“And... that is why no one will ever allow you to become a Patroness.” His posture relaxed.
She shrugged. “I know.”
“It is an interesting idea,” he admitted. “An assembly room wherein everyone is allowed to assemble. But I doubt it would have the effect you intend. Those who prefer exclusivity and showing the world how much better they are than others would not attend.”
Bryony wrinkled her nose. “Would you want them to?”
“I think you’re very unusual,” he said softly. “You are able to see much more of the world than just the sliver visible to most people.”
She stared back at him. What she cared about most was the fearless, bullheaded man right before her eyes.
“I brought something,” she blurted.
His gaze turned suspicious. “What is it?”
Something she’d been carrying about for a week, undecided on whether to give it to him. Something meant to be square, and meant to be beautiful, and meant to prove exactly how much he was starting to mean.
Instead, her grand gesture was ugly, lumpy, and indeterminate in function. Perhaps a little too on-the-nose for a gift that reflected the heart.
Pulse racing, she pulled the misshapen cushion from a bag at her feet and placed it on his desk.
He stared at it for a long moment without blinking. “It’s...”
She took pity on him. “A pillow.”
He nodded sagely. “For me?”
She nodded. “There’s more to the story. You may find it difficult to believe that this is the first sewing project I’ve ever completed in my life.”
“I’m flattered to be the recipient of such a unique honor,” he murmured. “Was it meant to be a pillow all along?”
“It was meant to be a sampler,” she admitted. “But the pattern was bigger than anticipated and the seamstress significantly less competent than one might desire, which culminated in the resulting work being a bit too...asymmetricalto fit in any frame. So I added a backside and stuffed it with feathers.”
“I like backsides,” he said. “Especially yours.”
She flushed with pleasure. He was looking at her like he wanted to kiss her again. There was nothing she wanted more. Well, almost nothing. First, she wanted him to accept his gift. It meant more to her than he knew. She bit her lip.
He had yet to so much as touch the pillow. Either because he feared it far too delicate to be manhandled or because he was afraid it carried leprosy.
She hoped her nervousness did not show in her eyes.
“Are those horns?” he asked politely. “The red bits in the middle?”
She pulled a sheet of foolscap from her bag and set it beside the pillow.
“I took the liberty of preparing a legend to aid in interpretation.” She pointed at the center of her needlework. “This part says ‘Cloven Hoof.’ These over here are horns, as you correctly noted. Over there is a forked tail. This is a glass of ale. Those are playing cards.”
“And the...” He wiggled his fingers at the tangles of thread demarking the perimeter.
She nodded. “The gray curlicues at the top are smoke and the orange ones at the bottom are hellfire.”
“It’s beautiful,” he pronounced. “Much too beautiful to use. It is a work of art that should be displayed prominently, so that all might enjoy it as much as I do.”
“If only Mother were here,” Bryony murmured. “Itoldher it was art.”
He gingerly picked up the pillow and carried it to his bookshelf, where he made a place for it between Walpole and Wollstonecraft on the topmost shelf. A focal position, where anyone entering the office would have no choice but to bask in its glory.
Bryony grinned to herself. The dear man would be explaining his choice in artwork for the rest of his days.
