The Beautiful One (12 page)

Her eyes mocked him, which he knew was a way she had of refusing a deeper connection. “I don't need to be flattered to know my worth as a person.”

He was not the man she needed, though he felt an inkling of how much she might bloom if she allowed love, affection, and trust to touch her heart. She knew how to give love—he could see that easily with all she was doing for Lizzie—but he rather thought she didn't know how to accept it.

She crossed her arms in front of her. “Lizzie is what's important here. With care, I know she'll improve. So I'm asking you not to send her away—no matter what. She's a little wild, yes. She needs patience, but I know she would thrive here, if you let her stay with you.”

“I've told you it won't work.”

“Because you want to live in the past?”

“You go too far, Anna.” He sighed. “But I'll tell you what. Since you are so concerned about her, why don't you stay on permanently as her governess? If you stayed, I wouldn't send her away. You could both live here.”

That caught her by surprise. And him. What the devil had made him say that? He wanted her around, yes, but how could he stand that much temptation if she stayed beyond the month?

She stilled. “It's not possible.”

“Why? Is something awaiting you? Or someone?” he asked, knowing he cared far too much about her answer. And why should he wish her to stay? Was he not master of himself? The best thing was for her and Lizzie to leave and his life to go back to the way it had been. Except, already he knew that it would be different when she left.

“My aunt is awaiting me in the north. Before I came here, it was my plan that I would live with her and teach drawing, as I was doing before I was at Rosewood.”

“I see,” he said, ignoring the stab of disappointment. “Well then, a month it must be.”

“But will you promise not to send Lizzie away before the month is out?” she pressed.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled. Really, if he were wise, he'd send both Anna and Lizzie away today. But he wasn't wise, it seemed.

“Very well. No matter what torment she visits upon me, I won't send her away. And I'll even allow you both to sit in on any interviews for her future governess, should I decide to send her to my London town house. Will that for once appease you?”

“Yes,” she said, satisfaction lighting her eyes. “And you must approach Lizzie with patience.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“My lord—”

He put up a quelling hand. “I promise to be patient with her, thereby doubtless opening myself up to all sorts of outrages. But if it will please Anna Black, then all is right in the world.”

She smiled then with true pleasure, and it made him feel so happy.

He propped his leg up against the base of the Apollo statute. “I confess a profound curiosity about you, Anna. I know so little. Tell me about your youthful exploits. Did you spend all your time larking about with that brother you mentioned?”

“Most of it.”

“I wonder about that veritable man's world in which you were raised. Considering how calmly you handled the owl situation, I imagine you must have come from some nature-mad family. And now I discover you were a drawing teacher, which certainly seems more in your line than seamstress work”—he chuckled—“considering how little interest you have in clothes.”

He tipped his head. “You so intrigue me, Anna. Tell me more.”

Anna stared, her heart beating faster every moment as Viscount Grandville regarded her with a grin, clearly planning to tease all kinds of information out of her.

He'd shaved again that day, but although he was wearing work clothes similar to the ones he'd worn the day she'd first met him, he didn't look like the same man. He'd changed, or her idea of him had changed, and
this
man,
this
Grandville, did something to her.

A section of his dark brown hair had fallen carelessly across his forehead near one eyebrow, and the masculine planes of his face were tanned from work. In his rough, brown laborer's coat and trousers, he seemed far too approachable. Not a viscount, but a man. Strong, good with his hands. Physical. Breathtakingly handsome.

She felt so very tempted to tell him more about herself, and to admit that she'd given a false name, and why. To tell him about those men and
The
Beautiful
One
.

She so much wanted—no, she ached—to trust him: the man, whose broad shoulders might bear great burdens, and the viscount, whose power could make problems disappear.

But why would he? She'd lied to him. And they barely knew each other, even if her foolish heart wanted to believe that on some deep, inexpressible level, they understood each other. Why should he trust her if she told him that a man had spied on her and made nude drawings of her? Why should he believe she hadn't posed for them? Even her own father hadn't believed Mr. Rawlins capable of any harm.

No. If there was one lesson she'd learned in life, it was that the only person she could trust was herself.

But he was looking at her so intently, as if she presented a mystery he couldn't resist, that she knew she must distract him.

“There's nothing else of interest to tell. What
is
interesting, though, are those cottages you're working on. May I see them?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“See the cottages where you go every day. I confess a deep curiosity about them.”

“Nonsense. You're only changing the subject.”

“Or perhaps you don't wish anyone to see your work. After all, how good could a viscount be at building a cottage? Perhaps these cottages are horribly cobbled together and an embarrassment.”

