“That does not explain howyoucame to be here.”
“Well, he knew I desired a pastime of substance and suggested that together we could establish a home for them. He has since stepped back from the management of the orphanage—he is much too busy with other matters.” Amelia looked around the entrance hall proudly. “I have taken up much of thehousekeeping in his stead, but I would be utterly lost without the help of the other volunteers.”
On cue, Mr. Marsh and Mrs. Thatcher entered with a great gaggle of children. Mrs. Thatcher leaned down to wipe the mouth of the child closest to her. Evidently, they had just had their breakfast and were moving across the house toward the schoolroom.
“Speaking of the other volunteers,” Amelia said, gesturing toward the quickly approaching group. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Marsh and Mrs. Thatcher. Perhaps you have met Mr. Marsh? He formerly performed administrative duties at Oxford.”
Mr. Marsh reached across the group of small children to shake Mr. Moore’s hand. Meantime, Mrs. Thatcher smiled politely before excusing herself and the children.
The same blonde-haired child who always followed Mr. Marsh hid behind his legs as Amelia presented Mr. Moore to them, the room considerably quieter now that Mrs. Thatcher and the others had taken their leave.
“This is...” She couldn’t countenance lying directly to Mr. Marsh, but accepted it as a necessary evil. “Well, this is Mr. Moore. He has come today to help us negotiate with Mr. Robinson.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir! “Mr. Marsh guffawed. “If you are here to help Miss Tate, then you have my sincerest thanks.”
Mr. Moore was unusually tense beside Amelia. When she looked over at him, it seemed to wake him from his daze. He nodded at Mr. Marsh, and with nothing more to say between them, Mr. Marsh left, scooping up the child.
Once they were alone again, Amelia turned to Mr. Moore.
“Really,issomething the matter?” she asked. “You have seemed out of sorts since you set foot indoors.”
After a moment, Mr. Moore dared to meet her gaze again. “I do not fare well with...children.”
Amelia arched a brow.
“By that, I mean... I should like to avoid them for the duration of my visit.”
It was a strange request, given the location, but Amelia agreed. He was not the first gentleman she had met who disliked the company of children. Perhaps he worried they would ruin his nice clothes.
The thought reminded her to take the man’s coat, and she stepped around him to begin divesting him of it.
Mr. Moore, seemingly accustomed to such doting treatment, began shrugging out of the fine, dark garment with practiced ease. Despite herself, Amelia felt a chill run down her spine asher fingers grazed his shoulders accidentally, surprised by the warmth of his body now that they were within touching distance.
She had not been oblivious to his good looks and tall stature, but standing so close to him was another matter entirely. The air around him smelled pleasant, like soap and smoke, and she imagined pressing her body against his, nuzzling in close.
Taking his coat clumsily, she shook her head to rid it of her distracting thoughts. This man was here to help her,notbe admired.
Once Mr. Moore’s coat had been stored somewhere safe, Amelia led him into the only withdrawing room that had escaped being repurposed for the children. She moved quickly to the fire to begin lighting the wall sconces, pausing a second when she heard Mr. Moore close the door behind them softly.
Locked away with him, Amelia’s heart fluttered. She extinguished the lighting taper with a gust of breath, throwing it behind the grate into the flames, conscious of Mr. Moore’s eyes on her.
“I would offer you tea,” Amelia murmured, stumbling over her words as she looked over at him and found him lingering by the door. He had quickly directed his eyes elsewhere, taking the measure of the modest room. “But I fear we should wait for Mr. Robinson, or else the pot will grow cold by the time he arrives.
He shrugged nonchalantly, moving toward the paintings on the far side of the room. The grey light from the windows felllovingly on his form as he scrunched his face, examining the artist’s signature.
“They are not worth anything. I would have sold them otherwise to cover the rent,” Amelia said to fill the silence, moving a few steps closer. “Are you fond of art?”
“Tremendously,” he replied, quietly but sincerely. “And these pieces might not hold much pecuniary value, but that does not mean they are worth nothing.”He stepped away, held his hands behind his back, and smiled at her. “You said your surname wasTate? The artist was called Tate, also.”
“Felicia Tate, yes.” Amelia looked past him at the painting—a pastoral landscape, rolling fields of green and gold that matched the brown wallpaper of the room.
“A relative, then?”
“Yes, she was...” She scowled, suddenly failing to remember how the woman had been connected to her father. A great-aunt? A great-great-aunt? She swallowed, saying, “A decent painter indeed.”
Mr. Moore appeared satisfied with her answer—or at the very least, was not suspicious that something was amiss with Amelia’s mind.
“Do you know, Miss Tate... I had my suspicions about you yesterday. I wondered whether you were truly the daughterof Viscount Tate. But he is—forgive me,was—your progenitor, was he not? Your family owns Bright Corner in Abingdon-on-Thames.”
