A look of understanding, one beyond the boy’s years, shone in his expression. Caleb’s gaze shifted toward the window. “Sir! Here she comes!”
As the boy headed for the back, Marcus went to intercept Eleanor in the lobby—and swiftly discovered he’d guessed correctly when he’d speculated about her being both cold and angry.
Her cheeks rosy and breath coming hard, Eleanor looked at him through a scowl. “Please tell me it’s nothing serious, Marcus. That we’re not another week and a half behind schedule and that you haven’t found another leak somewhere.”
Why was it his first inclination was to kiss this woman? “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Eleanor . . .” He briefly bowed his head. “But it’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”
She pressed a gloved hand against her temple. “And here I just presented a glowing report to the league board.”
“Before you panic, let me give you the worst news first. Or better yet, I might as well show you.”
Chin rising slightly, she nodded and followed him. He saw the glimmer of emotion in her eyes and almost regretted what he was about to do. Almost.
“We had some issues with the kitchen, I’m afraid.”
She exhaled. “Not the kitchen, Marcus.”
He led her to the doorway that had been boarded up, then stepped aside, wanting a good view of her face.
47
Euphorisch. That’s the word that came to Marcus’s mind as he watched the sun rise in Eleanor’s eyes even as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
“Oh . . .” She shook her head, both laughing and crying, and looked from him, to the bank of gleaming new cast-iron ranges lining the outer wall, then back to him again. “It’s . . . so . . .” She reached over and swatted him hard. “You had me worried sick!”
He laughed, and she did too.
“Marcus, this is . . .” She wiped beneath her eyes. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She swiftly sobered. “But the cost. I know the money for this wasn’t included in the original bid.”
“Don’t worry about that, Eleanor. We’re still on budget.”
She frowned. “You’re certain? Because I—”
“Stop worrying about that.” He softened his tone with a smile. “Just appreciate your new kitchen!”
She stepped inside and walked the length of the room, running a hand over the solid oak worktables and around the edges of the wash basins. She paused and looked up at the rectangular windows running the upper length of the outer wall, then stood, hands on hip, staring out the large plate-glass window that faced his building.
She threw him a questioning look, to which he answered, “Not yet.”
Seeming not the least bit perturbed at being put off again, she eyed the pots hanging from the racks above the center worktables. “You bought cooking pots too?”
“If you don’t like them, Mr. Mulholland says he’ll exchange them for you.”
She looked at him as though he’d grown a third eye.
She opened every cupboard door—twice—chuckling each time. “Just wait until Naomi and the others see.” She looked back as if to ask if they had.
He shook his head. “I wanted you to be the first. Which reminds me . . .” He motioned for her to follow him.
He led her around the corner and down a short hallway. “This, madam”—he paused beside a closed door—“is your pantry.” He opened it wide and bowed like a footman as she entered the room before him.
She turned in circles amidst the shelving, rectangular windows identical to the ones in the other room providing an abundance of light. “I think this is bigger than my bedroom at Belmont.” She glanced at him. “But please don’t tell my aunt I said that.”
He winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”
She grew quiet after a moment and walked to the far side of the room, keeping her back to him.
“Eleanor?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered, not turning.
He went to her. “Eleanor,” he said again softly, wanting to touch her, but knowing he shouldn’t.
She finally turned. “All of this, Marcus . . .” She looked around. “I don’t know what to say. How to thank you for all you’ve done, and are doing for these women and children.”
A few ideas came to him, but Marcus knew better than to share them, even in jest. “I wish I could allow you to leave here today thinking I have such a kind and philanthropic heart, as you suggest. But the truth is, Eleanor . . . I did this for you.”
She stared for the longest moment, then stepped close, lifted her face to his, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm, her nearness intoxicating.
A creak sounded somewhere behind him, and she took a hasty step back. Marcus turned to see Caleb standing by the door, smiling.
“I guess she likes it, Mr. Geoffrey.”
Marcus looked back at her. “I guess she does.”
Eleanor awakened the next morning after a fitful night. A thought kept running through her mind that wouldn’t let her rest. Something Lawrence had mentioned to her months ago, and she had to question Marcus about it, despite feeling like an ingrate as she did.
She arrived at the home earlier than usual and found Marcus meeting with his foreman and two other workers in a room on the main floor, not far from the kitchen.
The kitchen. She felt her heart sigh a little.
She’d lain awake most of the night thinking about it. She’d been so overcome with emotion and gratitude, the other side of the reality hadn’t hit her until later. But when it had—sleep had fled.
She waited outside the room, and when Marcus saw her, he quickly ended the conversation.
He motioned her inside. “My office is your office.”
Eleanor stepped inside, nodding to Mr. Callahan, Marcus’s foreman, and the other two men as they left. “Marcus . . .” How to phrase her concern in a manner in which he wouldn’t take offense? “I need to speak with you about something.”
“Good morning to you too, Eleanor.” He smiled and pulled two sugar sticks from his pocket. He offered her one.
