She meant to be self-deprecating—amusing—but he just looked at her long and hard, completely without humor.
“It’s a wonderful portrait,” he finally said. “The whole series is remarkable.”
“Yes, well, Cornelia did not make me quite as lovely as your sketch in Cornwall, but then, she has had more time to see how unpleasant I can be.”
His eyes flashed with something sharp and almost angry. She was trying to be charming, to acknowledge their history with some hint of wryness, but the way she said it made it sound like she was flippant—like she considered his sketch to be a joke. Or worse, that she was making light of her behavior.
She wasn’t. She wanted to die of shame.
And she still had his sketch. She’d stashed it in a drawer and tried not to let herself stare at it and feel like the most foolish woman in the world more than once or twice a week.
He turned back to her portrait. “You don’t look unpleasant,” he said, studying it. “You look intelligent and ferocious.” There was a pause. “It’s an accurate likeness.”
She winced with her entire body.
She deserved that, but she desperately wanted to evade the thrumming of embarrassment that vibrated up her core. She flashed what she hoped looked like an easy smile. “What brings you here? I was not aware you were acquainted with Lady Westcott.”
“I wasn’t. Your friend Miss Ludgate wrote to me and offered to propose my work for inclusion in her exhibition. Quite kind of her.”
Cornelia had invited him? And she hadn’t thought to mention it? That utter rat.
“Ah,” Sera said faintly.
He put his hands in his pockets, and she could tell her presence was making him uneasy, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to make an excuse and walk away.
“You are well?” she asked. Her voice was high and nervous.
“I am,” he said, in a tone that seemed excruciatingly wary. “And you?”
“Yes, very well.”
No, I have been all disorder since I met you. I miss you savagely. What did you pull loose in me?
But she could not say that to a man she’d fled from without a word of apology or goodbye. She felt as if guilt was a lake, and she was treading water in it with bricks tied to her ankles, desperately trying not to drown.
“Well, I shall leave you to enjoy the art,” she said.
He sighed darkly. “Is that what one is meant to do? I don’t know why I’m bloody here.”
She felt a sudden ray of hope. You know how this works. Help put him at ease. Make introductions.
She glanced around the room for friendly faces and saw Cornelia walk in with Mr. Roarke, the art collector. Sera waved to them, and they walked over.
“Ah, Mr. Anderson,” Cornelia said warmly. “I’m so pleased you came. I was just telling Mr. Roarke how much I like your folio. The aesthetics marry beautifully with the utility of the designs. And such a lively sense of movement.”
“Savor the compliment, for Miss Ludgate is not easily impressed,” Mr. Roarke said, winking at Adam. “I’d love to see your work, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps you’ll show me now?”
Adam led Roarke to his drawings, and Sera grabbed Cornelia’s arm and sank her fingernails into the skin beneath the cuff of her sleeve.
“You did not think it worthy of mention that you invited him here?” she hissed.
“I worried you wouldn’t come if you knew.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I thought it would do you well to speak to him.”
“And say what?”
Cornelia pursed her lips. “That you are sorry. Excuse me. I must greet my admirers.”
Sera stood in the gallery, seething at Cornelia.
Well, of course she was sorry. Did that not go without saying?
Would Adam even want to hear an apology? Or would it just be an unpleasant reminder of what had happened?
She glanced over at him. Roarke had left him and he was looking at his fingernails beside a potted plant. Poor man. Clearly he was not a natural mingler.
She caught the eye of Lord Edward Graves, Viscount of Masden, who had recently inherited his title. When he smiled, she pulled him over to Adam, suggesting he might require an architect to consult on improving his estate. She made sure to disappear when the conversation became detailed. But when Masden walked away, she swept in to introduce Adam to Josiah Hewbridge, the ceramics manufacturer who was considering building new factories in London, and Lord Fallenway, a member of the Board of Works.
She was almost disappointed when he seemed to get his bearings and began to circulate through the crowd himself. It meant she no longer had a reason to stand near him.
She went outside and sat in the sunshine to wait for Cornelia.
She saw Adam walk out of the house with another man. He noticed her and paused.
She waved farewell, relieved that he was leaving.
He said something to the man, turned, and walked toward her.
Oh no.
Did he think she had beckoned him? They had already exhausted the usual pleasantries. What more could she say to him? That it worried her he looked so tired? That even so, he was so handsome that she could not look at him without blushing?
That she still missed him?
“Miss Arden,” he said “There you are. I looked for you inside to say farewell.”
Was that reproach in his voice? Or simple sadness?
“Ah, apologies. I needed air.”
He said nothing. She scrambled for something else to say. “I hope you found the afternoon useful.”
He gave her a smile that had a note of melancholy in it. She hoped she was not the cause of it.
“Yes, it was,” he said. “Thank you for making those introductions. Though I have heard just about enough of my own thoughts on portico design for one day. Never was much good at talking up my work.”
She laughed, relieved that he seemed friendlier now than he had when she’d first seen him in the gallery. “I know the feeling. Whenever I speak on lecture tours, I find myself deeply bored of my own opinions by day’s end.”
He gave her a half-hearted smile. “I doubt your opinions are ever boring, Miss Arden.”
Miss Arden. He’d taken care not to use her given name all afternoon. It made her sad, how he addressed her as though they did not know each other intimately.
“You’re too kind,” she said. She looked up into his eyes. “But then, I suppose you always were.”
He swallowed and tore his eyes from hers.
Say it. Now, Seraphina. Before he leaves.
She stood up and let the words come out in a rush before she lost her nerve. “Adam, I want to apologize to you for how I behaved in Cornwall.”
Alarm crossed his features. “Oh no, let’s not—”
She clasped her hands before her chest, as if in prayer. “Please. Adam, I’m so sorry. I won’t ask for absolution nor do I deserve it. Those last few days were difficult for me, but I handled them in a way that . . . I regret that I disappointed your children. I regret the things I said to you. I regret . . . pawing at you like a lecher when you didn’t want it. And I am so grateful to you for attending to me with such care that final night. I behaved in a way I hate to remember.”
“Sera—”
She shook her head. “And I never thanked your children for the amulet. I was so touched to receive it. I meant to write, but I was . . . ill when I returned, and, well, I suppose I was so humiliated that I . . . just couldn’t bring myself to contact you.”