He arched a haughty eyebrow, and a gleam of challenge came into his eyes. “Come along then, Anna, and I'll show you. As you are not needed by your charge, who managed to get foxed under your very nose and is now doubtless lying abed with a painfully thick head, you can earn your keep with whitewashing.”

And he turned and made for the direction in which the cottages lay. She congratulated herself on distracting him so effectively that now she was going to go stand and gawk at his cottages with him, and breathe in his marvelous scent and listen to his deep voice and feel his tall, deliciously broad-shouldered, magnificently handsome presence beside her.

Brilliant.

* * *

She'd seen the roofs of the cottages from her bedchamber window, but as she followed him through the border of trees and hedges that shielded them from view and emerged to take in the full effect, she caught her breath.

Before her stood a loose semicircle of ten stone cottages set against a pretty wood, with mature weeping willows reposing peacefully at either end. A landscape painter might have dreamed the cottages up, or even an artist illustrating a happy children's story, though they were neither sweet nor childish. They were simple but lovely, exactly perfect in their woodsy setting, similar in their style without any one of them exactly resembling another.

Some had thatched roofs and some had tiled, and their walls were made of handsome irregular stones that lent them a sturdy, timeless quality. The pretty window frames were all freshly whitewashed, and sunlight glittered off glass panes that would likely be a new experience for tenants used to only shutters or oiled paper for their windows.

“They're beautiful,” she said quietly. A smile curled the corners of his lips, and she detected a whiff of justifiable pride. “These are not just cottages. Someone has designed them with great care and thought.”

“Yes. The architect John Nash did them as a favor. They're almost finished,” he added, sounding oddly disappointed. Wasn't he eager to complete so remarkable an undertaking?

“But why are you doing the work yourself?”

He shrugged carelessly. “Keeps my hands busy.”

He began striding over to one of the tiled-roof homes but turned to see her still standing where he'd left her. “There's whitewashing to be done inside. You can busy yourself with that while I finish with the roof.”

She followed him, but she didn't go into the cottage. Instead, she stood watching as he approached a ladder propped against the cottage. He climbed easily up and swung himself onto the roof with an appealing, careless masculinity. Working on the roof, she thought, looked like fun.

Fun… She didn't think he allowed that for himself.
She'd
had none of it once that book of drawings had come to light. For that matter, though, it had really been so long since she'd felt the urge for spontaneous fun. Perhaps it had even been as long ago as before her brother's death. Daily life had narrowed her vision to a focus on needful things and small pleasures.

But here at Stillwell, she felt different. She supposed that having an entire vast estate and grounds to wander could give a person a feeling of lighthearted freedom, though she knew it was more than that. Being with this man made something joyful bubble up inside her.

She went over to the ladder. “I'm coming up,” she announced as she ascended, not wanting to startle him.

“You're what? No—” she heard just as her head cleared the edge of the roof. He'd paused on his hands and knees near the end of a row of roof tiles, and he watched with a darkening brow as she swung her leg over the edge of the roof, which was surely far more difficult in skirts than trousers.

“This is absurd. Get down immediately. It's not safe.”

“Clearly it's not so very unsafe, or you wouldn't have survived laying all these tiles,” she said, inching along carefully and trying to keep her legs covered as she moved onto the still-untiled portion of the roof. Her heart was racing with the thrill of being there and, if she were honest, with the pleasure of teasing him.

“Besides,” she continued, moving carefully to sit on the slanted wood and finally lifting her eyes, “I've always wanted to be up on a roof. And now here I am, and rewarded with an amazing view.”

She thought she heard the sound of teeth gnashing behind her, which was followed by the resumption of his work. She didn't turn around to see. Instead, she looked out beyond her to a view of lush, rolling fields and trees bright with the new green of spring. In the weeping willow to the right of the cottage, a thrush was singing, and she'd never heard lovelier.

Long minutes passed as she sat near the edge and enjoyed the view while he worked steadily behind her. She reflected that if he'd been any other wealthy, handsome aristocrat, he would likely have been in Town, enjoying the adoration of numbers of ladies. But he was a man who obviously loved deeply, and his heart was still captive, so none of that would appeal to him.

Love persisted beyond the grave—she knew that as well as anyone. But surely it wasn't meant to persist in bonds that limited the living, instead of wings that lifted them up?

“Judith's ball isn't a bad idea, you know,” she said, not turning.

His only reply was a grunt.

“And I don't mean just for Lizzie, but for you as well. You're out of mourning now, though you don't seem inclined to seek the pleasures of Society…but surely you don't mean to shut yourself away alone here forever like some dragon in a dungeon?”

“A dragon in a dungeon, Anna?” he said in a tone that mocked the drama of her words.

