Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (4 page)

But then he transferred his bow to his left hand, where he still gripped the instrument’s neck lightly, and moved towards her. His steps were slow, deliberate, like he’d memorized the path long ago, and was now taking care that something—she?—wasn’t in the way. She saw his nostrils flare, and he stopped a few feet from her.
Thank Heavens
, because she hadn’t been sure if she should move out of the way. Hadn’t known if her body would follow her commands to move. Hadn’t known if she could think, not after the way his music had made her
feel
.

When he spoke again, his voice lacked the authority of a moment before, but had the same gravelly tone, like there was something wrong with his throat. “Gordy, no more games. Where is she? I can smell her.”

It took two tries to find her voice, and even then, Arabella winced at the waver she heard. “Gordon went back to the kitchen, my lord.” His hair whipped at his cheeks when he jerked his face towards hers. “I’m Mrs. Mayor.”

He dropped his chin slightly so that he would’ve been staring at her shoulder, had he eyes, and she realized he’d turned his ear towards her. When he inhaled, she tried her hardest not to stare at the way his chest strained against the buttons on his vest, or the way his fingers tightened around the violin, but anything was better than staring at his ruined face.

“Mrs. Mayor.” And then he smiled. He smiled widely enough that the beard didn’t matter, that the scars didn’t matter. It was a miracle that whatever had caused the damage to his face had left his smile intact; neat, even rows of white teeth, and lips that were unaccountably sensual. What right did a man who looked like this have to be sensual? But there was no denying the flutter in her stomach when he turned that smile on her, and Arabella frowned, knowing he couldn’t see.

Then she was wishing she
had
taken that step back, because he was touching her. He’d lifted his right hand and stroked her cheek. Now her jawline and chin and
oh Heavens
across her lips. “You’ve been crying, Mrs. Mayor.”

Her heart was beating in her chest—he could probably feel it—and she’d shut her eyes at his first feather-light caress. She had to clear her throat to get any sound past it, when he used the ball of one callused thumb to wipe at her wet cheeks. “I…your music was…”

“Yes, I know.” He didn’t sound smug, just sure. Sure that his music was beautiful enough to bring a stranger to tears. “Shall I tell you a secret, Mrs. Mayor?” His fingers skimmed along her forehead now, tracing each brow before dropping to her temple and then resting alongside her cheek, one finger tantalizingly close to her ear. “Shall I?” His whisper told her that she wasn’t going to escape his notice or his touch.

She nodded, slightly, still afraid to open her eyes. When she felt his breath on her lips, she knew that he’d leaned closer, and thought that she might die from the utterly horrible, wonderful impropriety of his touch. Of
him
. “Sometimes I want to cry, too.”

“Why?” She hadn’t meant to ask it. Hadn’t meant to engage at all until she was a safe distance away. But in that darkness behind her eyes, all that mattered at that moment was his breath and the music she could still hear in her soul.

“Because the song is alive, and runs clear and strong and beautiful. So beautiful, Mrs. Mayor.”
Beautiful
. “I can see it, in my mind. But no one else will ever see it the way I do, so I wish I could cry.”

She nodded again—really more of a jerk—and felt his hand fall away. When the chasm in front of her opened again, she risked a peek, and saw that he’d stepped back and was turning away. Her pulse pounded in her temple and her breath came in short, heaving gasps as she lifted her hand to her chest and tried to calm her racing heart. His slow, deliberate steps took him towards the armchair positioned by the hearth, and she watched him grope for a table, smooth a hand over it to ensure it was empty, and lay his instrument and bow down reverently.

His hands free now, he reached into one pocket and removed a handkerchief, which he swiped at the sweat across his brow and down his temples. Again, she tried not to watch the way the sinews in his bare forearms moved as he wiped the back of his neck under his hair, but she was totally entranced.

It had to be the music. It
had
to. It had brought back memories of her first marriage, of happier times. It had been a solid presence, coaxing her into acting like the beautiful young girl she’d been back then. It had been the reason she was now watching him in utter fascination, as he pulled a length of thick red silk from another pocket, and tied it around his face.

When he turned fully to her, and began to roll down his sleeves again, Arabella managed to breathe normally for what felt like the first time since she’d entered the house. He was…he was acceptable. Proper. His deformity covered by that flamboyant scarf and his hair, he was doing his best to keep up appearances. Then he reached for his jacket and shrugged into it, and Arabella felt her shoulders relax. Gone was the primal
beast
who’d touched her without her permission, who’d made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a decade. Instead, a perfect gentleman stood in his place. Perhaps
too
perfect, she reflected, when he smiled and made a flourishing bow.

“Please do be seated, Mrs. Mayor.” He gestured to another chair, near his, as he lounged elegantly. “I’m sure that Gordy will find his way back to us eventually, with some sort of refreshment. The boy isn’t stupid, after all.”

From what she’d seen of Gordon, he wasn’t stupid at all; wasn’t a
boy
either. But all she said was “Thank you, my lord. I don’t need refreshment.” Her skirts
swished
as she crossed the room to the other chair, and he turned with her, as if watching.

“Please, call me Vincenzo. I’m not a lord.”

“You’re not?” She adjusted her skirt as she sat, and moved the basket of books to her lap primly. “Gordon called you—”

He waved. “Gordy was brought up quite correctly in Scotland, calling his betters lords and ladies.”

“And you’re his better?”
Oh poot
, she probably shouldn’t have said that. It was definitely contravening Rule Number Two, but he didn’t seem to care, judging from his smile.

“Not at all. But the stupid Scotsman hasn’t seemed to realize that yet, so I’ll keep harping on him until he does.”

