Awakening The Shy Miss. Bronwyn Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.

      There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’

      ‘Some.’

      He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.

      ‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.

      ‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’

      She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.

      Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.

      ‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.

      ‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.

      Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not meant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’

      ‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?

      ‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.

      She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief about herself? Was this where the wariness came from? He would have to work harder to put her at ease, to convince her she had nothing to fear from him.

      ‘Call me Dimitri. Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.

      Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’

      ‘Yes, my father has spent considerable amounts of time researching it. He’s in the final stages of writing a book about the tapestry,’ Evie offered. He stared at it a while longer, asking questions, before turning his attention to other artefacts in the room. The gallery was a repository of history. There were other, smaller, tapestries hanging from the walls, unprotected. He wandered over to one depicting a unicorn set against a blue-flowered field.

      ‘This one is quite fine as well. Is it of some import?’ He wondered why it wasn’t under glass too. It seemed familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

      Evie shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of mine. It’s merely a copy of a famous French tapestry.’

      Dimitri peered closer, studying the stitches. ‘You did this? It is marvellously well made.’

      Evie shrugged off the praise. ‘I drew the pattern from a piece of art. I like to work with cloth, sewing, weaving. I draw my own patterns.’ That was interesting indeed; a historian and a seamstress, although that seemed too menial of a word for what she’d done here, and an artist. Evie Milham was a trove of hidden talents.

      He spied a framed collection of ink work hanging on the wall. ‘Are these some of your patterns?’

      ‘Yes. I drew them for one of my father’s books, but he liked some of them so much he wanted to frame them.’ Evie blushed. ‘A father’s prerogative, I suppose. Some would say he’s biased.’

      Dimitri looked closer. The work was exquisitely done, meticulous and clean. ‘I don’t think he’s biased at all.’ An idea came to him. He could use someone with a decent artistic eye at the site.

      They strolled the perimeter of the room, he asking questions and Evie answering, each answer a revelation. Evie Milham might appear to be somewhat quiet and unassuming, but beneath that exterior, there was much of her waiting to be unwrapped, waiting to be discovered. She was knowledgeable about history, able to answer his questions with impressive intellect; she could replicate medieval tapestries with an expert’s skill; she was sensitive to others’ feelings, perhaps too much so.

      Did she make a habit of casting herself in the subordinate role in conversation? He’d seen it at the assembly. She’d put herself forward when Andrew had failed to introduce her, but the moment she perceived she was an interloper, she’d withdrawn, content to defer to the wishes of others. But today he’d applied considerable skill in drawing her out, in making her an equal in the discussion, and she had blossomed. He could not remember enjoying a conversation this much. СКАЧАТЬ