Her lips parted in shock.
“They kept me on a boat for a week. As the days passed, I knew my father wasn’t sending anyone for me, so I planned my escape. I thought it’d be easy to jump overboard and swim to shore. So I did, except when I went over the side, I hit the propeller. It destroyed my face and my arm and tore up my chest.” He held up his hand. “I almost lost all these fingers, but instead I only lost one. I nearly died.”
Holy shit. Her jaw dropped.
“I suppose I should be considered lucky. The propeller was moving at a very low speed and it only destroyed half of me.” The cynicism in his voice made her ache. “The kidnappers panicked as soon as they saw the blood in the water and tried to get away. A nearby fisherman saw me go overboard and swam out to save me. He is why I lived.” Hunter turned away. “Now you know. Never ask me again.”
And he shut the door.
Their tentative friendship had just taken one massive, ugly step backward. Gretchen sighed and tossed the limp sandwich back onto the plate, her appetite gone.
***
Anger and despair raged inside of Hunter. He tore down the halls of Buchanan Manor, knocking over priceless vases and statues as he passed them. He needed something—anything—to quell this helpless rage he was feeling.
She’d asked about his face. Wanted to know why he was so hideous. She couldn’t see past the scars despite her pretty words.
And it made him furious, even as it made him feel black with despair.
Why was he nothing to her but a ravaged face? Why was she just like everyone else? Why could she not ignore them and focus on the man underneath?
He slammed a hand into a delicate Chinese ginger jar, pleased when it launched off the end table and smacked into the wall. Good. Now it was as shattered as he felt inside.
How could he possibly explain to another person the event that had destroyed his life? Waking up in the arms of strangers as a young boy? The horror and fear he’d felt as they’d held a gun to his head and transported him to the boat? The emptiness he’d felt when days had passed and no ransom was forthcoming? Could they possibly have known that his father couldn’t have cared less that he had a son? That he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the child who had killed his beloved wife in childbirth? The grim determination he’d felt when he’d realized he’d have to save himself, and launched over the side of the boat . . . only to meet a fate worse than death when he hit the propeller?
It had destroyed his life, reshaped him like a crucible.
There was no one to trust. Better to be alone and safe, secure and unharmed. He could count on no one to care for him, save for those he paid. He grasped the delicate doily the vase had been sitting upon and fought the urge to rip it into shreds.
He would always be alone. No matter how much he hoped otherwise, it was just another reminder that he was unlovable. No one would ever see past his face.
A throat cleared.
Hunter turned. Eldon was in the doorway. He coolly surveyed the destruction Hunter had left behind him—the shattered glass covering the hallway, the destroyed priceless vases. He said nothing, simply waited.
Hunter ran a hand down his face, suddenly weary. “Send the cleaning crew in this wing tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“That’ll be all.” Hunter turned, heading toward his room. He’d change and work out his aggression in his private gym. A few rounds with the punching bag, some shadowboxing, some weight lifting, and maybe he’d be tired enough that it wouldn’t matter.
“Shall I send her away, Mr. Buchanan?” Eldon’s quietly worded question made him stop in his tracks.
Did he want that? He could say the word and she’d be out of the house within the hour. No more questions. No more wide-eyed inquiries about his scars. Just him and utter silence once more.
He thought of Gretchen’s lovely face, her laughing eyes and her outrageous sense of humor. Her curves in the dress she’d worn tonight. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, which was often.
He still wanted her. Still wanted to be around her, wanted to bask in her playful smiles and teasing comments.
“No,” he said abruptly. “She stays.”
“I see.”
“Thank you, Eldon.” He walked down the hallway and shut the door to his room.
***
Gretchen set her alarm for sunrise. She had a plan, and today she was going to put it into action.
When it went off the next morning, she jumped out of bed, slid into her favorite yoga pants, and dragged her hair into a messy ponytail. She tossed down a can of food for Igor, kissed his head, and bounded out the door in her slippers, heading to the library.
Hopefully she was early enough.
To her relief, the library was empty when she entered, and the customary flower and note inviting her to dinner were not present. That meant Eldon had not arrived yet. Perfect.
She sat down at the letters and began to work, glancing at the door repeatedly. Excitement was making her twitchy, and it was hard to settle down into the latest letter. They were so incredibly dry. Lula wrote to someone named Ben over and over again, and Ben never wrote back. It was so boring to read, like a one-sided conversation. Like she cared about household life a hundred and thirty-odd years ago? Like readers would?
When she finished transcribing the latest description of what bushes were flowering and how many times the neighbor had visited Lulabelle, she carefully folded the letter back into the yellowed envelope and replaced it in its spot in the trunk. Yawning, she pulled out the next letter and glanced at the date.
Three months had passed since the prior letter. Huh. She glanced down at the trunk, then back at the letter. Were they out of order? She flipped through the envelopes, but sure enough, there was a three– month gap between letters.
