A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  4

  The taller man turned to fully face her and cocked his head as though trying to remember whether they’d met before, which, of course, they hadn’t. As if time were bending back upon itself—cruelly so—Eleanor felt herself standing again in the hallway of the Nashville Female Academy, with “Dr. Adonis” staring down.

  Only, this man made her former professor look like a pudgy second cousin, twice removed. To say he was handsome was like saying that . . .

  She blinked, not meaning to stare but staring all the same. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a comparison that would do him justice. But one thing she swiftly gathered—not only from the way he spoke to Mr. Gray, but from the way he looked down at her—was that he and Dr. Adessa had been cut from the same arrogant cloth.

  His gaze briefly moved past her to the open door and then returned, possession in his glance. “May we be of assistance to you, madam?”

  His tone, so formal, so measured, answered her question about whose workroom she was standing in, as well as confirming her impression of him. His accent—German, she thought—accounted for his aloof manner, at least in part. They weren’t a people known for their warmth and vivacity.

  “Yes . . .” Eleanor nodded, hoping her features didn’t reveal her thoughts. “I would greatly appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” She included the other man with an acknowledging glance. “I need to exit the conservatory, and this door”—she gestured behind her, pleased at how confident she sounded—“obviously did not meet that need.”

  The man’s blue eyes narrowed the slightest bit. The scarcest hint of a smile showed on his mouth. He clearly knew she’d been snooping. “My apologies, madam, that your . . . needs failed to be met in a manner so inconvenient to you. The door you seek would be one of seven along the north wall.” He gestured, his gaze never leaving hers.

  This time, without question, underlying amusement and insinuation colored his tone. If she hadn’t been guilty as silently charged, she might have been offended. But as it was, she—

  “Oh, for the love of . . .” With a huffing laugh, the second man threw the first a dismissive glance and maneuvered around him, smiling, his own demeanor a marked contrast. “Henry Gray at your service, ma’am,” he said, his congeniality making up for the other’s lack. “Head gardener here at the Belmont estate. And you must be Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor hesitated. “Why . . . yes, that is correct, sir. But how did you—”

  “Mrs. Cheatham informed us that a favorite niece would be arriving today, which means we’re all to be on our best behavior.”

  Mr. Gray stood a little straighter and gave his jacket lapels a smart tug. “May I welcome you to Belmont, Miss Braddock. And please . . .” He cast a look over his shoulder. “You must forgive our Mr. Geoffrey here.” He winked. “He’s out of sorts today. Gets that way when someone interferes with his experiments. Well, actually . . . he’s out of sorts most days. So best you simply ignore him altogether.”

  The mischief in Mr. Gray’s voice said he was teasing. Still, a frown flitted across Mr. Geoffrey’s features. Seeing it prompted Eleanor to smile. She looked between the two men, still trying to figure them out. Mr. Gray was the head gardener, yet the tone Mr. Geoffrey had taken with him was anything but deferential. Odd behavior for an under gardener.

  Despite her lack of enthusiasm for Mr. Geoffrey, she most definitely liked Mr. Gray. Even if she did have to lower her gaze considerably in order to look him in the eye.

  “I understand your father has been delayed in joining you, Miss Braddock.”

  Mr. Gray’s question caught her off guard, and she grappled for an answer. “Ah . . . yes. You’re correct yet again, Mr. Gray.” How to respond to such an observation without revealing the truth? Or lying outright. “My father . . . He is—”

  “Seeing to family matters, I understand,” Mr. Gray supplied, his features innocent of further meaning, hidden or otherwise.

  She breathed a little easier. Apparently, Aunt Adelicia had anticipated—and circumvented—the topic of her father, and Eleanor felt a special endearment for the woman. “Yes. That’s it precisely.” She sensed Mr. Geoffrey watching her but kept her focus on his superior. “My father will be joining me as soon as he’s able.”

  Understandably, some of Belmont’s servants would remember the distinguished Attorney Garrison Braddock from years previous. It would be naive on her part to assume that no one in Nashville had gotten wind of their financial predicament, or of them losing their home. News of an unfortunate nature always seemed to travel faster than news of good fortune.

