Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(17)

She glanced at it and snorted. “Truly?”

He nodded once and held out his hand for the notebook.

She gave it to him. “Then tell me your name at least.”

He wrote again and showed her the notebook. Caliban will do.

She studied his writing, her brows knit. “You really can’t speak?” She looked up. Her voice was softer now, more curious. She handed him back the notebook.

He shook his head as he wrote. I mean you and yours no harm.

When he glanced up again, she was watching him intently, and for a moment he stilled. Her lichen-green eyes reflected the candlelight, the light flickering deep within their depths, and it struck him suddenly and without warning how beautiful she was. Not in the common way, with soft cheeks and rounded mouth, but with a sharp little chin and intelligence that fairly radiated out of those light-green eyes.

If only this were another life—one in which he might impress her with his title or his own verbal wit.

He blinked and looked down at the notebook in his hand. The page had wrinkled beneath the clench of his fingers. He was in hiding, his title of no consequence under the circumstances, and he couldn’t speak.

She’d tilted her head to read the notebook, seemingly unaware of his thoughts, and for a moment she was very close to him.

He inhaled the scent of her hair: orange and clove.

She glanced up and took a step back, suddenly wary. “You still haven’t said why you’re here.”

He sighed. Indio was correct: I’m a gardener.

She took the notebook to read his writing; then, before he thought to stop her, she was flipping back through the pages.

“You’re more than a simple gardener, aren’t you?” She sank into the old settee, seemingly not noticing how the thing rocked unsteadily beneath her.

Apollo wasn’t going to risk the fragile piece of furniture beneath his weight. He crossed to the round table and brought back one of the chairs. She was examining his sketch of the pond with the bridge in the background when he returned. He placed the chair across from her and sat.

She turned the page slowly, tracing her fingers over the next sketch: a study of an ornamental waterfall. “These are lovely. Will the garden really look like this when you’ve finished with it?”

He waited until she glanced at him, then nodded.

Her brows knit as she turned another page. The next one showed a wide, craggy oak at the foot of the bridge. “I don’t understand. Where did Mr. Harte find you? I think I would’ve known if there were a mute gardener of your talents in London.”

There was no way to answer that without giving himself away. She waited a beat and then turned the page again. The drawing here caught her eye, and she pivoted the notebook, examining the sketch. “What is it?”

Parallel lines took up both pages across the open notebook, some intersecting, some leading nowhere. A few of the lines were wavy. Here and there a circle or square sat in spaces between the lines.

He leaned closer, inhaling orange and clove, and wrote along one side of the page, next to the sketch, A maze.

“Oh! Oh, I see.” She cocked her head, examining the diagram. “But what are these?” She pointed to a square and then a circle.

Follies—places for lovers to sit or amusements like the waterfall. Things to gaze upon and amaze the viewer.

“And these?” She traced the wavy lines.

He inhaled quickly, excited that she was interested, frustrated that he couldn’t just tell her.

Quickly he reached over and flipped through the pages of the notebook still in her hands. He found a blank one and ripped it out, then turned back to his diagram of the maze. He wrote swiftly on his knee, the pencil nearly poking through the paper in several places. The wavy lines are the parts of the hedge that I can salvage from the fire. The plants that are still living.

He showed her his words, waited while she read, her brows knit, and when she looked up, snatched the paper back before she could say anything.

The solid lines will be new plantings. The maze will be the centerpiece of the new garden. The pond on one side, the theater on another, so that from the theater one will look across the maze to the pond. There may be viewing places in the theater itself so that visitors may see the maze and those within it. It will be—

The pencil finally broke through the paper at this point. He balled his fist, frustrated, the words bottled up inside him.

Slim fingers covered his fist, cool and comforting.

He looked up.

“Beautiful,” she said. “It will be beautiful.”

His breath seemed to stop in his lungs. Her eyes were so big, so earnest, so completely captivated by his trifling drawings, his esoteric work. So few were interested in what he did—even Asa began to fidget after only minutes if Apollo tried to explain his plans for the garden.

Yet this gamine woman looked at him as if he were a sorcerer.

He wondered if she had any idea how seductive her very interest was.

She blinked and drew back as if conscious that she’d let too much show. “And amazing. And wonderful. I’ll look forward to wandering your maze, though I’m sure I’ll never figure it out—I’m terrible at puzzles. I’ll need to bring a guide, I think. Perhaps—”

The outer door opened at that point and Miss Stump jumped up from the settee. “Oh, Maude, wherever have you been?”