by Joanna Shupe
Christina considered her high-neck shirtwaist and long skirts. Not revealing in the least, unless bare earlobes and knuckles were arousing.
Not that she was attempting to arouse him. They were friends, nothing more. And that was fine with her. She did not have many friends—or perhaps any friends after running out on Patricia today—so the company was welcome. Oliver’s presence might even distract her from her melancholy thoughts on how silly she had acted earlier at the ice cream saloon. “Please,” she signed and stepped aside to give him room.
He strode in, Apollo on his heels. Stopping, Oliver snapped his fingers at the dog then pointed at the open door to his suite. The dog did not budge, merely stared at Christina with round curious eyes, his tail wagging slightly. Oliver tried one more time but Apollo did not pay him any attention.
“He may stay,” Christina said, but then she realized Oliver was looking at the dog and not at her. She tapped his shoulder. “Apollo may stay.”
“Are you certain? I would not want him to knock you down again.”
The animal stepped toward her and nudged a cold, wet nose into her palm. She laughed, the feeling so foreign. Looking at Oliver, she asked, “What does he want?”
“He likes to be scratched behind his ears.” He demonstrated and Christina quickly repeated the motion under the other ear. Apollo made some chuffing noises, apparently happy with the attention. He really was adorable, if one liked large domesticated animals.
“If we ignore him, he will lie down in front of the fire and nap for a bit.” Oliver snapped his fingers to get the dog’s attention and pointed at the floor. Apollo trotted to the place Oliver indicated and sat, his tail moving happily.
Christina went to the bellpull. “I will request food for us. Anything in particular you like?”
Oliver waved his hand before signing, “Whatever the kitchen has prepared is fine with me.” He lowered himself into one of the armchairs by the fire and Apollo came over to settle at his feet. It was so domestic, so right, that Christina’s heart squeezed in her chest.
When her maid arrived at the door, Christina requested provisions. Shannon nodded and disappeared down to the kitchens. Christina then sat in the armchair opposite her husband and tried to make herself comfortable. Husband. It was such a strange concept. Did all married women feel that way, or only the ones who had not consummated their marriages?
“How are you?” Oliver signed.
She remembered the signs he had taught her weeks ago. “Well. And you?”
“Fine.”
Silence descended, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock. Her palms were damp, uncertainty skating down her spine. She had wanted the company but now could not think of a thing to say. He was so appealing, with his brilliant green gaze and strong jaw. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, giving her a perfect view of his bare forearms, their sculpted strength apparent even in the firelight. No matter the circumstances, he seemed comfortable in his own skin. Confident. Endlessly fascinating.
“What are you reading?” he signed, using his voice for her benefit, then pointed to her book on the end table.
“The Portrait of a Lady.” She picked up the book and showed him the cover. “Have you read it? Oh, that was a stupid question. The book came from your library. Of course you have read it.”
The edges of his mouth curled. “I have read it. But it was not a stupid question. I haven’t read everything in my library.”
“No?”
“No,” he signed. “I used to have more time for reading, among other things.”
The way he said it had her dying to ask what those other things entailed, but she respected his privacy. His past was his own, unless he chose to share. That was how friends interacted, right? “I always make time to read.”
“I did as well,” he signed. “But then I chose to focus on my inventions.”
She nodded and the silence descended once more. Questions floated through her mind, all the things she longed to know about him, but the courage to ask them eluded her. It was easier to use his pencil and ledger to communicate her deeper thoughts, honestly. Not that she could admit as much to him. What sane person found it easier to write to a person sitting across from them rather than use words?
“Would you care to learn a few signs?” he asked.
Relief filled her. “I would like that very much.”
Over the next few minutes he instructed her on simple signs, mostly the objects in the room, such as the lamp, fire, and bed. She repeated them and he grinned. “You are a much better student than I was for Dr. Jacobs,” he signed, still speaking for her benefit.
“Who?”
“The physician that looked after you when you fell. He taught me sign language.”
Ah, that made sense. The two of them had signed quite rapidly with one another. “After your illness?”
He nodded. “I was fourteen when the doctors gave up on curing me. It was then my mother learned of Dr. Jacobs. His father was deaf and not an oralist so—”
She held up her hand. “What does that mean, an oralist?”
“At deaf school they teach students to speak and read lips. They believe that is the only way deaf people can function in society. To blend in with everyone else.” He grimaced, his hands moving as he spoke. “I lost my hearing at thirteen, so I am able to still remember tones and sounds. As a result, my voice is more intelligible than it may have been otherwise.”
She thought his voice quite intelligible but did not interrupt.
“But not all deaf people are able to speak easily, especially if they have been deaf since birth. Verbal communication can be challenging in such case. Henry knew there was a way, a method they teach in France that allowed the deaf to communicate with their hands. He traveled there, learned the language, and brought it back to New York.”
“And taught you.”
“Yes,” he signed.
She braved asking him a personal question. “What was it like when you first discovered you were deaf?”