  Still, she would be prepared the next time someone inquired after her father.

  “Mr. Gray, sir!”

  Hurried footsteps sounded behind her, and Eleanor turned to see a young Negro boy running full out down the aisle. He skidded to a halt two feet in front of her, breathless and holding his side.

  “Mr. Gray”—the boy gulped air by the lungfuls—“Mr. Thatcher . . . needs to speak with you, sir. Right quick too. Up at the”—another deep breath—“new billiard hall. Somethin’ ’bout . . . them long windows you all be puttin’ in.”

  Frowning, Henry Gray exchanged a look with Mr. Geoffrey, whose expression altered little.

  “Thank you, Zeke.” Mr. Gray gave him a nod. “Tell him I’m coming.”

  Zeke dipped his head and then, to Eleanor’s surprise, grinned up at her as he took backward steps. “You Miss Braddock, the Lady’s niece.”

  Eleanor smiled at the certainty in his voice. “That’s right, I am. And you must be Zeke.”

  His brown eyes lit. “Yes, ma’am! If you be needin’ a horse, or a pony, or a carriage”—he glanced behind him, then back—“or if you need anythin’ at Belmont, you just let me know, ma’am. I know most everythin’, and I’s here to help.”

  Eleanor laughed, then quickly realized how foreign the response felt. “Thank you, Zeke. I’ll remember.”

  Eleanor dared glance in Mr. Geoffrey’s direction, only to find “Adonis” staring directly at her, his eyes like pieces of blue glass with the sun behind them. The man was absurdly handsome. But she sensed he knew that, which only served to detract from the fact. At least a little.

  “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braddock,” Mr. Gray said. “And while I apologize for leaving so abruptly, please let me extend an invitation to visit the conservatory anytime. Mr. Geoffrey here will be most happy to escort you outside. And on to the mansion, I’m sure, should you wish.”

  “Oh no,” Eleanor said quickly, seeing Mr. Geoffrey look at his superior, then back at her again. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Braddock. It would be my pleasure.” Mr. Geoffrey’s deep voice sounded something akin to velvet, but in his eyes Eleanor read only duty and accommodation. Neither of which she invited.

  “Oh, and Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Already halfway down the aisle, Mr. Gray turned back, his tone bordering on patronizing. “Don’t forget, Mrs. Cheatham would like to be apprised of the progress on your . . . collaboration.”

  Mr. Geoffrey frowned. “I have already been quite—”

  “First thing in the morning, please, Mr. Geoffrey. She was adamant about it.” With raised eyebrows, Mr. Gray looked at the man as though he should have known better than to argue, then hurried on.

  Wishing to leave in equal haste, Eleanor was dismayed to find Mr. Geoffrey, long arm extended, gesturing in the opposite direction.

  “I’m quite capable, Mr. Geoffrey, of finding my own way. But your generous offer is appreciated all the same.”

  She swept past him, feeling somewhat avenged in the act—until he fell into step behind her.

  More than a little irritated, she determined not to acknowledge him and walked on, hastening her steps. Her crinoline underskirts swirled as she swept past table after table, trying not to think of him directly behind her. But to no avail.

  “You needn’t see me out, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “But it’s my pl
easure to do so, Miss Braddock. After all, I dare not lose Mrs. Cheatham’s favorite niece in the conservatory on her first day. I shiver to think what consequences such an outcome would set in motion.”

  Eleanor barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Seeing the cast-iron fountain beneath the cupola ahead, she mentally retraced the path she’d taken on her way in.

  “You’ll turn left up there,” he said, “then a right down the third—”

  “I know where I’m going, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “Oh . . . forgive me, madam. I was under the impression you had lost your way.”

  Eleanor firmed her lips. She would not further engage this man. He obviously thought quite highly of himself. And he was purposefully trying to bait her—that much was clear.

  She’d done nothing wrong by exploring the “plant infirmary.” She hadn’t touched anything or moved anything from its place. She’d simply been curious, and curiosity was an excellent catalyst for improving one’s intellect. Never mind that it had also landed her in trouble on numerous occasions.

