The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (29 page)

Hawk shook his head fervently, appearing beside me. “No, Juliet. The deed.
I can see the bloody deed hanging out.
”

No sooner had he said it then the viscount’s eyes settled on the white envelope bent between the closed lid and the compartment’s rim. His jaw clenched and his whiskers reflected light from the window behind me, rippling like velvet caught on a breeze. Still holding the basket, he started forward, his cane beating out a muted cadence beside him.

I dropped the pillow and planted myself between the viscount and the envelope, my skirt blocking it. We stood face to face, my head tipped up to meet his gaze.

“My lord, perhaps we could use your basket for our prisoner.” I covered his hand where he clenched the handle. He became solid where I was not, his muscles hardening to a spasm beneath my touch.

He set the basket at my feet. The musk of his sweat wafted in place where he’d stood.

He laid down his cane, opened the basket lid, and rose. “For your hats. I planned to seek your approval before I bundled them to dry.”

The whicker container overflowed with a vivid array of feathers and strawflowers. He’d spent the morning gathering them. For me. The same morning I’d spent making a mockery of his privacy. The rolled papers began a burning torture between my cleavage tantamount to poison ivy.

I shot a guilty glance to Hawk.

He studied the basket’s contents. “Ulterior motive. I guarantee it.”

I searched the viscount’s features for tell-tale signs of his true intentions, but found nothing but openness … openness and a streak of dirt upon his forehead where he must have wiped off some sweat while toiling in the garden.

He rubbed his forehead. “I must look a mess.”

“You’re above perfect.” The statement leapt from my mouth before I could stop it. I slapped my fingers across my lips.

A boyish grin stirred the viscount’s whiskers, a stark contrast from the disgruntled snarl on Hawk’s face.

“I-I mean
they
are perfect,” I said, looking at the floor. “The flowers, the feathers. Thank you.”

Lord Thornton flipped the basket’s lid shut to get my attention. “Do you think me an imbecile, Miss Emerline?”

Prickles of heat mushroomed in my cheeks. “On the contrary, my lord. I find you to be a clever and capable adversary.”

“Adversary? I wasn’t aware we were on opposing sides. This is a game, then. A cat chase, as you said. And you, the delectable mouse, that for all her prowling and probing has found herself well and duly trapped” —he lifted a hand, his pinky grazing my temple—“beneath the cat’s clever and capable claw.”

The delicate press of his finger and the warm rush of his breath spun me into a panicked dream state where everything fell away in a blur of black and white. He was the only color I could see—crimson and lavender, a painting brought to life—all the more hypnotic for his erratic state of dishevelment.

“Best dig your way out, Juliet.” Hawk’s husky mumble shook me awake. “He’s about to bury you.”

I took a quivering breath, keeping my host’s strange and dangerous secrets foremost in my mind. “I misspoke, your lordship. I meant, rather, that you’re an efficient
escort
.”

Using his bad foot, Lord Thornton swept aside the basket and closed the space between us so my skirt hem caught on his shoes. “Try again.”

I gave it one last woeful attempt. “An … apt companion?”

He paused to consider, wearing a gypsy smile. “I was thinking more along the lines of a masterful paramour.” He caught my wrists and pressed my palms to his chest.

Faced with the hard turn of his muscles, my body betrayed me instantly—fingers curling into the fabric. I struggled to maintain my poise. “A lover? Ha …
indeed
.”

“Indeed.” Sobering, he skimmed his fingers up my arms to my shoulders. Flutters danced through my stomach.

Hawk cursed from the farthest end of the window seat where several pillows were piled, threatening to topple them. But he didn’t have the chance before Lord Thornton captured my necklace between his fingers and tugged the locket from under my gown. The journal pages within my bodice moved infinitesimally before the charm popped free.

Hawk was no longer in view. He was back in his purgatory. Yet I couldn’t help but think he was better off there than witnessing what was taking place here.

Suspended by the chain in Lord Thornton’s hand, my silver heart glimmered in the sunlight. The viscount held the locket against his lips, kissing the embossed rose, then gently pressed the metal to my mouth where his had been. Some lascivious demon possessed me to touch the silver with my tongue, to savor the metallic tang mingled with his taste.

Hawk flashed into my peripheral then was gone. I barely heard his grumblings, too caught up in my other senses to pay attention to my ears. Lord Thornton was watching my every move, desire drifting over his features like a slow gathering storm.

Somewhere in my attempt to outmaneuver my host, he had trumped me with the ultimate weapon … tangibility and touch.

The viscount dropped my necklace in place atop my dress. Hawk was gone now—my clothes and the journal entries forming a barrier he could not breech. The viscount drew me close, our bodies pressed together—a real and solid resistance. His lips brushed across the bridge of my nose on a prickle of whiskers, and my lips ached to share the sensation.

To feel
, just once.

His warm breath brushed my mouth, mere inches away. At the last minute, his gaze drifted down to the window seat. He nudged me aside and cool air replaced the press of his body. Intent on the envelope’s exposed corner, he dragged the deed free.

Looking from me to the paper, Lord Thornton threw open the lid, seeking the kitten we both knew wouldn’t be there.

My lips grew heavy—craving the kiss that lingered on my locket, neglected and dying. A new emotion sliced through me—fear—as the viscount shoved the blueprints aside in the seat, as if to cover the pistol.

He then turned and tapped the deed against the seat’s lid. “It would appear my rival has been putting doubts in your head again. What has he accused me of now? It had to be monumental for you to scavenge through my room.”

“This has nothing to do with your assumed rival.”
A lie.

“Why then?” he seethed.

I couldn’t think of any response, tongue-tied over my gullibility. The teasing grin, the witty banter, the impassioned embrace—all of it had been a trick to distract me so he could get to the envelope.

