The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (22 page)

It’s the only way to get the answers we need,
I reasoned with him silently.
The sooner we learn the truth, the sooner we get on with our lives away from this place.

I stalled, realizing that I’d used the word “lives”, when truly—painfully—I was the only one who lived.

“For the moment, at least,” Hawk said, and the hardened edge to his voice made my skin chill. “Having a handful of servants about will not protect you. They will do whatever their master commands. If you go through with this, I’ll upset all your birds and cut the morning short.”

Realizing that Hawk’s protectiveness and jealousy would prove too much an obstacle during the interrogation, I did the one thing I promised I’d never do. I sent him to his purgatory by removing my locket from beneath my bodice and placing it away from my skin.

His expression blurred to anguished accusation as he faded from my sight, banished to the isolation he despised, by the person he loved and trusted most in the world.

The moment we stepped into the sunlit garden, Enya stumbled over a loose stone and sprained her ankle—the pain so intense she almost fainted. I would have smiled at her performance, had I not felt so guilty and worried for Hawk.

Falling into my role, I suggested Uncle help her into the townhouse so she might prop up her leg. The viscount unknowingly contributed, vowing my reputation would be safe with all the servants, gardeners, and maids milling about. We would not be left alone.

He assured my uncle he’d send me back to the townhouse with the kitchen maids upon their completion of gathering spices, then gestured to them working not five yards away.

Watching our chaperones retreat through the double doors, Lord Thornton and I stood, an invisible barrier of three feet between us. Warm beneath my layers of petticoats, I dropped my shawl from my shoulders.

My heart stuttered as I considered what I’d sent Hawk to face … that thing he feared most. And why? His concerns were valid. The viscount harbored an eccentric genius, morbid diversions, and violent temper. I myself had seen indications of each. And he had stolen money from his father who was now missing.

However, I had a plan to play on my host’s ego by feigning interest in his estate. Hawk was determined to be the albatross around my neck—around his very own neck. I did what had to be done. The justification was weak, but gave me the ability to move forward.

Walking beside me, the viscount took a path within sight of the kitchen maids.

I squinted. Sunlight glistened off of every leaf, petal, and pebble. Shadows of my birds fluttered overhead, comforting and familiar.

The title of
Winter Garden
seemed out of place for the seven acre expanse. It was more like a world of spring and summer, captured within glass panes. It could have been paradise, but for one minor discomfort: the humidity caused by the warm geysers springing up from fountains everywhere. Porthole windows, much like the ones in the corridors—screened-in to confine the bugs and birds—allowed a breeze to whisk through. Otherwise, the balmy heat would’ve been stifling.

Some fountains were staircases where water cascaded in silvery streams; others were waist-high pedestals specked black and white with bird droppings. In the distance, a life-sized Greek statue released sparkling droplets from its flowing marble robes.

Lord Thornton had told us of the Manor’s access to warm water all year round due to the hot springs abundant upon the estate. Beneath the mines, the water percolated deep enough to come into contact with hot rocks. When it gurgled up from the ground, it provided gushes of steamy water.

The viscount, in his ingenuity, had arranged for underground piping to merge the flows with cooler streams, providing a constant source of warm water for the garden fountains, the town house, and the castle.

There would be no shortage of baths for any of us, which taunted more than comforted. The reminder of Hawk’s tragic discovery this morning drained the blood from my cheeks. I stroked my necklace’s chain, careful to keep it atop my dress.

The viscount handed me a handkerchief.

Grateful, I dabbed my forehead and neck—avoiding my bruised cheekbone and trying not to notice his almond-liqueur scent embedded in the cloth.

He led me to stand beside a wrought iron bench within a honeysuckle copse. The fragrant shade cooled my shoulders. All of the plants from my greenhouse at home surrounded us: sea holly, hydrangea, strawflowers, bachelor's buttons, lavender, and pygmy roses, each nestled in freshly dug soil.

“Did your gardeners plant these last night?” I asked, leaning over to stroke a hydrangea before turning to read his response.

Working his buttons free, the viscount shrugged out of his frock coat and smoothed it on the ground beside the flowers. “I did. Though I planted some a few weeks ago, so you might be able to harvest them today.” He slipped off his vest next, leaving him in a linen shirt that clung to his broad shoulders.

“How did you know what kind to plant?” I asked in an effort to distract myself as he rolled up his sleeves, revealing dark hairs on his sturdy forearms.

“I asked your uncle at my last visit,” he answered. “Now, I would like you to lead me through your routine. Which flowers should we cut and dry for your hats today?”

His request surprised me. I’d never had any man other than Uncle interested in helping me with my craft.

After assisting me to sit atop his discarded jacket on the ground, my host knelt in the dirt across from me, seemingly unconcerned for his fine tailored clothes. He looped his cane over the bench’s arm and offered a basket from beneath the seat. A set of gardening shears and a spool of twine were tucked within.

He had arranged all of this for me.

I’d assumed we would stroll the many paths so he might showcase his own plants, flowers, and innovations. But without seeing his face, I would’ve had no hopes to communicate. Now, I could read his lips without worrying of tripping over my feet. We were on even ground, as it were.

Thoughtful, I silently snipped perfect blooms from a shrub of lavender and laid them in the basket. The viscount gathered the stems into bundles and tied them with twine to prepare them for hanging.

“Wait.” I reached for a loosely tied bundle and rearranged the twine. “Wind each bundle several times near the base of the stems. Make the knot tight enough that the flowers won’t slip when hung upside down, but not so tight you crush them. It is the only way to retain their natural form.”

Watching intently, and without complaint, he retied every bundle he’d already done, his masculine hands careful yet precise.