  “If you were to get lost in here, however,” he continued, apparently enjoying the sound of his voice more than she did, “either somewhere amidst the Norfolk pines or the tropical palms . . . or perhaps, let’s say, you were lured in by a bunch of carnivorous camellias, rest assured we’d organize a search party straightaway.”

  She blew out a breath. “Equipped with flares, I trust.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it, and quickened her pace.

  He did likewise. “Actually, no. Shooting flares in a structure such as this is somewhat discouraged, as you might guess. Unless of course, you are looking for a way to annihilate every living thing within its glass walls, as well as destroy the structure itself. If that were your purpose, I imagine shooting a flare would rank high at the top of that list.”

  Hearing the touch of a smile in his voice, she knew—even only having met the man—that he wouldn’t be wearing that smile if she were to look back. Which she didn’t.

  But wait . . .

  She slowed, looking around, then stopped. Where was the aisle with the—

  “You missed your turn, your ladyship,” he whispered from behind, sounding closer than she’d expected him to be. “About fifteen feet back. Perhaps you didn’t know your way as well as you thought. . . .”

  Her body flushed hot, then cold with embarrassment. His deep voice—and that accent, she admitted, though not wanting to—could have had something to do with it as well. She’d always admired men with accents. But she knew better in this instance. Because even knowing what little she did about him, she knew enough.

  And that was exactly what she’d had of him. Enough.

  She took a step forward before turning, then leveled a stare. “You have made your point, Mr. Geoffrey. Resoundingly so. I admit, you caught me snooping earlier, and . . .”

  How could a person’s eyes be so blue? And—could it be more unfair?—thick, dark lashes framed them. Trying not to think of her own pale, blond ones, she refocused.

  “I offer you an apology. I don’t know why I felt the need to cover my earlier actions. I didn’t disturb anything in the room. I give you my word. I was merely curious about something I saw. So . . .” She nodded once. “There we are.”

  Slowly, as though he were trying the gesture out for the first time, his mouth curved into a smile. His entire countenance changed, and the effect was heady. Much like the scent of roses had been.

  “Apology accepted.”

  She nodded. “Thank y—”

  “On one condition.”

  She frowned. “One cannot accept an apology and then set a condition. If you desired terms of acceptance, you should have stated those conditions at the outset.”

  He eyed her. “Then I rescind my acceptance.”

  “One cannot rescind a verbal agreement once it’s been adjudicated. By adjudicated, I mean—”

  “I know what the word means, Miss Braddock.” His eyes narrowed a touch. “Let me guess . . . Your father is an attorney.”

  “He was.” She lifted her chin. “One of the most honored and respected in the State of Tennessee. At least . . . at one time,” she added, instantly wishing she hadn’t.

  She glanced at her watch again and cringed to see the minute hand so closely approaching the twelve. If she was late for her aunt due to this foolishness . . .

  “You must excuse me, Mr. Geoffrey. I truly need to be on my way.”

  Gaining her bearings, she set off. And again, she heard him behind her.

  “I’m grafting plants.”

  She glanced back, not understanding.

  “What you saw in the room. You said you were curious. That’s what I’m working on. I’m grafting plants to make them stronger, to create more beautiful flowers. And to introduce colors we’ve not seen before.”

  “Ah . . . how interesting,” she said over her shoulder, then heard him laugh beneath his breath.

  “Which is what someone says when they’re not really interested but want to appear as though they are.”

  Spotting the door through which she’d first gained entrance, Eleanor paused and turned back. “Not to be rude, Mr. Geoffrey, but . . .” She glanced around. “I’ve never been overly fond of flowers. I simply don’t see the need.”

  Disbelief filtered across his expression, and she offered a tiny shrug. “But I’m certain that, whatever it is you’re doing, my aunt must be most grateful for your services. And being an under gardener here at the Belmont estate . . . well, that’s quite an accomplishment in itself.”

