Secrets of a Perfect Night by Stephanie Laurens, Victoria Alexander, Rachel Gibson Read Free Book Online Page B
about her ankle.
“There.”
He nodded in approval, then sat beside her.
Abby said nothing—she didn’t trust herself not to scream.
After a pregnant moment, the reprobate beside her inquired, “Would you like your book?”
“Please.” The word nearly strangled her, but she got it out.
He rose, fetched her book, and handed it to her. She accepted it with a nod, opened it, and started to read.
He resumed his seat beside her—and watched.
Abby had intended to sulk for the rest of the evening, but when, after dinner, Adrian discovered her chess set and challenged her to a match, she forgot. The fact that her ankle had not swelled and she was therefore back on her own slippered feet and no longer consigned to being carried by him on a regular basis contributed considerably to her improved equilibrium.
The fact that she beat him twice and lost only once completed her recovery.
They retired for the night in perfect accord. She came down the next morning in her usual sunny and equable frame of mind.
“How did you come to be living here?” Adrian asked as she joined him at the breakfast table. “You didn’t say.”
“Bryan married.” Abby paused to take a sip of tea.
Bryan was Abby’s older brother; Adrian remembered him, but they had never been friends. Bryan was younger, and much more straitlaced, than he.
“His wife’s name is Ester—of the Dorset Pooles. Shortly before the wedding, Great-aunt Threve died and left the cottage to me. It seemed the perfect solution—I didn’t want to stay at the Hall, forever under Ester’s feet.”
That, Adrian could understand. “So Bryan and Ester are at the Hall—”
“And their family—they have three girls.”
Sitting back, his coffee cup in hand, Adrian watched Abby butter a slice of toast. “So what do you do with your time? Still wander the moors looking for flowers?”
Abby nodded. “I do indeed. I still paint—I paint what I find, then…”
She trailed off; he caught her eye and lifted a brow.
She studied him, then shrugged. “I paint for the Royal Gardens at Kew—for their records. I’m the artist for Dartmoor—all the moor species.”
Adrian considered her, considered what she’d just revealed. Only the very best of botanical artists were invited to contribute to the records of the Royal Gardens. He sipped his coffee, watching her from over the rim of the cup. “I’d like to see your studio.”
Gushing wasn’t his style. She would have squirmed if he’d praised her, but he knew she would hear the sincerity in his voice. She tilted her head, still studying him, then nodded. “Yes, all right. I’ll take you up after breakfast. I want to check on my pigments, anyway.”
Half the attic had been converted into an airy studio, although presently the shutters were tight over the wide windows. While Abby poked at her pots, Adrian wandered the room, studying the sketches on the big tables, the finished paintings on the walls.
Seeing them, he would have guessed her prominence even had she not told him. The works were vibrant in color, elegant in form, and painstakingly detailed, executed with an unwavering eye for accuracy. He recognized various flowers. This, he thought, as he looked around, was what had become of the Abby he knew.
He’d always treated the moor as his private riding range, the wild country at one with his heart. He’d first started stumbling over Abby when she’d been six. Out on her pony, she’d be searching for wildflowers, forroots and bulbs. A grubby urchin, she’d often appeared, her hands streaked with dirt from where she’d scrabbled among rocks and boulders. But she was as fearless as he when it came to the moor, equally at home in its wildness.
Over the years, they’d met often, although they never made arrangements to meet. They’d see each other somewhere and stop to chat, to talk. Early in their acquaintance, Adrian had realized that Abby’s brother made fun of her obsession. Her parents
“There.”
He nodded in approval, then sat beside her.
Abby said nothing—she didn’t trust herself not to scream.
After a pregnant moment, the reprobate beside her inquired, “Would you like your book?”
“Please.” The word nearly strangled her, but she got it out.
He rose, fetched her book, and handed it to her. She accepted it with a nod, opened it, and started to read.
He resumed his seat beside her—and watched.
Abby had intended to sulk for the rest of the evening, but when, after dinner, Adrian discovered her chess set and challenged her to a match, she forgot. The fact that her ankle had not swelled and she was therefore back on her own slippered feet and no longer consigned to being carried by him on a regular basis contributed considerably to her improved equilibrium.
The fact that she beat him twice and lost only once completed her recovery.
They retired for the night in perfect accord. She came down the next morning in her usual sunny and equable frame of mind.
“How did you come to be living here?” Adrian asked as she joined him at the breakfast table. “You didn’t say.”
“Bryan married.” Abby paused to take a sip of tea.
Bryan was Abby’s older brother; Adrian remembered him, but they had never been friends. Bryan was younger, and much more straitlaced, than he.
“His wife’s name is Ester—of the Dorset Pooles. Shortly before the wedding, Great-aunt Threve died and left the cottage to me. It seemed the perfect solution—I didn’t want to stay at the Hall, forever under Ester’s feet.”
That, Adrian could understand. “So Bryan and Ester are at the Hall—”
“And their family—they have three girls.”
Sitting back, his coffee cup in hand, Adrian watched Abby butter a slice of toast. “So what do you do with your time? Still wander the moors looking for flowers?”
Abby nodded. “I do indeed. I still paint—I paint what I find, then…”
She trailed off; he caught her eye and lifted a brow.
She studied him, then shrugged. “I paint for the Royal Gardens at Kew—for their records. I’m the artist for Dartmoor—all the moor species.”
Adrian considered her, considered what she’d just revealed. Only the very best of botanical artists were invited to contribute to the records of the Royal Gardens. He sipped his coffee, watching her from over the rim of the cup. “I’d like to see your studio.”
Gushing wasn’t his style. She would have squirmed if he’d praised her, but he knew she would hear the sincerity in his voice. She tilted her head, still studying him, then nodded. “Yes, all right. I’ll take you up after breakfast. I want to check on my pigments, anyway.”
Half the attic had been converted into an airy studio, although presently the shutters were tight over the wide windows. While Abby poked at her pots, Adrian wandered the room, studying the sketches on the big tables, the finished paintings on the walls.
Seeing them, he would have guessed her prominence even had she not told him. The works were vibrant in color, elegant in form, and painstakingly detailed, executed with an unwavering eye for accuracy. He recognized various flowers. This, he thought, as he looked around, was what had become of the Abby he knew.
He’d always treated the moor as his private riding range, the wild country at one with his heart. He’d first started stumbling over Abby when she’d been six. Out on her pony, she’d be searching for wildflowers, forroots and bulbs. A grubby urchin, she’d often appeared, her hands streaked with dirt from where she’d scrabbled among rocks and boulders. But she was as fearless as he when it came to the moor, equally at home in its wildness.
Over the years, they’d met often, although they never made arrangements to meet. They’d see each other somewhere and stop to chat, to talk. Early in their acquaintance, Adrian had realized that Abby’s brother made fun of her obsession. Her parents