She shook her head. “No, thank you. And I’m sorry. . . . Good morning.” She managed a partial smile.
“Whatever it is, go ahead and ask me before you burst from trying to hold it in.”
He swirled the candy between his lips. Lips she remembered only too well.
She pulled her thoughts back. “I need you to assure me that we’re still on budget, Marcus.”
He eyed her. “As I told you yesterday, we are.” He laid the candy aside. “So I’m wondering . . . Why do you feel the need to ask me that again?”
“Because . . .”
“Go ahead,” he gently urged.
Asking made her feel so ungrateful, especially after all he’d done. Done for her, as he’d said last night. “Because of the money we spent on the kitchen. It’s beautiful, Marcus,” she said quickly. “Finer than anything I’d ever dreamed of for this building. For any kitchen, but—”
“You think I overspent.”
“Not intentionally. I don’t think you would ever do that. It’s more . . .”
“That I mismanaged the money, then.”
Seeing, and hearing, his frustration, she almost wished she hadn’t said anything. But she couldn’t live with that option either. “Marcus . . .” She sighed, glancing away. She hated even thinking this, much less saying it aloud. And to a man like him. Archduke of the House of Habsburg.
As soon as she thought it, she knew his title—however royal—made no difference. Not in this situation. Archduke or not, this man was responsible for a project for which she was accountable. She would have to answer to the women’s league and, more importantly, to her aunt if they went over budget. Not him.
He shifted his weight. “For being such a straightforward woman, Eleanor, it’s taking an awfully long time for you to get to the point.”
She met his gaze, the comment stirring her dander.
“I know what happened before, with your bid for the opera house. How the city council thought your design was best, but then how the mayor chose his own son’s bid over yours. And then later, how . . .” Seeing his eyes darken, she faltered. But only for a second. “I know about your company having been in financial trouble, and how you likely wouldn’t have been able to finish the project even if it had been given to you.”
“Who told you this?”
“That doesn’t matter, I simply need your reassurance that—”
“I’ve given you my reassurance on this subject before. And I’m standing here now, Eleanor, looking you in the eye . . .”
She felt a tiny shudder as he did just that.
“. . . and I’m giving you my word again. But I want to know . . . who told you this?”
She swallowed. “Lawrence Hockley.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “I see. And when did he tell you this?”
She started to look away, but the intensity in his expression wouldn’t allow it. “Before I asked you for your company’s financial portfolio.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “So you knew this, or thought you knew, before you hired me?”
She nodded.
“And yet you hired me anyway.”
“Because I believed you. And . . . I still do. But when I started thinking about that kitchen last night and”—she exhaled, looking down—“after seeing how marvelous it is, I knew it was far beyond what was included in the original plans. And then I started thinking . . .”
He touched her chin and urged her gaze upward. “You think about a great deal, do you not?”
“More than I should, I know. I blame it on my father.” She wanted to avert her gaze, but his fingertips held her face inches from his.
He smiled, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re right, Eleanor. About the kitchen. Finishing it cost considerably more than what I had included in the budget. And since it’s come to this . . .” He firmed his mouth. “I paid for the overage myself, out of my personal funds.”
Eleanor wanted to respond, but the warmth of his hand on her face pushed every last thought from her head.
He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, his gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth, and she became aware of him moving closer. But it wasn’t until he whispered her name—“Eleanor . . .”—that she realized he wasn’t closing the distance between them. It was her.
Breath trapped in her chest, she froze, their lips so close she could almost taste the peppermint on his breath on her own tongue. Embarrassment trickled through her—first hot, then cold. What am I doing? She backed away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to look at him.
“No, don’t be,” he said quickly, his voice soft. “If only we—”
She put up a hand, not wanting him to say something only to spare her feelings. But he took hold of her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it—once, twice—just as he’d done that night standing on the front porch.
“Eleanor, if circumstances between us had been different . . . perhaps we—”
“Please, there’s no need to explain.” Scraping the dregs of courage and pride, she tugged her hand from his and dared look at him again. And this time, she could see it so clearly. In his stance, his bearing, in the regal set of his jaw. He was royalty. And she was—
“Late. I’m . . . I’m late. For an appointment.” She hurried to the door, then briefly looked back, feeling the solid beat of her heart throughout every inch of her body. “Thank you again, Marcus, for the gift of the kitchen. I’ll never forget your generosity.”
“Eleanor, can’t we—”
She left as quickly as she’d come, knowing she would have to face him again. And soon. But also knowing she would never forget the look of pity—or was it regret?—in his eyes.
She pushed through the front door and the freezing chill of winter met her head on. She buttoned her coat, pulled her scarf about her face, and started walking, her lingering desire for him still a formidable force.
She walked down one street and then another, finding the brisk air and walk helped to slow the rapid pace of her heart—and her thoughts. What had gotten into her back there? She didn’t know.
