by Joanna Shupe
“I am not courting her. The idea is preposterous. And my sister is welcome to carry on behalf of the family.”
“I think it is a marvelous idea,” Henry signed. “First, Sarah is only eleven. Second, you need to rejoin the rest of the world.”
This was an old battle. Oliver’s hand movements grew sharp. “I am perfectly fine just as I am.”
This was not a lie. He’d tried to carry on with what gentlemen considered a “normal” life after school. It had resulted in being called “dumb” and “broken” at every turn. Why should he try to fit into a society that so readily dismissed him? That would sooner see him locked away in an asylum before allowing him into the Metropolitan Club? As far as he was concerned, the uptown set could go hang.
Henry’s mouth tightened but he did not argue. “I shall send you my bill.” He clapped Oliver on the shoulder and departed.
Christina was sitting upright, drinking tea, when the man walked back in. So this was Mr. Hawkes, the recluse her cousin had told her about. He was fairly young, which surprised her. Dark hair had been swept away from rugged features, showing off a Roman-type nose and broad jaw. Full lips and nice, even teeth. She noticed he wore only shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, along with dark trousers tapered to his long legs.
However, it was his eyes that drew her in. A vivid green, the irises were so unique and pretty they were almost difficult to look at. Right now, his eyes were focused intently, appreciatively, on her, as if he saw every flaw, every lie she’d ever told and did not mind a bit. As if he found her fascinating and beautiful—which had to be her imagination. She must’ve hit her head harder than she thought.
The butler signed to Mr. Hawkes and then disappeared, leaving her alone with the owner. Weirdly, that did not concern her. According to the butler, Mr. Hawkes had rescued her earlier when she fell. If Mr. Hawkes meant to do her harm, why bring her inside and call a doctor? Still, she had likely overstayed her welcome.
“A gentlemen is always less eager for a lady’s company than she for his,” her mother liked to say.
Christina set her tea on the table and started to push up, but Mr. Hawkes surprised her by motioning for her to remain seated. Even more alarming, he dropped down next to her on the sofa. She tried to remain calm and not fidget as he pulled a small ledger and pencil from his pocket and began writing in it. He held the words out for her to read. How do you feel?
Silly. Embarrassed. Tired. Where should she possibly start? She lifted her head so he could see her face. “Sore.”
He nodded as if that was what he expected. I am Oliver, he wrote.
“Oliver.” He could not hear her, of course, but he appeared pleased at her repetition. She wanted to . . . Well, she was not certain, but she wanted to know more about this man. She might never get the chance to ask him questions again and he seemed in no hurry for her to leave. “How does one say that in your language?”
His head jerked, brows dipping, before he bent to write. Why?
Had she offended him? “I was merely curious but I understand if you would rather not show me.”
His gaze remained wary, but he moved his fingers to spell his name. Christina lifted her hands. “Show me.”
Slowly, he formed each letter, waiting patiently as she clumsily shifted to mirror him. Though the placement was unfamiliar, the letters made sense. She tried again, by herself this time, and he corrected her twice. When she finished, he smiled at her, and heat spread over her entire body. Goodness, he had a devastating smile.
She liked this exchange between them, a quiet conversation without shouting or biting criticism. It was refreshingly easy to talk to him. She was not ready for their interaction to end. “Now sign mine,” she said.
He obliged, again teaching her the correct letters. She practiced until she could do it unassisted.
His pen scratched over the paper. Are you a lady?
“Yes. My father is the fourth Earl of Pennington.”
He wrote, Benningson?
She took his pencil and corrected the spelling. Ah, he wrote. Would you care for more tea?
His posture was relaxed, his expression curious. She was not nervous, she realized. Normally, she’d be searching for an escape when a man talked to her, palms sweaty inside her gloves. But Oliver was different than the loud and brash braggarts she had met in New York society. There was a confidence about him that she liked, a calm air of authority. “No, thank you,” she answered. “Do you live here alone?”
He nodded. My sister is away at school, he wrote.
“I would love to live alone. People must think you are lonely but it sounds like heaven to me.”
He frowned and she wondered if he’d misunderstood her. She reached for the paper but he stopped her, writing his own response. I read your lips but I still do not understand.
She lifted a shoulder, not intending on answering. All she’d wanted was to let him know that she envied him. That she did not care if he was a recluse.
In fact, there were days she wished to be left alone, not to be forced to hunt for a husband. Too bad her mother would never allow it. The best she could hope for was to marry a wealthy man who did not beat her and to survive childbirth. Such was a woman’s lot in life.
Oliver bent his head and wrote, I thought you felt sorry for me.
“No, I do not. Should I?”
No, he wrote. Of course not.
Just then the huge dog that had knocked her down trotted into the room. Christina froze, uncertain what the animal would do. Did Oliver allow the beast to roam indoors?
Oliver snapped his fingers and the dog came right to his side, pushing his nose into his master’s palm. The dog did not appear to be vicious, but one could never be certain. It hadn’t hesitated to pounce on her in the gardens. Oliver petted the animal and she edged away, trying to put as much room between her and the dog as possible.
