much as mine."

Lady Stanford chuckled. "Never you mind about that, Johnathan. I am simply glad you have finally come. And where is Nathaniel?"

"Here, Mother." Sir Nathaniel stepped around his friend. "I would not miss tea with my favorite lady." He gave her a charming smile until his eyes connected with Melior. The cheer slipped from his face and he adjusted his jacket.

Melior supposed she should not have expected to be higher in his esteem than his mother, not with the way things had transpired. But after such a greeting, his lack of enthusiasm at seeing her stung. Yes, she'd not wanted this marriage, but it was the only one she would have. Did he not even want to make it work?

"Come, sit," Lady Stanford ordered. "Melior will pour you a cup of tea."

Lord Newhurst crossed to the seat next to Lady Stanford, an easy smile on his face, but Sir Nathaniel appeared perplexed.

"Is something wrong with your hand?"

The heat of the burn had grown making it increasingly hard to keep her face expressionless, but she'd thought she'd accomplished it. Apparently, she was not a skilled actress when pain was involved.

"I seem to have spilled a little tea on it."

To her surprise he sat next to her, gently taking her hands. "May I?"

She allowed him to remove the linen napkin she'd placed over the spot. Lady Stanford gasped and Sir Nathaniel's lips twisted into a frown at the blistered skin.

"When did that happen?" Lady Stanford asked.

Lord Newhurst leaned forward to get a better look. "I would wager it was my fault. Again, I apologize for the abuse of your door."

"Please, do not trouble yourself. I should have been in better possession of myself." Melior tried to pull her hand away from Sir Nathaniel, but he held it firmly.

"Carter, have the cook send up a poultice for Lady Stanford's burn," he said to the footman.

The young man nodded and left the room.

Sir Nathaniel ran a finger lightly around the edges of red on her hand. The contact made a strange warmth spread in her chest.

"Does that hurt?"

"Hmm…? Oh, no. It is only the center that pains me."

He lifted his gaze to hers and gave a tentative smile. "Good. Our cook has an amazing concoction that pulls the pain right out of burns."

She returned his smile. His touch had been so pleasant that she wished he'd caress her hand again. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the others watching. Heat filled her cheeks and she cleared her throat. Gently, she pulled her hand away and tucked it back under the napkin, the warm sensation in her heart superseding the pain.

It was not the first time Sir Nathaniel had disoriented her, but it was the first time she did not push it away. As the others began conversing about the weather, her mind traveled to a time long before she'd entered Society. A time when things were simpler and her mother's demands for perfection had not weighed so much on her mind. A time in a ballroom, with music, and a sweet young man who had been more than willing to teach her the intricate steps of the dance.