He had been going through the motions, laughing to himself as I let his fingers play me like a mindless mandolin. And now he was staring at me, an accusation hanging between us.

Why
he’d asked … an empty-ended word, oh so volatile for its vacancy. “I wanted to explore your assets. Imagine my shock, to see the caliber of toys you waste your lucre upon.” I laced my explanation with all of the contempt I felt for myself, forgetting the caution I should have sense enough to employ.

He looked back at the blueprints, anger receding to a bewildered frown. Then he faced me again, so I could read his response. “I assure you. I have the means to keep you well cared for. I will spare nothing when it comes to your happiness.”

“Happiness? Am I to be treated as a queen, then? Seated upon a throne of nails? Or perhaps I’ll be kept as a broken trophy on a shelf, taken down and dusted when your guests come to visit, so they might pity my cracks and rusted veneer. Where’s the happiness in that?”

His chin tightened. “I would see myself drawn and quartered before my ‘toys’ would ever be used upon you.” Fierce resolve darkened his eyes. “And as for being a trophy … when will you understand that you are worthy of being cherished for who you are? Of being valued.”

“The only thing you value is collecting instruments of torment, gambling away your father’s funds, and deflowering maidens. Take off your mask, my lord. For I see right through it.”

He winced as if I’d slapped him, then shook his head almost sadly. “It is you who wears a mask. One you’ve hidden behind for so long you cannot even remember the spirited girl underneath, begging to come out. The girl who allows her feet to dance, instead of folding them beneath her in the corner; the girl who stands up for what she believes—defiant—instead of hiding her crinoline in lieu of packing it; the girl who has no desire to read lips, but longs instead to read what's in the heart.” He tucked his deed back into the window seat and slammed it shut, leaving the pistol and blueprints there as well. “Until you learn to live life fully—embrace every facet of who you are, strengths and weaknesses alike—I fear no man will ever bring you happiness.”

Shame burned my cheeks, for his words were truer than any I’d ever seen spoken, and they scalded like a splash of boiling grease.

“I would’ve been willing to overlook concerned curiosities—for the taste of your kiss, for the feel of you in my arms.” His teeth ground so tight his jaw looked like it might splinter. “I would’ve bared all my secrets, bettered this anonymous rival in any duel of his choosing for your hand. Had you but offered me the benefit of the doubt just once. Instead, you accuse me at every turn. I will not battle skeletons from a closet long closed, to appease a lady who has no respect for herself or the man I strive to be today. Get out.”

I saw the command on his mouth. But I couldn’t move for the injury marring his handsome face … injury and resentment.

His desire had been real, his tender smiles sincere.

“I said leave me.” He grabbed my elbow, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make a point. Cane in tow, he escorted me across the room. The swiftness of our pace whisked several tendrils of my hair free and they stuck to my lashes.

I expected fury. I expected rage. Instead, what he did next shook my insides like a blast from a cannon.

He opened the door and ducked his head out, assuring my reputation remained safe, still guarding my well-being after all I’d done.

He guided me across the threshold then released me—in every meaning of the word.

“I will send the basket of flowers to your room. You may finish your month in the boutique while I find a replacement. And you’ll receive the payment we agreed upon.” He paused, lifting a hand as if to sweep the strands of hair from my eyes. Instead, his fist slammed the door jamb. The silent vibration shuddered through me. “Rest assured. You’ll no longer be expected to uphold this farce of a betrothal. I shall withdraw the proposal from your uncle today.”

Instead of feeling liberated, I felt ensnared. Ensnared within a net of my own making. I reached for his palm, the one that had almost stroked my hair, the one that now flashed red where it gripped his cane.

He pulled back—too incensed to even make eye contact.

The door closed on a puff of almond-scented air. Unable to move, I clutched the journal pages between my cleavage, every bit as blind as I was deaf.

Emptiness chilled my sternum, but the void had nothing to do with the absence of the journal pages in my bodice. I hadn’t stopped to read the stolen entries when I stashed them in my bedchamber. I was in too much of hurry to find Uncle in our boutique and confess what happened with the viscount before he heard it elsewhere.

Uncle’s lack of response disturbed me more than an angry explosion would have. Expression blank and void of emotion, he continued to stack bolts of fabric on a shelf—categorizing them by their color families. He didn’t spare even a frown my direction as he and Enya emptied the two trunks of dyed cottons, velvets, and muslins. After they finished, my maid left for the townhouse. She shot me a grateful glance on her way out, for my omission of her part, and for the first time in my life, I envied her. She was still in Uncle Owen’s good graces.

Tears pricked my eyes. It made no sense; I should’ve been basking in relief. I had managed to break the betrothal that had plagued me since my arrival, and it had no effect upon the real reason I came to begin with. Yes, I would lose my parent’s beautiful home, but I came into this knowing that all along. I would still be here for a month. I could still use that time to learn of Hawk’s life and death. The servants would be more receptive now that I was no longer an upstart.

So why was I drowning in dread and grief? Because my uncle had been my lifeline for over eleven years and I’d severed our bond with my careless plotting and lies. There was a distance between us. An ocean which had never been there before.

Without him, I struggled to stay afloat.

“Is it so difficult to understand that I wished to make sense of the man?” I attempted to pull him back to me. “For heaven’s sake! Our host is hiding his gypsy aunt somewhere in the townhouse. You didn’t know
that
about him, did you?”

Uncle wasn’t shocked by the news. He already knew. Which meant he most likely knew about everything: the viscount’s gypsy blood, his tragic mother, and his dead twin.

But there was one thing he couldn’t possibly know. “He has dark and frightening fascinations, Uncle. I’ve seen blueprints for torture devices. There is a room in his dungeon where—”