He paused for a moment. “Terrifying. As if a switch had been flipped and all the sound in the world had been removed.”
She could not even imagine. “Your parents? What did they do?”
“Took me to the best doctors in the country. When that failed they threw money at every quack, medicine man, charlatan, and medium in the Northeast. They were determined to find a cure.”
Despite the toll that must have taken on him, Oliver appeared to still hold a deep affection for his parents. How lucky of him, to have experienced that unconditional love—even for a short time. “And then?”
“When a cure could not be found my parents threw themselves into helping me every way possible. Not only did they learn to sign, they forced the staff to learn as well. Hired the best deaf tutors. Found Dr. Jacobs.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Of course. You need not ask permission first, you know. Just ask me.”
“When you use your voice, why do you sign as well? Should not one replace the other?”
He lifted a shoulder as if this had not occurred to him. “Habit, I suppose. It is the way my brain thinks. Signing is not something I consciously force myself to do; I just naturally do it. Though speaking and signing together can slow me down at times.”
That made sense to Christina, seeing as how this was two forms of communication happening at once.
“And for the record,” he said. “You are the only person with whom I use my voice.”
“I am?”
“Yes,” he signed.
She ducked her head, more pleased by that bit of information than she wanted to let on. Oliver was remarkable, an incredibly intelligent person. Not to mention generous and handsome. How did all of New York not know this? Every single woman in the city should have fallen in his garden to gain his attention. Lucky for her, she supposed, they had not. Otherwise he would have married some other woman, leaving Christina to deal with Van Peet and her pa
rents alone.
A knock sounded, causing Apollo to rise and hurry to the door, his tail wagging. “Ah, the food has arrived,” Oliver signed.
Chapter Eleven
Four footmen hurried to set up an elaborate spread in Christina’s room, complete with a small table, candles, and china. Oliver watched all this transpire with growing trepidation. The scene was intimate, designed for a new husband and wife. Not friends whose efforts to resist temptation were hanging on by a thread.
How was he to survive it?
Oliver narrowed his eyes at Gill. “I know what you are doing,” he signed.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Gill signed. “We are merely ensuring the master and his wife are comfortable.”
“Utter nonsense—and you know it,” he signed.
The butler’s mouth pressed together, eyes dancing, and Oliver knew the servant was attempting not to laugh. Bastard.
Gill departed, taking Apollo and the footmen with him, and Oliver and Christina were alone once more. He held out a chair at the table and she lowered herself into it. She wore a plain ivory shirtwaist with a navy skirt, nothing fancy, but she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. A hint of roses teased his nose, the feminine scent stealing into his lungs and causing heat to unwind in his veins. Stop it. This is a meal, not a prelude to seduction.
Determined to keep this about the food, he reached for her round china plate. “I will fill your plate with a little bit of everything.” Without awaiting an answer, he walked to covered dishes on the sideboard. One of the benefits of being deaf was you could not hear someone wage an argument behind your back.
He set the full plate in front of her, piled high with a sampling of his cook’s finest dishes. Once he had his own plate he lowered himself into a chair. Christina sipped her wine, watching his forearms through her lashes. He glanced at himself, wondering what had her so mesmerized. Was she horrified at his rolled shirtsleeves? He hoped not. He’d rather attend Mrs. Astor’s Patriarch’s Ball than wear a coat while in his own home. “No need to wait on me,” he signed. “Please, begin.”
Her lips curved into a shy smile and she picked up her fork. He tried to focus on his own plate but it was difficult. The room was full of her, from the personal items on the dresser, the rumpled coverlet on the bed, to the brush of her skirts against his legs under the table.
Additionally, awareness buzzed between them now, one that had not existed before. He felt off-balance and powerless around her, which was why he had ignored her since the portrait gallery. She had not backed down then, merely stared up at him with excitement and longing in her gaze, no hesitation whatsoever. Indeed, the doubt and insecurity had belonged solely to him.
He absolutely hated that feeling.
Focus on something else. Like the reason he had decided to dine with her in the first place. He placed his fork on his plate. “Are you happy here?” he signed and said.
“Yes,” she said, her face emphatic. “I am very grateful, Oliver.”
“I do not mean gratitude. I mean happiness. Have you everything you need? Is there anything more the staff may do for you?”
“No, everyone here has been very kind.”
Her choice of words did not elude him. “Does that mean someone elsewhere was unkind?”
She looked down at her food, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth. He gave her time by reaching for his wineglass and taking a sip. The Bordeaux was old and robust, one of his very favorites, and he savored the rich flavors before swallowing.
After a moment, she met his eyes. “No one was unkind. I am afraid I made a fool of myself, though.”
“How?” he signed.
The way her lips pressed together signaled she was reluctant to share, but she answered nonetheless. “I left a bit hurriedly from an outing today with Patricia and her friends. It was silly of me.”
He suspected she was making light of what happened. “Was something said to upset you?”
Color dotted her cheeks and she shook her head. “It was nothing.”
“I disagree. Gill said you were crying when you arrived home,” he signed/spoke. “You may tell me, you know.”
