by Caroline Lee
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.
“I’ll teach your son, Mrs. Mayor. Music is a wondrously glorious thing. If he inherited his father’s talent, I’ll teach him to love music.”
Teach him to love music. Until he’d said it, she hadn’t realized that’s what she wanted. What she wanted more than anything. “Thank you, sir.” It was all she could manage.
“Send a note to Gordy when he’s ready to start. We can meet here, in my music room.”
She nodded, but then realized he wouldn’t see it. “In return, however, I ask that you come to my bookstore.” His lips hardened into a harsh line, and she hurried through her explanation. “I had to close my store for a much longer-than-usual lunch today, to come here. Eddie is already at his afternoon apprenticeship with Mr. King, so he couldn’t watch the store for me. We don’t have so much business that a few extra minutes will break us, but I don’t want to set a precedent—“
“I understand, Mrs. Mayor. But you must understand that I do not go out in public.”
“Surely, sir, you can make an exception? Even in the evenings? I can leave Eddie to his studies, and sit with you in the store to read?” Swallowing her pride, she added, “Please?” She shouldn’t beg; it was improper and smacked of sharing shameful secrets. But she needed him to agree; she couldn’t come here again, not without risking her memories and her reputation, but she needed him to need her, so that he’d teach Eddie.
He nodded once, and she let go the breath she’d been holding. “Very well, Mrs. Mayor. I’ll have Gordy arrange an evening this week that I can come visit your charming store.”
There’d been a hint of mockery there, in those last words, but Arabella didn’t begrudge it. She’d gotten what she wanted. So, with a nod, she placed the basket beside her, and pulled out The Innocents Abroad, or The New Pilgrims’ Progress.
She opened the big book, and saw his ear jerk towards her at the flutter of the pages. “I thought that I’d give you a little taste of what’s to come, sir.” Oh poot, why did that have to sound so naughty? He hadn’t reacted, though, just stared intently at the wall over her right shoulder.
Clearing her throat, she began. “For months the great pleasure excursion to Europe and the Holy Land was chatted about in the newspapers everywhere in America and discussed at countless firesides.” And as she read, she watched him relax, slowly sinking back into the chair. After the first page, his head tipped back against the chair, his fingers laced together in front of his vest, and his lips slackened. The only thing that told her he was still awake was the occasional smile that would flit across those lips when she read a particularly funny line.
And after five chapters, her voice scratchy from overuse, he escorted her all the way down the hall and into the foyer in silence. At the door, he ran his hand down her arm from her shoulder to her wrist, lifted her hand in his, and kissed the back of it, as if she were a princess. She forced herself to ignore the shiver of anticipation that crawled up her arm.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mayor, for bringing books back into my life.”
Thank you, Vincenzo, for bringing music back into mine. But of course she didn’t say it. She just hurried through her goodbyes and walked home as fast as Milton’s dictates allowed, and tried not to think of the reclusive stranger who wasn’t as strange as she would’ve liked. It didn’t work; she didn’t sleep that night, thinking of him. Remembering his touch, and his music.
CHAPTER FOUR
“There’s a step coming up.”
Vincenzo gritted his teeth when he felt Gordy’s hand on his elbow. It was a necessary evil, and one that he tolerated outside of his domain, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it. Still, he was lucky to have the gallingly cheerful and unfathomably loyal Scotsman by his side. At the gentle pressure, he stepped up and onto the wooden sidewalk that lined Everland’s main street.
He was outside. Granted, Gordy assured him that it was close to full dark, and that the only people out were hurrying from one building to another, but it was hard to convince himself that he couldn’t feel their stares. It was amazing that after only a few months out of the public eye, he was so uncomfortable being seen again. Apparently being a recluse suited him.
“Step to yer right, m’lord. This apple tree’s got a huge branch hangin’ over the sidewalk.”
Inhaling, Vincenzo followed instructions, but scowled under the red silk blindfold. “I can smell the blossoms, you know. I’m not an imbecile.”
“Never said you were, m’lord.” Normally Vincenzo gave Gordy a hard time over his incessant cheerfulness, but secretly appreciated it. “Just thank the good Lord ye don’t get a stuffy nose, or ye’d be out of luck, eh?”
But tonight, Gordy’s teasing wasn’t working. Vincenzo just scowled deeper, because to his complete surprise, he was nervous. Him, who’d played in front of—and later met—Kings and Queens, and even Pope Pius. Him, who’d stood proudly in front of thousands on four continents, and who’d charmed an untold number of women. He was nervous about walking down the street of his new hometown, to sit and listen to a woman he’d only met yesterday.
But the nervousness didn’t matter, because for some reason, it was absolutely imperative he visit with Mrs. Mayor again. If that meant going to her bookstore, if that meant parading in front of the entire town, so be it.
Finding her in his music room—his private, personal domain—yesterday had been…well, horrifying and exhilarating all at once. That faint, tantalizing whiff of honeysuckle had reminded him of a life he’d forfeited long ago, and his heart had clenched in a sort of unintentional, visceral response. To discover that there was a woman there in the room with him, but not the one that the honeysuckle scent always conjured, had been… Vincenzo took a deep breath and steadied himself as Gordy led him around a horse trough. He’d been through pain worse than many men could imagine, so he wasn’t going to call yesterday’s realization painful… but it hadn’t been pleasant.
He’d wanted to share
some of that shock at finding a stranger in his domain, so he’d tried all of his rudest techniques on her. She’d actually let him touch her, touch her face, as if he was some sort of primitive beast who didn’t know better. But then he’d felt the tear tracks on her cheeks, and known that she wasn’t standing there out of pity, but out of that same shared pain. And the realization had almost broken him.
Yes, Mrs. Mayor was different. Special. She hadn’t come to gawk at him, she’d come to read to him… and to barter. And her barter meant that he’d be able to spend more time with her. If he ever got to her damn bookstore.
“Here’s the bannister, m’lord.” Gordy guided Vincenzo’s hand to the railing, and not for the first time, Vincenzo considered employing one of those sticks his last doctor had told him about, for feeling around. Of course, it wouldn’t be necessary, because he planned on spending all of his time in his own house from now on. “And here’s the door. The sign over it says ‘Mayor Books and Botany’, if ye can make any sense from that.” Yes, he remembered she’d said her husband had been a botanist. “So we’ll just head inside—“
“Wait.” Vincenzo swallowed, but held up his hand imperiously. “Go over to the saloon or something, Gordy. I’ll meet with Mrs. Mayor on my own.”
His manservant made a little noise of disbelief. “An’ leave ye standing here?”
Vincenzo groped for the door, feeling for the latch. “This is the handle? Then I’m sure I can manage to navigate inside.”
“But m’lord…”
“Gordy,” Vincenzo sighed. “Just let me do this, all right? Go, meet your new neighbors.” He could still sense his friend’s hesitation. “I’ll have Mrs. Mayor send her son to come fetch you when we’re through. Is that acceptable, mother hen?”