‘He has more art in his suite. Shall we go and visit?’ Mr Xavier gestured towards the north wing.
The temptation was strong. Would he be displeased if they disturbed him? Surely, he broke from his work on the Sabbath. Might he protest if they broke his concentration?
‘I thought you said he wanted to be rid of you. Won’t he be vexed by our interruption?’
Mr Xavier waved a dismissive hand in the air. ‘He is harmless.’
Curiosity won out, and though her steps into the north wing hesitated at times, soon Serena stood with Mr Xavier in front of the doors to Mr King’s suite. She chewed on her lip, while he knocked. What excuse might she give for invading Mr King’s privacy? Very little besides the truth. She drew in a deep breath. Calm down, Serena, Mr Xavier brought you here!
His knock echoed into the hallway behind them and sent her heart rate up a notch. Too late to run away now unless he didn’t answer. She’d hardly seen him since that night-time tour, and that strange moment in the ballroom. The seconds ticked by as they waited. One, two, three …
At twenty-three, when Serena was certain Mr King had either not heard, or ignored the knock, footsteps approached the door and it swung open. There he stood, unshaven, dark silk shirt open at the neck with no cravat in sight, his house coat slung wide at his shoulders—not expecting visitors—and smelling of turpentine. Serena’s eyes locked on the masculine hair visible at his open throat, and her heart skipped a beat. Inappropriate, that was their idea to call on him uninvited. She forced her gaze away and turned to leave, heat rising in her cheeks.
But Mr Xavier had no such qualms.
‘Hello Uncle. I’ve brought Miss Bellingham to see your artwork.’
‘Though we can come another time, when it is more suitable,’ Serena added. Mr King was clearly not prepared to receive guests. ‘Sorry for the intrusion, sir.’
Again, Serena turned to flee.
‘Wait. Don’t go. Please. Just give me a moment.’
He motioned them into his large sitting room and then disappeared into an adjoining room. Serena perched on the edge of a chair, ready to fly, and twisted her hands together. What made her so nervous she could not say, except that he stirred unwanted feelings in her. Before she could settle herself, Mr King returned, this time in appropriate attire, albeit still unshaven.
‘I apologise for my untidy appearance. I have been busy.’ He sat opposite her, also on the edge of a sofa. ‘How was your walk on the beach?’
‘Very pleasant, thank you. Mr Xavier came and joined me.’
Mr King glanced at Mr Xavier and then back at her. ‘My nephew is a good sort.’
‘Yes, he is.’ Serena entwined her fingers in the fabric of her skirt until the twists began to cut her circulation. ‘He told me you enjoy painting.’
‘I do, yes. I paint a great deal. There are so many ideas up here, Miss Bellingham.’ He tapped his head. ‘Why, I have started three pieces today. First, a rose at the end of its life, then I pictured an image of Misty and Storm racing through the surf, so I sketched that out. And then I thought it would be grand to do portraits of my nephews. No sooner do I get an outline drawn for one idea, then another fills my head, and I’m sure each one will be a masterpiece.’
Serena stared at him, wide-eyed. The broody expression he usually wore had vanished. The man before her oozed enthusiasm and energy—and conceit—gesturing with his hands as he spoke, hands that still carried stains from the oils he’d been using. His eyes sparked with zeal for his ideas and the art of painting. Instead of clipped, precise phrases, he was chattering. Whatever she had expected from visiting Mr King, this was not it.
‘Well, Mr Xavier has shown me the art around the house. I didn’t realise most of the work was yours.’
Again, Mr King glanced at his nephew. ‘Thank you, Xavier. You honour me.’
Mr Xavier blushed. ‘You know how much I value your paintings.’
Mr King’s eyes held expectation as he turned back to Serena. ‘And what did you think?’
‘They are wonderful.’
‘Aha.’ He clapped his hands. ‘You see. I knew it.’
‘Knew what?’
‘I knew you’d appreciate my art.’
Serena quirked an eyebrow at him. He’d waited for her to notice, so he could exult in her praises?
‘You are very confident.’ Had he forgotten how much he’d hurt her family? Perhaps he needed a reminder. She pointed to one of his paintings. ‘I don’t like that one so much—it is a little dark for my taste.’
Mr Xavier choked back a laugh and then covered his mouth, but Mr King seemed to not even notice her slight.
‘Come, I must show you some more.’
He grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet in his enthusiasm, and she let out a startled ‘oh’.
‘Uncle!’ With a single word from Mr Xavier, Mr King dropped her hand.
‘Forgive me.’ The words sounded sincere enough, but immediately Mr King’s enthusiasm returned and he led them, almost dancing, into another room.
Mr Xavier blocked her entry for a moment, turning to whisper to her.
‘Don’t mind my uncle. Sometimes he has trouble controlling his … er … impulses.’
With that, he followed Mr King. What did he mean by that? Mr King acted before thinking? Was that why he’d just grabbed her hand? And was that why he’d taken her in his arms that night? Mr Xavier had implied he acted on whims before.
Serena shook her head. She would have to think about it later. Looking around her, paintings rested on easels and hung on every inch of wall space. Except
