Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (56 page)

Chin rising slightly, she nodded and followed him. He saw the glimmer of emotion in her eyes and almost regretted what he was about to do.
Almost
.

“We had some issues with the kitchen, I’m afraid.”

She exhaled. “Not the kitchen, Marcus.”

He led her to the doorway that had been boarded up, then stepped aside, wanting a good view of her face.

 47 

E
uphorisch
.
That’s the word that came to Marcus’s mind as he watched the sun rise in Eleanor’s eyes even as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

“Oh . . .” She shook her head, both laughing and crying, and looked from him, to the bank of gleaming new cast-iron ranges lining the outer wall, then back to him again. “It’s . . . so . . .” She reached over and swatted him hard. “You had me worried sick!”

He laughed, and she did too.

“Marcus, this is . . .” She wiped beneath her eyes. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She swiftly sobered. “But the cost. I
know
the money for this wasn’t included in the original bid.”

“Don’t worry about that, Eleanor. We’re still on budget.”

She frowned. “You’re certain? Because I—”

“Stop worrying about that.” He softened his tone with a smile. “Just appreciate your new kitchen!”

She stepped inside and walked the length of the room, running a hand over the solid oak worktables and around the edges of the wash basins. She paused and looked up at the rectangular windows running the upper length of the outer wall, then stood, hands on hip, staring out the large plate-glass window that faced
his
building.

She threw him a questioning look, to which he answered, “Not yet.”

Seeming not the least bit perturbed at being put off again, she eyed the pots hanging from the racks above the center worktables. “You bought cooking pots too?”

“If you don’t like them, Mr. Mulholland says he’ll exchange them for you.”

She looked at him as though he’d grown a third eye.

She opened every cupboard door—
twice
—chuckling each time.
“Just wait until Naomi and the others see.” She looked back as if to ask if they had.

He shook his head. “I wanted you to be the first. Which reminds me . . .” He motioned for her to follow him.

He led her around the corner and down a short hallway. “This, madam”—he paused beside a closed door—“is your pantry.” He opened it wide and bowed like a footman as she entered the room before him.

She turned in circles amidst the shelving, rectangular windows identical to the ones in the other room providing an abundance of light. “I think this is bigger than my bedroom at Belmont.” She glanced at him. “But please don’t tell my aunt I said that.”

He winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She grew quiet after a moment and walked to the far side of the room, keeping her back to him.

“Eleanor?”

“I’m fine,” she whispered, not turning.

He went to her. “Eleanor,” he said again softly, wanting to touch her, but knowing he shouldn’t.

She finally turned. “All of this, Marcus . . .” She looked around. “I don’t know what to say. How to thank you for all you’ve done, and
are
doing for these women and children.”

A few ideas came to him, but Marcus knew better than to share them, even in jest. “I wish I could allow you to leave here today thinking I have such a kind and philanthropic heart, as you suggest. But the truth is, Eleanor . . . I did this for you.”

She stared for the longest moment, then stepped close, lifted her face to his, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm, her nearness intoxicating.

A creak sounded somewhere behind him, and she took a hasty step back. Marcus turned to see Caleb standing by the door, smiling.

“I guess she likes it, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Marcus looked back at her. “I guess she does.”

Eleanor awakened the next morning after a fitful night. A thought kept running through her mind that wouldn’t let her rest. Something Lawrence had mentioned to her months ago, and she
had
to question Marcus about it, despite feeling like an ingrate as she did.

She arrived at the home earlier than usual and found Marcus
meeting with his foreman and two other workers in a room on the main floor, not far from the kitchen.

The kitchen.
She felt her heart sigh a little.

She’d lain awake most of the night thinking about it. She’d been so overcome with emotion and gratitude, the other side of the reality hadn’t hit her until later. But when it had—sleep had fled.

She waited outside the room, and when Marcus saw her, he quickly ended the conversation.

He motioned her inside. “My office is your office.”

Eleanor stepped inside, nodding to Mr. Callahan, Marcus’s foreman, and the other two men as they left. “Marcus . . .” How to phrase her concern in a manner in which he wouldn’t take offense? “I need to speak with you about something.”

“Good morning to you too, Eleanor.” He smiled and pulled two sugar sticks from his pocket. He offered her one.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. And I’m sorry. . . . Good morning.” She managed a partial smile.

“Whatever it is, go ahead and ask me before you burst from trying to hold it in.”

He swirled the candy between his lips. Lips she remembered only too well.

She pulled her thoughts back. “I need you to assure me that we’re still on budget, Marcus.”

He eyed her. “As I told you yesterday, we
are
.” He laid the candy aside. “So I’m wondering . . . Why do you feel the need to ask me that again?”

“Because . . .”