But then, she’d never been so drawn to anyone as she was to Marcus Geoffrey. And it frightened her.
The faces of her widowed friends—Naomi, Marta, Elena, Gretchen, Rebecca—passed before her as clearly as did the street signs and carriages. All of those women had loved . . . and lost. She didn’t envy the grief they carried with them.
The image of Marcus’s face rose in her mind—his laughter, the way his eyes glinted when his wit turned wonderfully sharp—and she wondered if in ten, twenty years from now, she would still remember him with such clarity.
Tears rose in her eyes, as did the answer from deep inside.
But he was marrying someone else. As was she.
She buried her hands in her pockets. She’d tried to convince herself that marrying Lawrence was the safer choice. And it was, in many ways. But it also frightened her to think of what she might become in a marriage without humor or feeling. Without love. Without desire.
And she knew what she had to do.
It wasn’t the same as braving the Confederate and Union armies to save twenty-eight hundred bales of cotton during the midst of a war. But it was the right thing to do. She knew it. No matter how difficult. No matter the cost to her personally.
Backlit by the sun, the title Bank President etched in the glass of the mahogany door gleamed like a beacon of hope. Hand on the latch, Eleanor hesitated, staring through the capital letters to the inner office beyond.
The certainty of the decision she’d made yesterday had only grown stronger with the sun’s rising. And even more so after her visit to the asylum earlier that morning. Her father—Theodore, as she was growing accustomed to calling him—was growing kinder and gentler in spirit, even as his body grew more frail.
She didn’t know what her own future held, but her father’s coming months were secure. A meeting with Dr. Crawford had gently but firmly encouraged her not to look too far beyond that, to take one day at a time. And from somewhere within, as Armstead had guided the carriage down the long, narrow drive, she’d heard a still, small whisper echoing that same counsel for her own life. And drawing courage from the memory, she opened the door.
The secretary behind the desk looked up. “May I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes, please.” Eleanor gripped her reticule. “I’m here to see Mr. Hockley.”
The woman glanced down at the ledger lying open on her desk, then up again. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.” Sensing the woman about to brush her aside, she continued. “But if you would please inform him that Miss Braddock is here, I believe he will be amenable to a brief visit.”
The woman scrutinized her. “And what may I tell him is the nature of your visit this morning, Miss Braddock?”
Eleanor thought for a moment, then smiled. “You may tell him . . . I’m here to close an account.”
48
You did what?” Aunt Adelicia’s voice heightened an octave. The color drained from her face as she shot up from the settee in the winter parlor. “And you did this without speaking to me first?”
“I didn’t do it to spite you, Aunt. I promise.” Eleanor had dreaded this conversation all day. Finally, after dinner, she’d managed to find her aunt alone. She’d expected her to be upset, but this . . .
“I simply decided that—”
“You have not the least understanding of what you have done, Eleanor.” Anger harshened her aunt’s tone. “I gave your father my word, my solemn vow, that I would see you married well. With a fortune to secure your future and that of your children. That is what he wanted for you.” Aunt Adelicia pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Exactly how did you break the engagement with Mr. Hockley? Perhaps it is yet still mendable.”
�
�I assure you, Aunt,” Eleanor said quietly from where she sat, “it is not.”
Lawrence had reacted in precisely the manner in which Eleanor had expected—from his studious stare, to the thin, flat line of his lips, to what he’d said in response. “You do realize, Miss Braddock, how impractical a decision this is on your part. The chances of your making such an advantageous match with anyone equal to my social standing and comparative wealth is infinitesimal. Especially considering your age and—”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Hockley.”
He’d continued to stare. “I find this exceptionally unusual behavior. And quite frankly, Miss Braddock, it reeks of feminine sensibilities, something I would never have attributed to you. I assumed you to be far more pragmatic.”
Just thinking of it again tempted Eleanor to smile. That was the point in the conversation when the knot in the pit of her stomach that had bound her almost since the first day she’d set foot on the Belmont Estate again, had slowly, but most certainly, begun to unfurl.
And it felt . . . wonderful.
Freeing didn’t even come close to describing it. It was a feeling she wanted to cling to—and she knew the recipe for doing just that. Although she’d suspected her aunt was going to like that news even less than she had this.
“Have you forgotten,” Aunt Adelicia said, bringing the present into focus again, “one vital consideration in your union with Mr. Hockley, the marriage you so hastily cast aside?” Her tone turned less accusing, more concerned. “What of the provision of your father’s care?”
“I haven’t forgotten, Aunt. Mr. Stover recently sold his building. And even though he was under no obligation to do so, he returned my three months’ rent. I put that toward Papa’s care.”
Her aunt’s expression held surprise. “That was most kind of Mr. Stover. But those funds can’t have covered a great length of time.”
“I still have some time left on my initial payment, and the additional amount covers enough to give me opportunity to . . . seek employment.”
Dark brows slowly rose over questioning blue eyes.
A Beauty So Rare Page 49
