Dragon Rose(29)

“I am told that modesty is becoming in young women, but you might try a little less of it from time to time. It does not suit you all that well.”

“What is modest about not drawing attention to one’s self?”

He laughed outright then. “I would say avoiding attention is one of the basic characteristics of modesty. Come now—you are a woman of the world now, having left your girlhood behind. I would like to hear you say one praiseful thing about yourself.”

At first I hesitated, thinking perhaps he meant to jest with me, but as he remained sitting there, watching me with his head cocked and the wine glass still in one hand, I realized he was in earnest. Good gods, what on earth was I to say?

Stumbling over the words, I managed, “Well, I am—that is, I have been told that I am a rather good painter.”

“You have been told you are a good painter. Do you need the words of others to convince you of this?”

Of course I didn’t, not really. I knew I was good. Better than good, really, but it was difficult to shake off years of my mother admonishing me to never boast, to only nod meekly if someone commented on a sketch or the texture of a pudding or the sweetness of my smile.

I lifted my head and looked directly into his unseen features. “I am an excellent painter.”

“Much better. What else?”

“What else?”

“There is more to you than your paintbrushes, Rhianne. What would you say if I told you your beauty rivals that of any of the court ladies I have ever seen?”

“I would say that it has been a long time since you were at court, my lord,” I replied tartly.

Another laugh. “And I would say you are correct in that point, but my memory has not faded with the passage of years. I know whereof I speak.”

I knew I should have come up with some rejoinder, some words that would have asserted my own ordinariness while not sounding contradictory. At least, that is what my mother would have wished of me. But she was not there, and, odd as it might sound, I found myself enjoying Lord Blackmoor’s approval. So I said, in meek tones I was sure did not fool him for a second, “As you say, my lord.”

If I’d been able to see his eyes, it was very likely that they’d have had a wicked glint. But there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice when he spoke. “I do say, Rhianne. But since I have obviously discommoded you, let us move on to safer subjects. You say that your painting of Lirinsholme is almost complete. What next, then?”

Relieved he’d abandoned the discussion of my charms, I went on to explain how the ivy on the castle walls had just begun to turn with the first frosts, and how I wanted to do several paintings—a triptych, I hoped—in which I could catch those elusive colors before they were gone. It did not take me much encouragement to hold forth at length about painting, and so I was able to fill up the rest of the meal’s discussion with commentary on my future projects.

Upon reflection, I realized there was one good thing about that hood. At least with it concealing my husband’s face, I could not as easily tell if he were bored by me or not.





That night Theran accompanied me to my rooms. I did not know precisely why; perhaps he thought it a gentlemanly gesture, as it was my birthday. At the door, I hesitated, wondering if I should ask him to come inside. Surely it would be a friendly gesture to ask him in to sit by the fire for a few minutes. I didn’t see the harm in that, as Sar or one of the maids always kept the door between the sitting room and my bedchamber closed—most likely to hide the clutter of my paints and easel.

“Sar left the fire going, since the evening promised to be chilly,” I said, one hand resting on the doorknob.

Theran seemed to pause as well, as if not entirely sure how best to respond. Then the hood dipped slightly. “You wish me to come inside?”

“Just—just for a few minutes,” I faltered, wondering if he had interpreted my invitation as something else entirely.

Again a brief silence. “I would enjoy that.”

Not entirely sure whether I should be relieved or alarmed, I turned the knob and went inside, my husband following like a silent shadow. A fire did, indeed, crackle welcomingly in the hearth, and I saw on the low table in front of the divan a crystal decanter of some amber-colored liquid and a few small glasses. Well, Sar had mentioned that she would leave me some of the local honey liqueur, proclaiming it to be just the thing to ward off the chill of autumn nights in the castle.

“A drink?” I inquired, moving toward the table. At least the act of pouring us a few glasses would do something to fill up the silence.

“I see that Sar has sent up some methlyn. A little, perhaps. It is very strong.”

“So she warned me.” I lifted the decanter, which was heavier than it looked, and tipped a little of the liquid into each of the glasses.

Theran approached and took one of the glasses. “Happy birthday.”

I grasped the one remaining and raised it as well. “Thank you.”

We both drank—that is, Theran managed a practiced sip of the liquid, which was much thicker than wine or cider, and far more searing. I swallowed a mouthful, gasped, then coughed quite inelegantly.

“Sar didn’t warn you?”

“She might have mentioned that it took some getting used to, but…” I blinked my watering eyes. “I see now what she meant about it keeping me warm—I feel as if someone just poured Keshiaari fire down my throat!”