A Lasting Impression

whatever way I can.”
    As they rounded a curve in the path, he glanced back toward the house to make sure the carriage wasn’t waiting, dreading the evening before him. He’d gotten his fill of opera for a lifetime in Europe, as well as the social politics that accompanied the event locally.
    They walked in silence until Miss Laurent paused by one of the many statues Adelicia had collected through the years. “Why did you not want me to get the position?” Her voice was quiet, her attention fixed on the polished marble of a young woman trimming vines next to an arbor.
    Studying her profile, Sutton debated how to phrase his answer, not wanting to intentionally hurt her. But not wanting to mislead either. And certainly not wanting to reveal a confidence between him and Mrs. Acklen. “Because I didn’t feel as though you were among the most qualified applicants, Miss Laurent. I’m sorry. . . .”
    She stared at him, then nodded, slowly, as though having to accept his response in increments. They continued down the walkway, and when they came to a fork in the path, Sutton chose the direction leading back toward the mansion.
    “What position do you hold here at Belmont?” she asked after a moment.
    “I’m Mrs. Acklen’s personal attorney. I also help manage the financial holdings of her estates, which—among other things—means protecting her, and her wealth, from people who would seek to take advantage of either, or both.” He gauged her expression, watching for a reaction—a trace of guilt, perhaps, a sign of discomfort.
    And saw traces of both—just before she looked away.
    As they neared the main fountain, he spotted the carriage in the distance, coming up the lane. “Shall we?” He offered his arm as they ascended the steps to the front portico. Once inside the entrance hall, he heard Adelicia’s voice, and Mrs. Routh’s, coming from a nearby room. “Has Mrs. Routh shown you your quarters yet?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Then allow me. It’s through here.” He led the way across the grand salon to the northeast wing. “Others might disagree, since your room doesn’t overlook the gardens, but I think you have one of the most beautiful views Belmont offers.” He opened the door to the bedroom, working to sort the culpability he’d seen in her features a moment earlier with her seeming innocence. “I know because I stayed in this room when I first came here.”
    “You don’t live at Belmont anymore?”
    “I do. But in another building. The art gallery has guest quarters. I live in one of those.”
    Her eyes lit. “Belmont has an art gallery?”
    He nodded, feeling a little as if he were seeing the estate for the first time again, through her eyes. “Come and see your view.” He pulled the curtains back to reveal the lush rolling meadows that encompassed the majority of the one hundred eighty acres surrounding the manor. Acreage he and Truxton knew by heart.
    She stepped close to the window. “It’s like a painting,” she whispered. “All the colors . . .”
    “And it’s not even at its best yet.” He pointed to the tree line in the distance. “Those are all maples. Give it a few weeks and that entire hillside will be on fire with autumn.”
    She sighed, and her breath fogged the glass pane. “Autumn was my mother’s favorite time of year. It’s mine too.”
    Sutton studied her profile, remembering her recent losses. “I’m sorry about your father’s passing, Miss Laurent. And that of your mother.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.” A moment passed before she looked back at him. Silent tears marked her cheeks.
    Knowing he needed to go, Sutton found he didn’t want to. He hated to leave her melancholy. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Laurent? Believe I leave . . .”
    She dabbed her cheek. “Actually, there is. You can stop calling me Miss Laurent. That’s getting rather bothersome, don’t you think?”
    He smiled. “With your permission, then, may I address you as Claire, in less formal settings?”
    “You may.” She looked up at him. “But only if I can call you Willister.”
    Sutton realized he’d walked directly into her trap. “You may. But only if you don’t want me to respond.” He crossed to the door. “I’m certain Mrs. Routh will be by soon enough to answer any questions you may have.” He gave a brief bow. “Good evening, Claire.”
    She curtsied. “Good evening . . . Willister.”
    It wasn’t until the curtain fell after the third act that