Thorn
Chapter Twelve
India could glimpse sanity on the far horizon. Soon the drawing room walls would be covered with Lyonnaise silk, hand-painted with apple blossoms. One of her favorite Italian painters would finish work in the dining room by afternoon; he had first painted it gray-green, and now he was almost done gilding the painted swallows that swooped across its walls.
India had sent Adelaide—whose taste was impeachable—back to London to choose furniture from Thomas Sheraton’s and Jean-Henri Reisener’s showrooms. They would have to accept whatever was available, but she had a very good relationship with Mr. Sheraton, in particular, and was reasonably optimistic that he would give her whatever he had and tell his customers that the pieces they’d ordered had been delayed.
A man specializing in Italian glass had arrived the day before, carting with him a true treasure: an enormous Venetian blue-glass mirror, along with the alabaster mantelpiece that would be installed after the silk was on the drawing room walls.
And she had borrowed a master gardener from Lord Pendleton’s estate in the next county. (Pendleton was still very grateful to her for the successful birth of his child, in which frankly—since she hadn’t been the woman in labor—she had played no real part.) The sound of men working in the gardens drifted through the open windows. Already the lawns had been weeded, neatly mown, and rolled smooth enough for a tennis game. The flowerbeds had desperately needed pruning; now they looked presentable, though rather bare.
When Thorn jumped from his carriage that evening, she was waiting respectably in the drawing room, rather than leaning in the doorframe like a night-walker. She had also taken the time to bathe and put on a gown without a speck of plaster or dust or paint on it.
The moment Thorn walked into the drawing room she could tell that something was wrong. His body was vibrating with pent-up emotion as he strode toward her. She started to drop into a curtsy, but he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. As if they were siblings. Not that she had a sibling, but she imagined they kissed like that.
“We must be quick, India,” he said without further greeting. “Show me the floors you’ve paved in gold, and I’ll be back on the road.”
“You are not merely walking through the house and leaving!”
“Yes, I am.”
She shrugged. “Fred plans to serve the dinner sent by the innkeeper here, if that changes your mind. We might begin in the ballroom. It turned out well.” That was an understatement. The walls had been stuccoed in the faintest pink, and the decorative molding was gleaming white. She’d had wall sconces installed with pale green blown-glass shades, a tint that matched the delicate chairs. She thought it was perfect.
He walked through the door, looked around, and said, “It looks good. What’s next?”
India’s mouth fell open. She put her hands on her hips. “This room is not good!”
“It isn’t?”
“It is utterly gorgeous. It is better than Versailles. It is better than any ballroom you’ve seen before!”
A germ of amusement lit up his eyes, which just irritated her more. “It’s hardly my forte,” he said, not sounding in the least apologetic.
“I had workmen in here day and night! The night before last, none of us slept because—”
At that, his scowl matched hers. “What do you mean, you didn’t sleep?”
“Francisco and I had to paint the stucco before it dried,” she explained. “If you don’t finish painting—”
He took a step toward her. “Francisco and you?” His voice dropped a level, and all that anger he was carrying in his body channeled right into his words. Maybe he wasn’t as controlled as she’d thought.
“Francisco Bernasconi,” she said, holding her ground. “He’s a master of stucco, the best in all England. Three or four years ago, he showed me how to do it, and now I always help.”