Poetry. Rhyme depicting Athena, the goddess of wisdom, and elaborate comparisons of herself to this goddess filled the page. The words sounded almost worshipful, they were so exaggerated in their praise. Serena shifted uncomfortably on the bed. As beautiful and artistic as the poem was, it seemed excessive. Mr King didn’t think of her this way, did he? Or was it his intention to make sport of her? When did he write it? Before or after today on the beach?
Serena swallowed, confused. Had she not just berated herself for over-imagining things? But here was Mr King’s own hand, testifying that she hadn’t imagined his interest. The paper scrunched in her hand as she groaned yet again. He wrote a poem for her—which normally would be romantic. Well, it was romantic, but, oh, so overwhelming, her stomach churned.
She didn’t know what to make of it. With a deep breath, she went back to the desk and straightened the page out beside her. On another page added to her letter to Papa, she copied out a phrase or two of the poem and asked what he thought it all meant. Papa should be able to give her an objective answer.
In the meantime, she must figure out what to do next. Once again, she feared facing the man behind the words lest he scorn or embarrass her.
16
As it turned out, the decision was eventually made for her. Serena did avoid Mr King, and any depth of conversation with the rest of the family, for two days. During those days, while working, her mind often drifted to the memory of Mr King’s lips on her hand and the warm glow it created. Every time she forced herself to shake it off and try to forget, she’d find her thoughts heading in that direction again moments later. And, when free, her hand involuntarily delved into her pocket for the written sonnet, which she read repeatedly. She almost knew it by heart now, and yet it still swept her into a dizzy spin.
On Tuesday afternoon, Mr King accosted her in the hallway and drew her into the library. Accosted was an apt description because he appeared wild, and she had not heard his steps behind her. His unoiled hair stood out at all angles, a crumpled coat hung loose on his shoulders, and he clearly had not shaved in several days. On top of that, dark rings circled his eyes, even though those eyes still sparked with vitality.
‘I cannot go on like this.’ His glance darted from her to the floor and then at everything else but her.
Serena remembered her parting words to Mr King on Sunday and bit her lip. He probably thought she hated him—she had made no effort to apologise. He still gripped her elbow and Serena pulled away from his grasp. ‘You refer to Sunday, I suppose.’
‘Yes. I’ve been avoiding you. But not because of what you said. Because of what I did.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m so terribly embarrassed about the way I’—he winced—‘took liberties with you.’ He turned and walked across to the hearth. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Sometimes, I ...’ Instead of finishing his sentence he thumped a fist into his thigh, then covered the few steps between them to stand near her again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But Mr King, you asked me to come to your room. How else was I to interpret that but that you question my virtue? It is bad enough that you considered me a thief when I first arrived. But, this, this is—’
‘Unforgivable.’ He hung his head. ‘I know.’ He slowly raised his eyes again and ran a shaky hand through his unkempt hair. ‘I do not think so base of you, you must know that. It is just that I…’ His words trailed off as he swallowed.
Serena, still shocked at his haggard appearance, scanned his face. ‘Are you well, Mr King?’
A laugh that almost sounded hysterical erupted from Mr King. ‘No. I think not.’
A sense of unease stirred in Serena’s gut. ‘Do you have a fever?’ Although hesitant, she reached up to press the back of her hand to his forehead.
Mr King captured her hand and held it to his cheek. ‘Of sorts. I cannot stop thinking about you.’
Serena’s concern for him transformed to a flutter in her stomach, as though a flock of birds had taken up residence there. She did not imagine this. His own mouth now betrayed him. ‘You, you can’t?’
‘Every second, of every minute, of every hour.’ Mr King edged closer. Close enough Serena had to tilt her head to see his face, and stale tobacco and lavender met her nose. ‘Of every day, of every week.’
Once again, Serena found herself caught up in his fervent expression. There was a desperate, pleading in his look as he leaned closer as if to kiss her. Instead, he drew her hand to his lips again, his kiss searing her fingers. Serena equally knew both bliss and a deep conviction that this was improper. She pulled her hand free and drew the courage to push him away. Hadn’t he just apologised for the self-same behaviour at the beach?
He released her, but his eyes gazed at her with burning intensity. ‘Marry me?’
Serena’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t an invitation to his bed this time, but it was still shocking in the extreme. ‘We hardly know one another.’ Shouldn’t he have broached the subject of love first? Heavens, he hadn’t even courted her. Unless he considered the midnight house tour, and all-night city drive courting. Certainly, she found him mesmerising, and attractive, but was it love? She admired him, yes, and thought him rather impressive, but was that enough? Perhaps she even cared for him, and yet there were times she almost hated him because of what he had done to Papa. How could they build a bond