As we worked, a trio of Mama’s bluebirds fluttered overhead, each trying to claim the closest pedestal fountain. The winner celebrated by preening its feathers beneath the trickling water. Lord Thornton watched and grinned—a smile turned inward, personal and private—then returned to helping me.

He looked so at home, sitting in silence, gardening, and contemplating nature. Characteristics I never expected to see in a spoiled, arrogant, worldly nobleman.

I mopped my neck again, refusing to be charmed. It was time to get answers so I could return to my room and rescue Hawk. I cleared my throat. “I want to assure you … I do not have a nervous affliction of the brain.”

My host looked up from bundling a cluster of sea holly, his lips curving to a smile in the midst of dark whiskers. “All right then. Assure me.”

“As to what you saw this morn … my game in the curtains, when I was ‘dusting.’” I pressed my lips together to appear sincere. “The incident with the cat.”

“Ah. Not to mention the coughing spell upon our first meeting at your home.”

I glanced down at my lap. The rush of blood returned to my cheeks, causing the bruise from my brush to throb. I rubbed it before looking at him again. “Please believe me.”

“Oh I do. I believe that you believe it.” He waved at a passing gardener, gestured to a patch of herbs north of us, then turned back to me. “Still, one must wonder if an afflicted mind can truly know whether or not they are afflicted.”

His sharp wit struck a giddy note and I laughed in spite of myself. His face brightened with a merry smile.

The gardener reappeared and tipped his hat to me before offering the viscount a handful of long, thin, gray-green leaves with woody scallion-like stalks.

Lemongrass.

Upon the gardener’s retreat, Lord Thornton pinched the plant. I watched, one part wary, one part mesmerized, as he rubbed the oily residue on his fingertips then raised them to me.

“Might I tend your bruise, Miss Emerline?” Long, black lashes fanned shadows beneath his eyes. Due to his resemblance to his brother, I couldn’t help but imagine his every word drizzled with Hawk’s velvety baritone.

Touching my cheek absently, I tried to find the maids in the herb garden, but the honeysuckle vines blocked my view.

My host waited. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead, exposing a sun-kissed auburn streak at the roots, reminding me this was not my ghost. This was his experienced twin brother, trying to win over the affections of a naïve woman who’d been upon the shelf for too long.

But I wasn’t as naïve as he thought, nor was I on a shelf.

“Would you like to apply it yourself?” he asked upon my hesitation. “I assumed it would be hard for you to see, and I shouldn’t want you to get any in your eyes.”

To lull him into a false sense of trust, I leaned forward. His warm fingertip made contact and eased the lemon-scented oil over my cheek in one soothing motion.

I shut my eyes. His touch was light, but his skin surprisingly rough. I would have assumed one of his status would have soft hands, having no hard labor to callous them.

Once he’d finished, I opened my eyes again.

Still on his knees, he studied me, his expression one of troubled enchantment. The look of a man who had not touched a woman in some time. Not of an unquenchable rogue.

Quiet and solemn, he swiped his hand on the handkerchief still between my fingers, then took his place on the bench. He clenched the wrought iron frame beneath him until his knuckles went white.

After tucking a batch of hydrangea into the basket, I sat on the other end.

“Thank you,” I said, my hand splayed close to his on the bench’s seat. “For caring for my flowers and birds. And for tending my wound.”

Although he didn’t look my way, his pinkie lifted and touched my wrist, almost as if by accident. My body reacted, awhirl with confusion.

He seemed … storm-tossed. Struggling with something. I wanted to help him.

Hawk’s words from last night echoed in my head:
“You’re too compassionate, and innocent to the ways of a man and a woman. He can use that to his advantage.”

I stiffened on the bench and placed both of my hands in my lap.

The viscount’s shoulders slumped, a movement so slight I almost thought it an illusion inspired by the wintry clouds swirling above the glass roof.

At last, he turned to me. “The kitchen maids will be done soon. We should discuss your ball gowns. Fabrics must be chosen. I’m unsure which are best suited for a lady in mourning.”

My spirit plummeted at the reminder of Mama’s absence. I could only imagine what styles of dress a man of his class would prefer for his charity bride: restrictive corsetry that would bend even the most rigid spine … crinoline and bustles so wide a pregnant donkey could take refuge beneath them. I was fortunate to still be wearing black or I might’ve fallen victim to his deviant artist’s brush, prancing about in experimental rainbows like his servants.

Wadding his handkerchief within my fist, I noticed a heron’s feather skim by on the ground, the ideal color for a beaded Catalane I’d been working on. I pinned it beneath my boot before scooping it up and securing it in my fist.

The viscount’s strong hand found mine, startling me. He flipped my palm upward. I didn’t realize how hard I had been clenching the feather until he pried my fingers free to reveal the imprints of my fingernails in my flesh.

He tucked the feather into the pocket of his plaid vest draped across the bench’s arm. “Miss Emerline, you may instruct my personal tailor however you deem fit. She’s adept at women’s fashion as well. Your uncle tells me you’re a follower of The Rational Dress Society.”

I was surprised at his compliance. The society was formed two years ago, but their ideas of fashion reformation—boneless stays and less restrictive patterns—had been frowned upon by the upper class.

The viscount’s gaze lingered on my features. “I’m not personally familiar with the founders—neither the Viscountess Harberton or Mrs. King—but I encourage you to employ their comfort standards. I’ll arrange a consultation with Miss Hunny tomorrow. I should like her to make you some riding dresses, as well.”

My mouth gaped. Why was he doing this? He’d already won the deed to my home whether we married or not.

“I don’t ride,” I said once I found my voice. I pulled his handkerchief between my thumb and forefinger, a childish amusement to settle my unease. “Uncle never … that is to say, I’ve never had the opportunity to learn.”