  “An under gardener,” he repeated, his eyes taking on a bemused cast. “Yes, being an under gardener is a very respectable position.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “You’re a person that prizes logic, aren’t you, Miss Braddock? And you’re quite straightforward. . . . for a woman, I mean.”

  Eleanor squinted. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, no . . .” His brow furrowed. “I meant it as a compliment . . . your ladyship.”

  She exhaled, not liking the silly title he’d assigned her. “Then your compliments need work, Mr. Geoffrey. Much like your Selenicereus grandiflorus.” Enjoying the surprise in his eyes, she gestured to the cactus she’d seen before, then continued toward the door, speaking over her shoulder. “If your determination is to make plants more beautiful, you might want to start there.”

  She pushed the door open and glanced back to see him watching her. To her surprise, he bowed at the waist.

  “It was, indeed, a pleasure, Miss Braddock.”

  Suddenly all she could picture was him in a black cutaway with tails, complete with tailored vest and trousers that complimented his lean physique. It surprised her how at home he looked in the imaginary garb. And how affected she was by imagining him in it.

  She blinked to clear the image, still trying to sort out the man. “Likewise, I’m sure, Mr. Geoffrey.” She let the door close behind her and all but ran the entire way to the mansion.

  5

  By the time Eleanor scaled the front steps and reached the door, she was winded and perspiring.

  A stony-faced housekeeper offered her entrance, and Eleanor stepped inside and introduced herself. Mrs. Routh, the head—with strong emphasis—housekeeper, gave her a good looking over, and Eleanor swiftly deduced the woman’s opinion of pink.

  She was, however, grateful when Mrs. Routh said nothing about her ensemble and gestured for her to follow.

  The mansion’s interior was even more beautiful than Eleanor remembered. To her immediate left, beautiful in detail and so lifelike beneath a massive portrait of Adelicia and one of her daughters, was an exquisite statuary of two children sleeping. Eleanor didn’t remember having seen it before.

  But—she slowed, her eyes widening—there was one piece of artwork that most definitely hadn’t been here on her last visit. She would have remembered it, for certain.

  Situated in the middle of the entrance hall, in fr
ont of the marble fireplace, stood a most evocative statue issuing a rather bold greeting, and Eleanor couldn’t help staring as she passed it. The sculpture was of a woman kneeling down, sheaves of wheat draped across her arm. But it was the artist’s rendering of the subject’s clothing that drew her attention.

  The woman’s dress had slipped from her shoulder to reveal—for all who entered the Belmont mansion to see—a rather shapely breast. An interesting choice for an artist to make, most certainly, but even more interesting that Aunt Adelicia chose to display the statue in the front entrance hall.

  Eleanor’s gaze moved to the mantel clock, and she squeezed her eyes tight. She took a deep breath in an effort to calm a sudden flurry of nerves, then smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. She never should have stopped by the conservatory.

  What she wouldn’t have given right then to wring the muscular neck of a certain under gardener.

  Spotting Mrs. Routh several paces ahead, Eleanor hurried on.

  No matter where she looked—from the richly patterned wallpaper and lavish draperies, to the flowered English Wilton wall-to-wall carpet, to the magnificent bronze chandeliers illuminated by gas-fed flames—beauty reigned supreme. Paintings adorned nearly every inch of wall space. Eleanor wished for more time to view them.

  But she had no choice but to hurry and catch up again.

  Mrs. Routh rapped softly on the glass pane of the central parlor door, then turned the knob. “Your niece has arrived, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Choosing to ignore the punitive trace in Mrs. Routh’s tone, Eleanor gained her first glimpse of her aunt sitting poised on a settee. Aunt Adelicia’s dark hair—without any touches of gray as far as she could see—was swept up and gathered in wispy curls. No matter the passage of years, Adelicia Acklen Cheatham was still stunning. No less than Eleanor had expected.

  Eleanor’s gaze met that of her aunt, and she felt an unexpected rush of emotion as she remembered the last time she’d visited Belmont—with her mother and father and Teddy. Now all of them, including Uncle Joseph, were gone.

  Or . . . almost.