Her neck heated. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
“You were absolutely correct. Scandal-fixingismy career.” He lifted a shoulder. “Mayhap I wouldn’t be so sensitive about it if I had chosen the path that fulfilled me.”
Lady Roundtree let out another snore and turned her face toward the settee.
Nora lowered her voice. “You don’t enjoy being a scandal-fixer?”
“I do it to help people who need it.” His gaze grew distant. “It is not how I’d prefer to spend my time.”
She leaned forward, intrigued. “What would you rather do?”
“I…” Heath cast a glance toward the baroness snoring softly on the other side of the room. “Perhaps this isn’t the right moment for confessions.”
Nora bit her lip. He was right. They would not be able to have the heart-to-heart they desperately needed if the baroness could wake up at any moment and overhear everything.
She rose to her feet. “Come with me.”
Heath looked at her quizzically but pushed to his feet without question.
She led him past the room where they had trained Captain Pugboat to the tiny parlor she used as her drawing nook. It was close enough to the front parlor to hear the baroness if she should happen to call, and not so far away as to reach the guest chambers.
The tiny parlor was too small to hold more than the single chaise, so Nora seated herself on the end with the armrest and motioned for Heath to join her.
“Is this your hideaway?” he asked as he settled by her side.
It had been her sanctuary for eight short weeks. The idea of moving into her own house… Nay, of having not one buttwohomes of her own, with the farm no longer a worry…
“Yes.” She tilted her face toward his. “But first, you were telling me there was something you’d rather be doing with your life. I’d love to know what that is.”
He leaned his wide shoulders back against the wallpaper. “Don’t laugh.”
“Never.” She loved him too much to treat his ideas with disrespect. “Trust me.”
After a moment, he nodded. “An art gallery.”
“You want to buy one?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate.
“I want to run one.” His eyes brightened. “I want it to be mine.”
She leaned forward. “Your art?”
“My vision.” His voice sounded far away. “I want to discover the artists, select the right works, and determine the best way to display them. I want to have seasonal themes and host traveling exhibitions and introduce all manner of art to people who would not otherwise have known where to look for it. I want to provide modern artists a venue like the Dulwich Picture Gallery has given to the masters.”
“It sounds marvelous,” Nora said, and meant it. “You have thought about this a lot.”
“Since I was small,” he admitted.
She didn’t understand. “Then why don’t you do it? Is it the money?”
He laughed humorlessly. “I wish all I lacked was money. We have plenty of that. What I cannot have is an association to a trade.”
“You can purchase unlimited quantities of art for your home, but not for a gallery?” Nora said in disbelief.
“I can own a thousand galleries,” he said, his expression defeated. “I just can’t run them. That’s work. Something other people do. I would have to pay someone else to perform the job I want for myself.”
Nora frowned. “Two of your sisters work.”
“And have lost all ties with Polite Society,” he returned with a frustrated sigh. “Besides all the other reasons why a man in my position would have no wish to lose my social standing, I also would hope to make my peers the primary market. They have the free time and the heavy purses to dedicate to it.”