When Oliver noticed her reaction, he bent to write, He will not hurt you.
Before she knew what was happening, Oliver reached to pick up her hand. She had taken off her gloves earlier and the contact of his warm skin against hers sent a jolt through her. What was he about?
She tried to pull away, but Oliver did not release her, holding up his free hand to indicate she should have patience. Then he slowly dragged her palm toward the dog, placing her hand on the animal’s back. The fur was soft and sleek, and she quickly forgot about the impropriety of Oliver’s touch. She gave a few tentative strokes. The dog seemed to like this, his tail wagging, but when he tried to turn around Oliver held him steady. She let out the breath she’d been holding and simply enjoyed the velvety sensation against her palm.
“It is soothing,” she said, her eyes on her hand.
Oliver tapped her arm and when she looked up, he pointed to his green eyes and then her mouth. Ah. He could not read her lips if he could not see her face. “It is soothing,” she repeated.
They sat close to one another on the sofa and the intimacy of the situation struck her, especially because of how intently he was staring at her lips and mouth . . . almost as if he were thinking of kissing her.
All the moisture left her mouth and her tongue grew awkward and thick.
You are ridiculous. He is not interested in you; he is trying to communicate with you.
Embarrassed, she let her gaze fall back to the dog. Merely because she enjoyed this interaction with Oliver did not mean he fancied her in return. He was a recluse, after all, though she could not understand why. The man was ruggedly handsome and seemed comfortable in his own skin. Intelligent. Kind. Perhaps he merely needed a friend.
And why on earth would that friend be you?
She could almost hear her mother’s voice saying this. No one could cut Christina quicker than her mother. Of course, there was some truth to it. He was being solicitous, end of story. He hadn’t asked her in for tea. She had injured herself on his property. More than likely he was anxious to get rid of her but too polite to mention it.
She ros
e and wobbled a bit. Oliver’s big hand shot out to steady her. “Thank you,” she said once she’d collected herself. “For everything. I would have frozen to death if you had not found me and brought me inside.”
You are welcome. He went back to his paper and wrote, Are you able to find your way home safely or shall I find a footman to escort you?
She noted he hadn’t offered to escort her himself. “No, I will be fine. It is not far.”
They stood for a moment, the silence stretching. Why was she so reluctant to leave? Perhaps you are in need of the friend, not him. Hard to argue that point; other than her cousin, she had no friends close to her age.
The Barclays were impoverished, so far in debt that London society had completely turned their backs on them. The only choice had been to flee to America. Who would want to be friends with a girl in such a situation? She was tainted, an outcast.
So she knew better than to ask. Instead, she said, “Would you mind if I continued the use of your gardens for my daily walk?”
His brows shot up, eyes round and wide. You walk in my gardens every morning? he wrote.
“I will not get in your way, I promise. And I will not fall again.”
“No,” he blurted, and they both blinked at the sound. He was able to speak?
She stuck to the topic at hand. “Why?”
He started writing once more. Because it is my home and I do not wish to have strangers strolling about the property.
The words irritated her. She was not one to usually argue, but those walks were important to her. Necessary to her sanity. Perhaps if she wrote it she’d craft a better case for herself.
She pointed to his ledger and pencil, which he promptly handed her. We are not strangers, not any longer. And I swear not to disrupt anything. You will not even know I am there.
I will know, he wrote, underlining the word “will” three times.
How? In nearly three weeks I have not encountered a soul in your gardens, she wrote then passed the ledger over to him.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Nevertheless, this is my house and I prefer to be left alone.
She finished reading and bit back a sigh. He misunderstood, clearly thinking she would pop into the house and sit down to a chat. All she wanted was to continue her walks in his empty gardens. Instead of pushing the issue, she held up her hands in surrender. Let him think he’d won. “Thank you for your help today. Good-bye, Oliver.” She signed his name as he had shown her then walked out into the corridor in search of the front door.
Chapter Two
Three days later, in the dull midmorning light, Oliver hurried to his greenhouse to begin working. He had not slept much last night, thanks to fitful dreams once again keeping him awake. He finally arose when the sun broke over the horizon.
Movement caught his gaze and he stopped. Good Lord, it was her. Christina. He sucked in a breath. She had returned, even after he’d instructed her not to come back. Yet here she strolled along the path in the same black overcoat, hair tucked under a thick hat, her gloved palm brushing over the barren hedges.
He clenched his hands and worked to calm himself down.
Why here? What was it about these plain sticks and shrubs that appealed to her? In springtime, when the blooms came in and the gardens overflowed with beauty, perhaps he could understand her interloping. But in the dead of winter? The space was downright macabre.
Not to mention she had been expressly forbidden from trespassing . . .
She hadn’t noticed him standing there so he watched her, trying to decide what to do. Though he wanted to deny it, her perfect features affected him like a punch to the stomach. No longer pale and in pain, she looked vivacious and energetic. Mischievous, almost. Cheeks and nose rosy from the cold, her skin glowed like the purest cream. Silky dark hair blew around her face while her full lips were curled into a mysterious smirk. Quite a difference from the almost shy and skittish woman he’d met the other day.