“Go ahead,” he gently urged.

Asking made her feel so ungrateful, especially after all he’d done. Done
for her
, as he’d said last night. “Because of the money we spent on the kitchen. It’s beautiful, Marcus,” she said quickly. “Finer than anything I’d ever dreamed of for this building. For
any
kitchen, but—”

“You think I overspent.”

“Not intentionally. I don’t think you would ever do that. It’s more . . .”

“That I mismanaged the money, then.”

Seeing, and hearing, his frustration, she almost wished she hadn’t said anything. But she couldn’t live with that option either. “Marcus . . .” She sighed, glancing away. She hated even thinking this, much less saying it aloud. And to a man like
him
. Archduke of the House of Habsburg.

As soon as she thought it, she knew his title—however
royal
—made no difference. Not in this situation. Archduke or not, this man was
responsible for a project for which she was accountable.
She
would have to answer to the women’s league and, more importantly, to her aunt if they went over budget. Not him.

He shifted his weight. “For being such a straightforward woman, Eleanor, it’s taking an awfully long time for you to get to the point.”

She met his gaze, the comment stirring her dander. “I know what happened before, with your bid for the opera house. How the city council thought your design was best, but then how the mayor chose his own son’s bid over yours. And then later, how . . .” Seeing his eyes darken, she faltered. But only for a second. “I know about your company having been in financial trouble, and how you likely wouldn’t have been able to finish the project even if it had been given to you.”

“Who told you this?”

“That doesn’t matter, I simply need your reassurance that—”

“I’ve given you my reassurance on this subject before. And I’m standing here now, Eleanor, looking you in the eye . . .”

She felt a tiny shudder as he did just that.

“. . . and I’m giving you my word again. But I want to know . . .
who
told you this?”

She swallowed. “Lawrence Hockley.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “I see. And when did he tell you this?”

She started to look away, but the intensity in his expression wouldn’t allow it. “Before I asked you for your company’s financial portfolio.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “So you knew this, or thought you knew, before you hired me?”

She nodded.

“And yet you hired me anyway.”

“Because I believed you. And . . . I still do. But when I started thinking about that kitchen last night and”—she exhaled, looking down—“after seeing how
marvelous
it is, I knew it was far beyond what was included in the original plans. And then I started thinking . . .”

He touched her chin and urged her gaze upward. “You think about a great deal, do you not?”

“More than I should, I know. I blame it on my father.” She wanted to avert her gaze, but his fingertips held her face inches from his.

He smiled, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re right, Eleanor. About the kitchen. Finishing it cost considerably more than what I had included in the budget. And since it’s come to this . . .” He firmed his mouth. “I paid for the overage myself, out of my personal funds.”

Eleanor wanted to respond, but the warmth of his hand on her face pushed every last thought from her head.

He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, his gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth, and she became aware of him moving closer. But it wasn’t until he whispered her name—“Eleanor . . .”—that she realized
he
wasn’t closing the distance between them. It was
her
.

Breath trapped in her chest, she froze, their lips so close she could almost taste the peppermint on his breath on her own tongue. Embarrassment trickled through her—first hot, then cold.
What am I doing?
She backed away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to look at him.

“No, don’t be,” he said quickly, his voice soft. “If only we—”

She put up a hand, not wanting him to say something only to spare her feelings. But he took hold of her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it—once, twice—just as he’d done that night standing on the front porch.

“Eleanor, if circumstances between us had been different . . . perhaps we—”

“Please, there’s no need to explain.” Scraping the dregs of courage and pride, she tugged her hand from his and dared look at him again. And this time, she could see it so clearly. In his stance, his bearing, in the regal set of his jaw. He was
royalty
. And she was—

“Late. I’m . . . I’m late. For an appointment.” She hurried to the door, then briefly looked back, feeling the solid beat of her heart throughout every inch of her body. “Thank you again, Marcus, for the gift of the kitchen. I’ll never forget your generosity.”

“Eleanor, can’t we—”

She left as quickly as she’d come, knowing she would have to face him again. And soon. But also knowing she would never forget the look of pity—or was it regret?—in his eyes.

She pushed through the front door and the freezing chill of winter met her head on. She buttoned her coat, pulled her scarf about her face, and started walking, her lingering desire for him still a formidable force.

She walked down one street and then another, finding the brisk air and walk helped to slow the rapid pace of her heart—and her thoughts. What had gotten into her back there? She didn’t know.

But then, she’d never been so drawn to anyone as she was to Marcus Geoffrey. And it frightened her.

The faces of her widowed friends—Naomi, Marta, Elena, Gretchen, Rebecca—passed before her as clearly as did the street signs and
carriages. All of those women had loved . . . and lost. She didn’t envy the grief they carried with them.