“And you, I am sorry to say, are completely dressed,” he said, unable to help himself. “What time do you have to rise in the morning to get all that hair into place? Or are you some faerie queen, and you coax some supernatural force to do it for you?”
Her lips twisted into some nameless expression, and Beau wondered if he had utterly befuddled her, which was entirely more satisfying than appropriate. But considering she was somehow befuddling him, it was only fair.
“Of course, you wouldn’t have to coax them, would you? They’d just want to.”
She blinked then, and Beau realized he’d said that last thought out loud.
A flush of pink rose in her cheeks, and she turned away and marched down the stairs, breaking the spell she’d somehow put over him.
Beau stood at the top of the stairs, watching her disappear out of the corner of his eye, and feeling suddenly poorer for the fact she was gone from his sight. Ridiculous. He didn’t want her approval, did he? He’d spent a lifetime trying to earn the approval of his father and failed. Years of trying to prove to Frank he was smart enough, sharp enough, charming enough to be the man his father had wanted him to be.
Beau had somehow never been enough.
A crash from below interrupted his thoughts. He bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Madeline Murray was crouched down and gathering up a heap of broken crockery.
Chapter Ten
“Damn, damn, damn.” Maddy cursed under her breath as she took stock of the broken crockery at her feet. She bent down and started picking up the larger pieces, gathering them in her apron.
So much for a quiet morning. Now that the house was mostly to rights, she’d hoped she could focus on the tasks she was actually looking forward to: unpacking her books and tidying up the overgrown kitchen garden. Perhaps there would be a cutting or two she could take back to her own garden at Everwell before it was plowed under for a school for boys with an overabundance of privilege.
What could I do with a garden like this?
If only she’d had the money her parents had set aside for her dowry. Patrick Murphy was a very wealthy man—not as rich as the da Silvas, but still respectable. Of course, it was never meant for her. Malcolm would have married her, taken her money and she would have been left in a loveless marriage with a man who’d thought her abhorrent.
She swallowed the ugly memory as she gathered the shards at her feet. She had a garden at Everwell, and Mr. da Silva was in the business of making money. Her dowry, while substantial, would not have been enough to compete with an exclusive school like George’s College. He wouldn’t just give this all away.
To her surprise, he’d worked hard and without too much complaint since their arrival at The Grove. And—though she would rather die than confess it aloud—it was no hardship to watch him. His long, lean muscles had glistened in the sun as he and Daniel put up the poles for the clothesline. And when he’d taken a moment to splash a bit of clean water on his face after several hours of helping Teddy chop wood and clean out the chimney, Maddy had stopped to watch. It was unfair that he resembled a slightly soiled Adonis after all that work while she’d been on her knees with water-soaked hands, hair that had all the appeal of a rusted steel brush, and cheeks as red as an overripe tomato.
The exercise at least helped to distract her from the fact that Nelson Taylor had crossed her path. Any faint hope she’d had that he’d been a distant relation of that hateful man had evaporated. The name had landed on Maddy’s ears like an exploding keg of black powder. Nelson Taylor had been a rival suitor of Malcom Ferguson—Maddy’s fiancée.
Former fiancée.
Malcolm was dead, and Maddy had run as far as she could from the rumours that she’d killed him. Dread descended on her like a fast moving storm. If Nelson had recognized her, there would be more than just Beau da Silva’s neck on the line. That awful story in the Chronicle would be nothing compared to the devastation Everwell would face if it came to light that they’d had a woman accused of murder living under their roof. Maddy had no defense against the power of story told by man like Nelson Taylor. Even her parents had believed it. If it weren’t for Phillipa Hartley, she would never have found a second chance at life. Everwell had protected her when no one else would. She owed Phillipa and the society everything.
“Should I be happy this found the floor before you threw it at my head?”
Mr. da Silva’s casual sarcasm interrupted Maddy’s worries. He stood in the door, his hands in his pockets smiling at her with a look that seemed to be equal parts humour and concern.
Maddy tried to ignore him as she resumed collecting the broken pieces of pottery. Her entire body was dangerously aware of him, making the task far more difficult than it should have been. The sting from a sharp piece of smashed crockery slicing through one of her fingers was the price of her inattention. Instinctively she dropped the shard, which landed with an unceremonious clink in her apron, and put her finger to her mouth.
Mr. da Silva approached, undisguised concern crinkling his brow as he crouched down opposite her. It stirred Maddy in a way that, if she’d cared to think about it, she’d never quite experienced. And she did not care to think about it.
“Let me see,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she replied, pulling her finger away, betrayed by the blood flowing freely over it. It was only a small gash, but the cut was ragged, and deeper than she’d realized. Still, between her time in the garden and the occasional job for the Scandalous Spinsters that had been a little too close for comfort, Maddy was hardly bothered by a cut.
“I have no doubt,” he replied, even as he took her hand, unbidden, and wrapped it in a clean handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He applied gentle pressure to the wound. “But let’s make sure.”
A pause settled over them, dulling every other sensation. The sounds of the birds fell away, as did the smell of the coffee beans and every other thing except the heady presence of Beau da Silva, crouched next to her, his hand wrapped around hers. Even the gentle throb from the cut faded, unable to compete with the thrumming of her heart.
What was this feeling? Maddy had no words for it. Whatever it was, she was certain it was dangerous. It softened her, when she needed to be hard and on alert.
Eager to break this curious spell, she straightened, pulling her wounded hand away while using her other to hold onto her apron, full of pieces of pottery.
“I said I was fine,” she grumbled.
“I never said you weren’t,” he replied, his tone warm and strangely comforting, like the crackle of the hearth on a November day. He pulled out a chair from the heavy wood table, and with only a nod, bade her to sit. To Maddy’s surprise, she did.