My dearest Benedict,
So much has changed since we last wrote.
Yeah, Gretchen thought to herself. Like winter into spring. Not exciting.
I cannot believe we are to be parted once more. The three months we spent together were Heaven on earth. I wake up in the morning, wanting to feel your form next to mine, but you are gone. My hands slide into my pantaloons and I must touch myself, trying to remember the feel of your mouth against my most delicate of female parts.
Gretchen’s eyes widened. Holy shit. That was . . . graphic. “Lulabelle, you little Victorian sexpot, you.”
My father is very against our marriage, as you know. However, I cannot help but think that if he knew of the carnal ways that we had tasted each other, the hours we had spent in each other’s arms, that perhaps he would relent. Still, I shall keep our secret as you have instructed.
Tell me when you will return to me and, until then, imagine my hands where yours should be.
All my love,
Lula
Well now. Things had just gotten a bit more interesting. Curious, Gretchen reached for the next letter and was surprised to see a masculine handwriting. Benedict had actually written Lulabelle back. Interesting. All the prior letters had been penned by one hand—Lula to Benedict.
Lovely flower,
It shall only be a few months that we are to be parted. You know that I cannot marry you as long as my fortune is no more than that of a beggar’s. Your father will never look upon me as a proper suitor for you unless I become more successful. Give my business time to take off, beloved, and we shall soon be together.
Your letter to me fired my loins and my imagination. My body aches to sink deep into yours once more, to feel your plump thighs wrapping around my waist as I move deep inside you. I know what we write is scandalous, but I do not care. If we cannot be together in person, let us be together in spirit. I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness. It is an image burned into my mind.
Write me again,
Yo
ur Ben
Wow. So Lula gave old Ben a blowjob? She is a total vixen. Good for her. Gretchen pulled out the next letter, fascinated, and began to open it. The project had taken on new life with these latest letters, and now she couldn’t seem to read them fast enough. They were dirty and wrong—terribly wrong considering they were dating back to the Victorian period, but man, were they juicy.
For the first time, she tried to picture the duo. Lulabelle would have been dressed in some sort of frothy concoction of a dress befitting the times. Her appearance was never mentioned, other than she was concerned with fashion.
She pictured Benedict like she did Hunter, though. Tall, serious, and deliciously, wickedly scarred. Wounded inside and out. Maybe that was why he’d never written Lula back until now. Maybe she’d reached out to him over that three-month break and crashed through his barriers, and now he’d let her in.
I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness, Benedict had written.
Gretchen suddenly envisioned herself, kneeling in front of Hunter, taking his cock in her mouth and working it as his hand knotted in her hair. Warmth pulsed through her body and she resisted the urge to fan herself with one of the delicate letters. Whew.
The door to the library opened and Gretchen jumped in her chair, whirling around.
Eldon stood there, looking just as surprised as she was. Of course, Gretchen couldn’t stop blushing now that she’d been more or less caught reading the letters. Not that she wasn’t supposed to be reading them, of course. It was just that they were . . . dirty. And it made her feel weird to be seen reading them. Did Eldon or Hunter have any idea how incredibly graphic the letters were? Was that why they’d wanted someone to transcribe them?
“You’re here early,” Eldon said, his voice disapproving. He held a tray in his hands.
She waved a letter at him. “Thought I’d get a head start on things. Don’t bother making me breakfast, by the way. I made my own.”
“I did not make you breakfast,” he said flatly, as if it were the last thing he’d planned.
“Yeah, I guessed.” He never made her breakfast.
Eldon moved into the library and set the tray down on the nearest end table. On her tray was the rose of the day, singularly beautiful and crisp, the bud just beginning to unfurl. Today’s color was a red so deep that it almost seemed like velvet.
To her disappointment, there was no note from Hunter inviting her to dinner. That was fine. She wouldn’t let him retreat away from her. She had plans.
When Eldon straightened, he turned to leave.
“Wait,” Gretchen said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed the folded paper on the edge of the desk that she’d written this morning and held it out to him. “Can you please give this to Hunter?”
Eldon eyed it, and then her. Ever so reluctantly, he reached out and took the paper from her.
Gretchen kept the smile on her face, though inside she was a bit gleeful at his capitulation. He’d taken her note. “It’s very important that he gets it as soon as possible,” she told Eldon, trying to seem innocent.
To her dismay, Eldon flipped open her note and read it aloud. “Dear Hunter, I would very much appreciate it if you would join me for dinner tonight in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, but I promise you I’m a much better cook than Eldon. Sincerely, Gretchen.”
All right, that was embarrassing.
The butler’s mouth pursed unpleasantly as he finished the letter. “I don’t see anything urgent in this.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t for you,” Gretchen said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just deliver it, all right?”
“Shall I bring back a response?”
“Nah,” Gretchen told him. “I’ll know tonight if he shows up or not.”