An idea occurred to him. He withdrew the ledger and pencil from his shirt pocket and slid them across the table. She stared at the items for a long second before picking them up.
Her shoulders rose and sank with a heavy sigh as she wrote. When she finished, she slid the ledger to him. Have you ever been surrounded by people but felt lonely?
“Frequently,” he signed. “Deaf, remember.”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
So she would not feel alone in writing instead of talking, he took the ledger and pencil back. I tried for a long time to fit in, first at school with the other deaf students. But I was different in that I had not always been deaf. I was able to speak and remember sounds. That sometimes made it difficult to relate to someone who has no similar references.
He turned the page and kept writing. When I tried to join society, I hardly fit in better there. I was an oddity everywhere I went, treated no better than a sideshow act at times. I even had a gentleman ask if I would read J. P. Morgan’s lips from across the room in hopes of garnering a secret stock tip. Women tolerated my deafness because of my bank account. After a few years I grew cynical, no longer interested in merely being ‘tolerated.’
When she finished reading, there was shock and comprehension in her brown gaze. He recalled Patricia’s words the night he and Christina were married: She does not enjoy the society events. I found her hiding more often than not, off in a corner, miserable.
Had he found a woman who truly understood?
Indeed, he thought she might. There was an excellent chance this woman appreciated some of what he’d been through because of her own experiences in society.
They stared at one another, neither looking away. He could see her chest expanding rapidly, his own exhalations coming just as fast. Blood pumped hard, his skin alive with craving. He had been fighting the current between them, denying this connection he felt to her, but he could not do it any longer. Resisting this attraction was like attempting to keep the opposite ends of a magnet from coming together.
He was done fighting.
If she did not desire him, then so be it. He would not pressure or try to convince her. However, if there was a chance for them to occasionally enjoy each other physically during the next few months, he was dashed well going to take it.
Then she could find a normal man, one without Oliver’s quirks and stubbornness.
Until then, she was his.
Mouth gone dry, he licked his lips. “May I ask you a question?” She nodded, so he went back to the ledger and wrote, The night in the gallery, were you disappointed I did not kiss you?
Her brows rose slightly as she read, clearly taken aback by his question, but she did not look at him. Instead, she took the pencil from his hand and turned over a new page in the book. A bit.
Heart pounding in his chest, he wrote, And if I asked to kiss you now, what would be your answer?
Her fingers gripped the pencil so tightly while writing that her fingertips went white. She bit her lip as she turned the ledger toward him.
I would say yes.
She had actually written it.
Christina could scarcely believe she’d done it. Yet somehow it was easier to be truthful on paper than speaking aloud.
And it had been the truth. She wanted to kiss him. Badly.
Oliver placed his napkin on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood. Nerves skittered throughout her chest, making it hard to breathe as he approached. The lines of his face had sharpened, the green of his irises dark and intense. It was impossible to look away.
When he reached her side, he held out his hand. She stared at it, beyond grateful that he was giving her a choice instead of pressuring her. Oliver was the most considerate man she’d ever met, and she knew in that moment this was the right decision.
> She wiped her damp palm on her skirts and then took his hand. His skin was warm and rough, and he gently pulled her to her feet. Then he stepped closer, his hands sliding to cup her jaw on both sides. He surrounded her, so close that she could see the late-day whiskers on the lower half of his face, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes. His handsomeness stole her breath away.
He lowered his head and she waited, anticipating. When his lips brushed hers, a touch so faint she barely felt it, a shiver of excitement worked its way down her spine. His lids fell, dark lashes resting like crescents on his cheekbones, and she let her eyes close as well. Another featherlight touch swept the corner of her mouth before he continued over the bow of her lip and to the other side. When he finished, he finally—finally!—kissed her on the mouth, and she almost sighed in relief at the firm touch of his lips.
It was slow and sweet, an intimate joining of their mouths. His lips moved purposefully, coaxing as their breath mingled, and the world was reduced to just the two of them. This one single moment.
She tried to match his movements, to fit her lips perfectly to his, and he gripped her tighter. Her heart thrummed inside her chest, a beat that seemed to resonate everywhere in her body, her skin buzzing with a secret rhythm as the kiss deepened. The heat and strength of his body made her dizzy, and her hands found purchase on his chest. She held on, feeling his heart pound beneath her palms, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. His reaction thrilled her, blatant proof she was not alone in this.
When his tongue flicked her lips, she jerked in surprise. Her mouth parted slightly and Oliver’s tongue drove inside. He filled her mouth, his tongue gliding against hers, twining and stroking, and then it made sense. This was what her cousin had meant, this deep connection, this intimacy as necessary as air. She felt drunk on his taste, desperate for more.
Her tongue touched his and the kiss turned eager, greedy. He tilted his head to change the angle, dipping farther into her mouth, while one hand moved around her waist to bring her flush to his body. Without thinking, she tried to get closer, moving her hands around his neck and into the soft hair at his nape.
