“Louisa uses color to great effect.” Serena had followed the direction of his gaze.
“It’s a mess,” he said.
“It’s the work of a five-year-old, Mr. Granville.”
The sudden frost in her voice was a defense of his daughter, he realized. About which he could hardly complain.
“Actually,” she continued, “it’s a portrait of you.”
Dominic leaned over to get a better look at the painting. Louisa’s head flopped forward; quickly, he cupped it, hugging her securely. “I appear to have three eyes.”
“It’s perhaps not a good likeness,” Serena admitted. “Maybe,” she continued, still frosty, “that’s because the children don’t see enough of you to remember what you look like.”
Dominic had heard the phrase midnight madness... This must be it, the casting aside of daytime’s social inhibitions. Mind you, Serena seemed to indulge the urge to speak her mind at any time, thanks to her father’s unusual liberality.
Dominic would not be indulging in madness. No matter what the provocation.
“I see my children morning and evening,” he reminded her calmly.
“For all of seven minutes each time.”
“I have an estate to run, Miss Somerton. It ensures my family’s daily provision and future security, and it occupies a great deal of my time.”
“You have five children. You’re their only parent.”
“A situation I intend to rectify.”
“Your sons in particular need more of your time,” she said.
It was growing more difficult to maintain his polite demeanor. “I know you mean well, Miss Somerton, so even though I have explained to you that well-meaning people are among my least favorite, I will overlook your interference.”
“William’s fear of the dark—”
“He’ll outgrow that.” Actually, Dominic had assumed his son had long ago outgrown the fear that beset him after his mother died.
“—is getting worse,” she said. “Perhaps if you talked to him...”
Before she could give him the benefit of any more of her advice, the maid appeared, carrying the laudanum. She gave a little gasp of surprise to see Dominic.
“Mr. Granville, could you set Louisa on the bed?” Serena asked.
Laying Louisa down wasn’t easy. Her little fingers clutched at his lapel. Detaching them seemed to hurt her, and she squalled.
Dominic took a hasty step away from the bed, the back of his neck hot, as if he were the one with the fever.
“Hold her hand, please,” Serena said crisply.
Out of his depths, unsure if there was some medical reason to obey, he reluctantly approached the bed again and took his daughter’s hand. Serena administered the laudanum. Louisa settled almost instantly, whether from the effects of the medicine or from a belief that it would do her good. Dominic let go of her hand, feeling as if he’d just run a mile.
Serena dismissed the maid. “You may go, too, Mr. Granville,” she said.
Eager though he was to get back to bed, he didn’t like being dismissed in his own house by an uppity governess. Companion, he corrected mentally.
“What about you, Miss Somerton? You need your sleep.”
“I’ll wait a few minutes, to be sure she’s asleep.”
As if to prove the wisdom of her strategy, Louisa writhed suddenly. “Mama,” she moaned.
Dominic drew in a sharp breath. Louisa didn’t remember Emily; she’d been only six months old when her mother died. Of course, she’d heard the other children talking of their mother over the years. More so recently, going by what Serena had told him the other day.
Could another woman possibly fill the gap in his children’s lives, if she couldn’t fill the gap in his?
Serena’s gaze met Dominic’s. “If you’re questioning the wisdom of your plan to marry, believe me, the children will appreciate it.”
Had she read his mind? Discerned his doubts? “Stepmothers are often vilified in literature,” he said lightly.
Her lips curved. “Naturally, you should avoid those who plan to feed the children poisoned apples, who possess magic mirrors or who will force the girls to live among the cinders.”
“Useful advice,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
He noticed again the graceful length of Serena’s neck—she was so well covered that was all there was to notice. Other than her eyes, the blue of cornflowers. And her lips, rather full and rosy for a governess. From his own childhood, he recalled governesses with pursed lips and tight mouths.
“It seems strange you’re such a firm proponent of my remarrying,” he said, his eyes still on her lips, “yet you’re in no hurry to enter the matrimonial state yourself.” That’s what she’d said, when he’d accused her of proposing to him. He grimaced at his own conceit, and dragged his gaze back up. “Most women of your age and connections would be eager to launch themselves into London’s marriage mart, rather than rusticate with my children and my sister.”
Serena shrugged, a delicate lift of her shoulders. “I can’t speak for most women, only for myself. And your situation and mine are not at all alike—I don’t have children who need a father. I shall marry when I find a man who loves me with all his heart.”
A silence fell, during which they both stared at Louisa, now sleeping, her breathing loud.
“You don’t have a suitor back home?” he asked.
She looked away. “No.”
Another silence.
“About Mrs. Gordon...” she began.
“Serena, could you set aside your objections to Mrs. Gordon for now?” he asked. He realized he’d used her Christian name. She blinked, whether at his familiarity or his plea, he wasn’t sure. “After all, we have no reason to believe the lady will have the slightest interest in marrying me.”
Serena looked him over, so quickly he could have missed it.
“If you say so,” she said.
Something hung in the air between them. Something that to Dominic felt like She thinks I’m handsome.
“I mean, how does one even introduce the thought of marriage?” he asked quickly, distracting her from any possibility of reading his mind, which had taken a turn for the absurd. His conceit was still alive and well, it seemed! “I’ve spent years making it clear to the world that I don’t intend to marry.”
The first few years after Emily died, women had made their interest plain, some of them while he was still in mourning.
“There’s a simple way to convey your change of heart to everyone who needs to know,” she said. “Tell your valet your intentions.”
“Trimble would never—” Dominic broke off, seeing her readiness to disagree. No point encouraging her to argue. Even if those arguments were as exhilarating as they were irritating. “I’m prepared to try your suggestion,” he said generously. “But I have more faith in my valet’s discretion than you do.” In a way, he hoped Trimble would say nothing. Though the world needed to know, Dominic quailed at the thought of reversing the impression of confirmed bachelorhood he’d worked so hard to create.
Of course, if he wanted a wife of good birth, conveniently located and who liked his children, Miss Somerton herself was eminently qualified.
“I