Felicity loved it, and simultaneously felt lost in the maelstrom of it. Everyone spoke over each other, their wits firing like a volley of rifles, and their words often strewn about like projectiles.
She was often tempted to duck behind something to protect herself from them.
Though none of her loved ones aimed at her.
Not only because of her adversity to conflict, even harmless debate. But because she never said much in a crowd, preferring to watch the conversation rather than fight to be part of it. She was much more relaxed interacting as she did now, with one or two people, in a place that was comfortable and familiar.
All her own.
With someone who was capable of being silent long enough to let her gather thoughts often scrambled by nerves, like marbles spilled on a parquet floor. She’d spoken more to the man in front of her than to anyone else in a very long time.
And she found herself a little bit bold in his company, which, considering his aura of general menace, was indeed a wonder.
“Mr. Severand,” she inquired. “Would you consider yourself a violent man?”
He was quiet for a moment, shifting in his chair for the first time.
“Yes, Miss Goode. I am a violent man.”
Felicity couldn’t for the life of her understand why the way he said this caused little thrills of electricity to spark in her veins.
“Would—” She cleared something husky from her throat. “Would you go so far as to say that you… excel at violence?”
“I would go so far as to say it is the only thing I excel at.”
“I see.”
With that, she reached for the bell Jane had mentioned, and rang it.
Mr. Bartholomew appeared as if he’d been waiting on the other side of the door. “Do you need me to escort the— gentleman out, Miss Felicity?” He sniffed in the direction of her guest.
“No, Mr. Bartholomew, but, if you don’t very much mind, I do need you to cancel my other appointments for today.”
Small eyes beneath amusingly large eyebrows narrowed to a comical degree. “Are you quite certain, miss?”
“I am,” she said, feeling more certain about this than she had about anything in a long time. “That is, if Mr. Severand accepts the job I am offering him.”
Chapter 2
As Gabriel followed Felicity Goode through the grand manse he’d watched so often, he appreciated the enticing scent left in her wake. It was even better than he remembered, herbs and lilacs and honeysuckle reminiscent of the sun-drenched vines of his homeland in Monaco.
He could not believe she was close enough to touch. That he could simply reach out and…
No. He curled his hands at his sides.
He would never. Hands such as his would stain her.
His gaze touched her everywhere, though, cataloguing every delectable detail. The ridge of her corset beneath her fitted, solemn blouse. The arousing disarray of her hastily knotted hair. The careful set of her slim shoulders and the soft sway of her hips.
Blood no longer flowed through his veins, there was no room for it. He was a beast overwhelmed by so many opposing forces, he could barely contain himself.
A fury coursed through him so white and hot, it threatened to singe his flesh from the inside out. She’d bruises on her delicate wrists. A man had dared to grab her, imprison her. Frighten her.
A dead man, if he had anything to say about it.
Sheer befuddlement followed on the heels of said rage, as he tried to examine just how he’d found himself ambling after her on the lush, blue Egyptian carpets of Cresthaven Place, admiring her shape. He tried his utmost to pay attention to the tour, but he had a rudimentary familiarization with the layout. The rest was merely decoration where he was concerned.
When she was near, how could he admire anything else?
Christ, how was this happening?
Only moments ago, he’d been lurking in the archway that led from the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the garden. Possibly his last before he left for the other side of the world.
The glimpse had been granted as she scurried from her glasshouse, that little pot cradled in her hands. He’d ducked into the shadows as she’d reached the courtyard door. Cautious of being sighted, he turned to go, grappling with a yawning sense of loss.
One moment he was cataloguing his final vision of her. The sheen of her hair, the heightened color of her full lower lip as it emerged from between her teeth. The elegant arch of her neck, at the base of which little fair wisps formed tight ringlets in the humidity of the hothouse.
And the next moment… she’d bounced off his back like an adorable beam of sunlight.
Gabriel had been speechless as he turned to see her gaping over at him. Even rumpled in a soiled apron and a streak of dirt dashed across one pale cheek, she was unutterably lovely.
Ethereal.
He’d been frozen with the fear that she’d recognize him. Even though he looked nothing like himself— nothing like the monster who’d terrified her a year prior. He’d spent the past several months perfecting an English accent. He’d allowed his hair to grow out for the first time in decades.
But he had other identifiable characteristics.
His height and breadth, for one. The depth of his voice. The color of his eyes. And a myriad of scars, albeit less severe ones, that still marred his features.
Felicity’s eyes, blue as the Mediterranean, had glimmered with worry for him rather than approbation. She’d asked if she’d hurt him, and it was all he could do not to laugh.
Gabriel couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.
It astonished him that she’d offered him the position while he bumbled around like a demented buffoon.
She couldn’t possibly understand the effect she had on him. Didn’t realize that her apology had been the first he’d received from