“Very well.” He refolded the letter she’d given him and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Gretchen counted to ten slowly, waiting, and then crept to the door. Her slippers muffled her footsteps, and she ever so slowly eased open the library door, glancing down the hall.
Eldon turned a corner and vanished.
Excellent. With quiet steps, Gretchen tiptoed down the hall after him, keeping her distance. If Eldon did as he promised, he’d deliver that letter to Hunter. She could always wait for him to arrive tonight and apologize then, but Gretchen liked to be on the offensive, and what better way than to get things ironed out than to confront the man herself?
Of course, she couldn’t confront him if she didn’t know where he was. Which was why her plan to follow Eldon was perfect. She would be able to see Hunter’s reaction and find out where he was all at once.
Gretchen trailed a good distance behind Eldon, creeping quietly through the echoing halls of Buchanan Manor. It was a good thing for a change, she thought, that the place was so empty. No one would be there to tattle on her for stalking the butler.
Sure enough, he turned down the wing that she’d come to think of as Hunter’s wing and continued all the way down the hall. Once there, he opened a door and disappeared inside. She followed behind him and was surprised to see that the door led to a glass-covered walkway through the gardens.
Where was this going?
She followed him down the covered path, noting the snowdrifts against the glass. The path itself was cool enough that her breath frosted, but nothing like the wintry cold outside. The room ended in a small mudroom that had steps up to double doors. Through the glass, she could see a vaulted glass roof outside, the windows damp with condensation.
A greenhouse?
Of course, Gretchen realized, glancing around the mudroom. Of course he had a greenhouse. It was likely full of the roses he’d been gifting her with this last week. It had seemed odd but charming that he’d carefully selected one different rose every day. Now she knew he was plucking them from his own gardens.
How fascinating. There were layers to Hunter she was just beginning to discover.
The double doors hung open, and she could hear the faint sound of voices in the other room. She glanced around, but there were only a few jackets hanging on a peg in the shadows of the mudroom and a mix of boots lined up against the wall. Not much for her to hide behind so she wouldn’t be discovered.
“She left you this note,” she could barely hear Eldon saying. His voice seemed to drip scorn. Jeez. What had she ever done to him? Then again, she had not been nice about his cooking in the note. Guess he’s sensitive about that.
There was a long moment of silence. Then, a quiet, “Thank you, Eldon. That’ll be all.”
“Very well,” Eldon said in that same stiff voice. “I shall return to my duties, unless you’d like for me to carry your response back to her?”
“No thank you. I’m going to think on it.”
Think on it? Gretchen scowled to herself. What exactly was there to think on? Had she truly hurt his feelings that much just by asking about his face? She’d simply been curious about a friend. No more, no less. She’d had no idea he’d be so touchy.
Before she could think about it more, there was the sound of footsteps. A swell of alarm pulsed through Gretchen, and she darted behind one of the hanging coats in the mudroom, squeezing her eyes shut in the hopes that Eldon wouldn’t notice her lurking in the shadows. If he did, it’d be totally awkward.
She kept her eyes squeezed tight as she heard the soft sound of the doors closing, and then footsteps walking away.
Not caught. Whew.
After a few moments had passed and she was sure that Eldon would not return, Gretchen slipped out from under the jackets and crept toward the doors. She carefully turned the doorknob of one and eased it open a crack, peeking inside.
Greenery exploded into view—the jade of fresh leaves, the smell of turned soil, and the thick perfume of roses. Everywhere she could see brilliantly colored roses set against the thick verdant shrubs. There had
to be hundreds of roses in the greenhouse. How amazing.
Standing nearby was Hunter. He wore no jacket, and the collar of his starched shirt was loose, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore a pair of gardening gloves, pruning shears in one hand. His gaze was on the nearby table . . . and the note she’d asked Eldon to deliver. He hadn’t noticed her.
She’d nearly shied away at the sight of him, thinking she’d be caught, but there was something so vulnerable about his face that she couldn’t help but stare.
He continued to read the note, his gaze flicking over it over and over again, as if memorizing its contents. And his face? He had such a naked, hopeful longing in his eyes that it made her heart ache. Was that longing for . . . her? Then why did he push her away at every turn?
It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
But she did know that if she caught Hunter unawares again, he wouldn’t be pleased. So she carefully eased the door shut again, waited a moment, and then knocked loudly.
“Enter,” she heard Hunter call out.
She opened the door, a careful, easy smile on her face. “Surprise.”
He did indeed look startled to see her. The note was gone, as if put away, and he stood there in the midst of the greenery, a solitary figure. “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you, too. Can I come in?”
The wary look returned to his face. “Of course.”
She stepped inside the greenhouse, immediately noticing the damp, warm feel of the air and the thick scent of roses and fresh dirt. Her gaze moved over the blooming bushes, and she leaned down to scent a familiar one. “Gypsy Carnival, right?”
Beauty and the Billionaire (BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB NOVEL) Page 8