There wasn’t anything she could say about that bizarre relationship, so she didn’t try. “
Signore
Bellini, I was told—”

“Vincenzo, please.”

Oh dear, he was smiling again, and how did a man with most of his face hidden behind a beard and a scarf manage to look so
charming
? There was no way she could call him by his given name, not when she was sitting in a room alone with him, and had just nearly lost her control because of
his
music. So she just cleared her throat. “I was told that you were searching for someone who could read to you.”

“Indeed.” He waved lazily towards the door and the rest of the house. “Gordy’s accent is intolerable, and with my schedule so open these days, I miss books. I can just about stand listening to him read the newspapers, but he butchers Twain.”

Mark Twain’s
Innocents Abroad
was one of the books she’d brought today. Arabella glanced down at it in the basket, pleased to know that she’d guessed well. “I would be amenable to a—“

“Wait.” He shifted forward. “I don’t know who I’m dealing with, yet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have a rule, Mrs. Mayor. I need to have a picture in my mind of what you look like, before I can deal with you. Otherwise, you could be anyone.”

“I…” That was it. There was nothing she could possibly say to such a ridiculous rule.

“Usually Gordy describes a person to me, but since the sluggard has obviously decided he’s got better things to do, you’ll have to do it.”

The sluggard
? The man was cooking dinner—Wait. “Do what?”

“Describe yourself.” His fingers were locked around the arms of the chair he sat in, his entire being focused on her. She’d never felt so…so on display.

No, that wasn’t true. When she’d been beautiful, she hadn’t minded being on display. Hadn’t minded being stared at, and hadn’t let it bother her. She’d been so carefree then, and not worried about propriety. But now…

“Describe myself?”

“I’m waiting, Mrs. Mayor.”

“Well, I suppose that…” She took a breath. “I run the bookstore in Everland. The building was split between my books—which I loan out—and my late husband’s plants. He was a botanist, and brought myself and my son out here to Wyoming to study the native—“

“No, Mrs. Mayor. I don’t care to hear about Mr. Mayor, or even your shop. I want to hear about
you
. What you look like.”

She knew that her eyes were wide in shock at his rudeness. Demanding that she describe herself? Put herself on display for him? It was…

“I can hear your breathing, Mrs. Mayor. I know I’ve made you uncomfortable, and I wonder why.”

“Do you?” It was all she could squeak out, and it didn’t get the reaction she might’ve expected. He smiled, but it was gentle this time. More…more
real
than the other times he’d smiled, trying to charm her.

“Please, Mrs. Mayor? So that I can see you, too?”

It was the
please
that did it. Arabella closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-three years old,
Signore
. Brown hair, brown eyes. I have a ten-year-old son, so am well past my bloom of youth.”

“You sound beautiful.”

“I am not.” The response to his casual statement had been instinctual, protective. “I used to be quite the beauty, though. Now I’m…well, I’m not.”

“You’re old and wrinkled, then?”

“Maybe not yet, but not too far off, I know. Eddie’s giving me gray hairs, I know, and I can already see faint wrinkles at the corners of my eyes.”

He nodded. “That means you must smile plenty. It’s good for a boy, to see his mother smile.”

What a wonderfully
odd
thing to say. She felt her heart clench a little, to think of Eddie waiting for her to smile. Did he see her smile enough?
Did
she smile enough? Was it proper to smile so often? Milton would’ve called it “unnecessary frivolity”, but what did
Eddie
think?

The eccentric man across from her, the man who seemed to make his own rules, sat back in his chair again. “You’ve painted a portrait, for me, Mrs. Mayor, and in doing so, I’ve fallen half in love with your voice. You may read to me.”

Arabella almost burst into laughter, but managed to swallow her mirth at the last moment. It was
completely
improper, and probably breaking Rule Number One as well, but his tone had been so…so
imperious
. He’d commanded her to display herself for him, and now was smiling in that ridiculously charming way as he commanded her to read to him.

Schooling her expression—sure that he’d be able to hear her smiling if she did—Arabella pretended she was delivering a lecture to Eddie. “As I was saying, I would be amenable to a barter.”

“A barter?” He sat up straighter. “I’d just planned on paying you. Dr. Carpenter seemed to think that you could use the money.”

Oh dear
. Apparently, Meredith had picked up on their circumstances. So much for Rule Number Three. Arabella hated to think of herself and her son as being subjects of Everland gossip, but coming here to speak with the town’s new recluse wasn’t going to help her propriety, either. She exhaled, and gripped the basket tighter. “My financial situation is not your concern, sir. I do not want your money.”

“Then what do you want to barter, Mrs. Mayor?” Was it her imagination, or had his lips curled up knowingly when he’d said her name?

Swallowing, she steeled herself. “Your talent.” Before he could say something disconcertingly sensual—she could already see him considering it—she hurried on. “My son’s father played the violin. I would like you to teach him.”

“This wasn’t Mr. Mayor?”

“My first husband was killed in the war,
Signore
. Mr. Mayor married me when my son was a year old. It took me that long to get over my husband’s death and think about the future.” Why was she telling him this? Because the slightly mocking tone of his voice made her want to defend Edward, to remind this man that she’d been desirable enough once for two men to want her.

“And now little—what was his name? Eddie?—wants to learn like his father?”

“Eddie doesn’t know. But…” She swallowed. “He needs this. I need this. He needs something to focus on. Something to make him think about… think about tomorrow, I suppose.”

She looked up from the basket of books, not sure what she would do if
Signore
Bellini was laughing at her. But he wasn’t; despite most of his expression being hidden from her, he managed to look thoughtful, with his head cocked to one side, as if studying her from empty eyes.