At first, he had believed her repulsed by him, unwilling to even meet his eyes. Then he’d noticed her avoiding the eyes of the other men in the room, too.
People must think you are lonely but it sounds like heaven to me.
That comment had burrowed between his ribs to lodge somewhere in his frozen chest. What on earth could a society girl—an aristocrat, no less—have to complain about? The city was hers to conquer if she wished. No doubt the young men fell all over themselves to gain her favor.
So why did he sense her unhappiness?
And why did he have this ridiculous urge to make her smile?
A string of curse words paraded through his head. Nothing good could come of this. Nothing good at all. His stance on visitors had not changed—especially unmarried, unchaperoned visitors.
Years ago, he’d felt differently. After returning from school in Connecticut, he had been determined to take his place in society. He’d refused to hide or restrict his social activity because of his deafness. He went everywhere: the opera, the theater, dinner . . . Until he had realized what people were saying about him, not knowing he could read lips.
He is one of those imbeciles.
Have you seen the way he moves his hands?
His voice is so strange.
Even his lover, Adrianna, had turned on him. He’d caught her talking to her friends when she thought he was unable to see her. Oh, Oliver is fine for right now, but we won’t be together long. He is ridiculously rich, you know.
He had been devastated. Was that all they saw, either an imbecile or a large bank account? Would his accomplishments and interests never count for anything? He’d worked so hard at school to fit in with the hearing world . . . and all that painstaking effort had failed. No matter what he did, they still saw him as deficient.
Then his parents died. First, his mother from cancer and then his father from heart troubles not even a year later.
Hurt and anger had embittered Oliver, and he had retreated into a world of his own making. He sent his sister off to boarding school, ensuring she would receive a proper education instead of solely being groomed for the role of future society hostess. That had left him with the house, his laboratory, the staff . . . and those were the only things he needed.
The rest of the world could fuck right off.
And then this woman had injured herself in his gardens. The back of Oliver’s neck prickled, an eerie sensation that things were spinning out of his control. He did not like it, not one bit.
There was no need for him to change . . . nor did he need change forced on him.
Therefore, it was imperative that Christina left and not return—not even to meander through his gardens.
He strode toward her, his steps full of purpose and fury. She skimmed around a hedge and then her head snapped up, probably from the sound of his shoes on the gravel. Nearly stumbling, she came to a stop and gave him a shy wave. He narrowed his gaze. “Follow me,” he signed, an easy enough motion to understand.
Spinning on his heel, he made his way to the greenhouse laboratory, not bothering to make sure she followed. He knew she would. Because, if she didn’t he would chase her down.
He turned the latch and held open the door for her. She passed through and he closed them in, grateful for the warm humidity inside his workshop. Now they would not freeze when he took her to task.
“Good morning,” she said, removing her gloves. Apollo bounded in behind her, his dog suddenly more interested in Christina than in his owner. The traitor.
Oliver withdrew his pencil and ledger. What are you doing here? He held it out to her.
She stopped petting Apollo to read the words. Then she passed the ledger back to him. “I did not intend for you to see me. I merely wished to cut through your gardens.”
I told you not to come here again.
“No, you said you preferred to be left alone. I left you alone.”
Semantics. You knew I did not want you to come back here.
“I had no intention of disrupting your day. I
know you do not wish to be disturbed.”
This is inappropriate. You should be chaperoned for visits such as this, even in the gardens.
Her brows lowered. “Are you planning to ravish me?”
If I were, I would hardly admit it to you.
She rolled her eyes when she finished reading. “You do not seem like the ravish type.”
He blinked, uncertain he had read her lips correctly. Looking down at the paper, he wrote, I am unable to ravish because I am deaf?
“No.” Horror washed over her expression. “I did not mean it that way. I am certain the deaf are competent ravishers when the mood strikes. I meant because you seem too nice.”
Nice? Him? No one had ever called him nice, not any of the times he had gone out in public. Prickly yes. Often dumb. Stubborn, most definitely.
But never nice.
“I am sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I should go. I am quite awful at this and I have already insulted you.” She grabbed for her gloves and hat. She kept talking, her mouth moving, but he was unable see enough of her face to make out the words.
He touched her arm to stop her and then started writing. You have not insulted me. I am surprised, is all.
“Does that mean I may continue walking through your gardens each morning?”
A laugh bubbled up in his chest. The girl was persistent, at least. She stood close to read his ledger, her head barely reaching his shoulder. He could see the fine hairs at her temple and the sweep of her brown lashes. Her skin was flawless, the features delicate and symmetrical. She was absolutely stunning, a woman to turn heads everywhere she went.
“I shall take a different path, if you wish. One that does not lead me near your . . . whatever this is.” She waved her hand around the greenhouse he’d converted into a workshop. “I won’t bother you. Please, Oliver.”
He put his hands on his hips and stared out the glass at the wide expanse of growth. Guilt nagged at him. He was being unnecessarily cruel. What had her trespassing harmed? If she stayed away from him, what did he care? She had appeared peaceful out there just now, almost happy. Did she truly like the place that much? He thought of his mother, leading him around the tall hedges when he was a boy.