A great many cherubs stared at her from the elaborate gilt molding. And not only there. They were in the many paintings and the vases and the bric-a-bracs sitting on every surface. They were an army and she was surrounded. She could not recall a single cherub at Haverston Hall. Indeed, that place had been austere upon their arrival, virtually devoid of everything except basic furnishings. Marian had been gradually filling the place, making it more of a home . . . but not one with ornate cherubs.

Something existed in the air of Birchwood House. An elusive quality that she felt in the very atmosphere and it had naught to do with the garish cherubs. She attributed the distinction to Warrington, or rather Birchwood.

Whereas Birchwood was an esteemed member of the House, prominent among his peers—her brother-in-law preferred country life and scarcely ever stepped foot in Town.

She smoothed a hand over her skirts, aware of the eyes of the stoic footmen on her. Haverston Hall had its footmen, but she did not recall them standing about like statues, staring straight ahead with eerie intensity.

She cleared her throat. Her dress was a little wrinkled from the long train ride, and she felt unnaturally self-conscious. She wished she’d been able to change her garments and freshen up. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair. She willed herself to at least project an air of confidence.

She was not alone in the room. However much the footmen were trained to appear oblivious to her, she was not oblivious to them.

Nora forced her hands to stillness so she did not appear fidgety and nervous—even if she happened to be. She usually gave very little thought to her appearance, but being in this room made her feel a little out of sorts.

Bea had been escorted somewhere else in the house whilst Nora had been escorted to the drawing room to wait for the arrival of Sinclair. She did not think she would miss the chatter of her maid—it had filled her ears on the long train ride—but she did.

Suddenly Sinclair was there, filling the threshold, larger than even memory served.

His chest lifted on a great inhalation at the sight of her.

She straightened, angling herself to face him better and pasting on a smile. She was determined to begin this exchange on a cheerful note—better than the way they had ended things in Brambledon.

It was not long ago, days only, that they had stood face-to-face, but he seemed more than she remembered and she had made quite a thorough study of him at the pond. He’d given her so much to observe, after all. The long line of him. The broad shoulders. That taut, mesmerizing backside.

Today though, standing here in his domain, he was more mature, more imposing. His unsmiling face sterner.