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polished wood floors with the light from the many windows at her back.
    Looking up, she found the last Lord Belmont looking down on her once more, the very image of his eldest son. Next was Lady Belmont, then Mathew. Patience stopped to study the portrait—his green eyes appeared to be laughing at her, yet his mouth remained stern. It was a wonderful likeness. Pulling her eyes from his handsome face, she moved on to his sister.
    As a child Claire had always spoken whatever thought was in her head, and it appeared not much had changed. Patience knew that while Claire had apologized for asking about her matrimonial prospects, when the moment presented itself she would do so again. If she remembered anything about Claire, it was her persistence.
    Walking on, Patience looked for the other Belmont sibling, Anthony, but saw no sign of him. There were older ancestors, but not he. Why was Anthony not up here with his family? The thought disturbed her. Patience had always liked him. His laughter had been infectious, and he had been a fun companion when they were children.
    “My sister did not mean to upset you, Patience.”
    She didn’t turn, even though her heart started to thud as Mathew approached. Instead, she kept her eyes on his ancestors.
    “Because she is happy, she wants everyone else to be.”
    “She looks happy,” Patience said, still looking up, “and it suits her.”
    “I could not have wished for a better husband for her than Simon.”
    “Yes. I met him only the once, yet he seemed a nice man.”
    “So we are to continue on with polite conversation?”
    “I think it best,” she said, moving a few paces away from him in the pretext of studying the next portrait.
    “I’m told I look like my father, yet I always saw more of him in my siblings than in myself.”
    He was beside her again, close enough that she could smell the outdoors on him. Sunshine and grass, flowers and horses; it all mingled into a tantalizing scent.
    “Claire has his eyes, but there is little of me in my great-grandfather that I can see.”
    “You are wrong there, my lord. I see a great deal of you in this painting, just as I see Anthony in his eyes.”
    She felt him stiffen, almost as if he was bracing for something, and she asked the question that had been bothering her since she’d stepped into this room.
    “Why is there no portrait of Anthony here?”
     
    “Of all the things you could have said, I did not expect that one,” Mathew said as he ran his eyes over her. Her head was tilted back, her eyes focused on the portrait of his great-great-grandfather. Today’s dress was cream with tiny rosebuds, and her hair was held in place with a rose satin band. Curls formed a riot at the back of her head, and he wanted to touch one, pull it loose to see how far it would fall down her back.
    “I’m sorry. If my question upsets you, please ignore it.” She spoke quickly, and he knew she was suddenly wishing the words unsaid.
    When she had not returned, Mathew had excused himself and gone to find her. He’d sensed her discomfort at his presence as soon as he’d entered the parlor his mother had chosen for the reunion between their families. The haste with which she had followed the maid from the room had merely confirmed his thoughts.
    He had talked with Charles and Lucy, teased his sister, and then he’d gone searching for the woman who had once been his friend and now consumed far too many of his thoughts.
    “Anthony’s death caused my mother and sister a great deal of pain, so I had it taken down.”
    Her eyes swung to his.
    “But Anthony died many years ago, my lord. Surely he should be put up here once again where he belongs, with his family. I would think he would be happier looking down on you all. And would you not be happier seeing him there, also?”
    Mathew wanted to touch her, smooth the frown from her forehead, run his fingers over a silken cheek, yet he had no wish to do so now, when she was finally talking to him,