She laughed a little, but she was imagining him at a ball full of his peers, dancing, charming the ladies as she was certain he could easily do. A ball like that would never be the place for the odd daughter of a country doctor. It wasn't a happy thought for her. But for him, surely the journey toward healing from his wife's death lay in abandoning the solitary haven he'd occupied for so long.

“I'll wager you had a life full of parties and balls not long ago. You can be charming when you wish. And you're not bad to look at.”

The deep rumble of laughter behind her made her smile. “Lavish praise indeed. And what about you? When was the last time
you
went to a ball?”

“A few years ago.”

She thought of the last assembly she'd been to, at the rooms in Cheldney. She'd stood, a wallflower in an uncomfortably flounced dress she hated, and waited for a gentleman to pick her. She'd heard the sniggers about Dr. Bristol's daughter—
wild
as
a
native!
—and heard the whispered comments that any man who danced with her risked getting his feet mashed.
Maybe
Miss
Bristol
will
want
to
lead
, tittered one of the local matrons,
since
she
behaves
so
much
like
a
man
.

Anna knew now, with the wisdom of hindsight, that behind some of the talk had been the bitterness of the local women who'd resented that the eligible Dr. Bristol kept so much to himself. He never participated in gatherings where he might be a companion to one of the many unattached women, or sought the help of any of the local women in the raising of his daughter. They all thought him proud, and Anna by extension, and believing themselves scorned by this man they respected and needed, had offered no friendliness to his daughter.

Her father's failing hadn't really been pride, though; he simply hadn't needed other people. He was valued for his skills and respected in the scientific community for the discoveries he made, and that had always been enough for him. Society, fashion, fine manners—none of that had held any interest for him, and so these things had featured little in Anna's life as well.

“Tell me about David Tarryton,” she said. “Lizzie said that you and her father were the best of friends.”

“Changing the subject again, Anna?”

“It would help me be a better governess to Lizzie if I understood her family more.”

He sighed. “We met at university. David was a few years older than me, but we got on famously.” He laughed a little, and she loved the sound of it. “He was, actually, the last man you'd expect to go off to a distant place to do worthy Christian things among strangers. He was rather a rascal.”

“And you were the responsible friend, who kept you both from getting into trouble.”

“Perhaps not
exactly
true, though I did keep him from climbing the spire of the chapel while drunk. But it was my idea to sneak into the clock tower later and change the time to an hour earlier. It caused an entertaining mild panic the next day when people got up extra early and earnestly set their watches to the wrong time.”

She laughed. “And were you found out?”

“No, though my father did cast a stern eye my way when news of the prank circulated.” He paused. “I'd forgotten about all that. Do you know, David once snuck into a vicar's garden and spelled out a bawdy phrase in pebbles on his lawn?”

“Devious and creative. I guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree as far as Lizzie is concerned.”

He chuckled. “I hadn't thought about that, how like David she is.”

“And Ginger…what was she like?”

A pause, and the sound of another tile being set in place. “You're determined to talk about her, aren't you?”

“She was part of your life. She still is, isn't she, in the way that anyone we've ever loved will always be? Tell me about her.”

He was quiet for several moments, but she knew, from the lack of sound, that he'd paused in his work. “Ginger always saw the best in people, she had a wonderful laugh, and her passion was doing good.”

He laughed a little. “And she absolutely loved to embroider. The Christmas after we were married, she embroidered pretty little scenes for Tommy and all our Halifax cousins. Ruby and Emerald were delighted, and Marcus was only about three, so nobody was surprised when he used his as a cape, but her gifts rendered Louie, Tommy, and Andrew magnificently awkward as they tried to express their thanks. The scene brought
me
no end of private amusement though.”

Anna smiled at the image. “She sounds like the kind of woman of which the world is in great need.” And a perfect match for the responsible eldest son of a viscount. They'd been destined to be a couple who'd bring love and goodness to those around them, but it was as though all that possibility had been mangled for him when she'd died.

“She was,” he said, fondness in his voice. “I felt like a king the day she agreed to marry me.” He paused. “And I plunged to the depths of despair the day she fell off her horse. My only consolation was that she died instantly.”

His love for his wife pierced her. Why had she brought this up? And yet, she felt certain it must be better for him to talk of his wife, that doing so might draw out some of the pain poisoning him.

“Ginger would have liked you,” he said. “She would have admired your spirit.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, but his gaze was directed at the roof. Beneath his words, though, was the suggestion that
he
liked her, and they curled over her like a warm blanket.

She was falling a little more under his spell, even though she couldn't afford to care whether he liked her.

“You're not the shell of a man that you think you are,” she said. “You've just been allowed, as a viscount, to wrap your sorrow around yourself like a cloak and cling to it. It's a tragedy that your wife had to die—that any beloved person has to die. But…you are here. And the question is, are you going to take up the reins of your life?”