Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (26 page)

 21 

T
he
architect
is expecting your input?” Eleanor knew she shouldn’t laugh but she couldn’t help it. “The look on your face, Marcus, when she asked you to check with him . . .” She shook her head. “My aunt truly
does
think highly of her gardeners, doesn’t she?”

She smiled up at him, then paused, noticing he wasn’t laughing. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But . . . the reason she asked me to check with him is because . . .” His mouth slowly edged up on one side. Amusement lit his eyes. “I
am
an architect.”

She stared, then gradually realized what he was up to and decided to play along.

“And I’m an international chef who’s been invited to cook for the season in Paris.” She struck her best snobbish pose. “But not to worry. I’ll still allow you to eat my creations. On occasion.”

He laughed, the sound rich and inviting, and the look in his eyes deepened, much like it had last evening in this very room.

“No, Eleanor.” His deep voice was soft. “I’m serious. That’s what I was trying to tell you last night.”

She searched his expression, her humor fading as she caught evidences of truth. “You’re not teasing?”

He shook his head. “No, madam. I am not.”

“But . . . you
told
me you were an under gardener.”

He gave her a look. “When we first met, right out there”—he pointed—“you
assumed
I was an under gardener.” He shrugged. “I simply never bothered correcting you.”

She thought back—remembering the look on his face at the moment in question, the way he had bowed—and she realized he was right. She
had
made that assumption.

She stepped back and looked at him, trying to see him for the first time all over again. “
You
 . . . are an architect?”

He laughed again. “Is it that difficult to believe?”

“No. And . . . yes. You just seem like a gardener.” She waved her arm. “Look at all of this. Look at what you’ve done.”

He fingered the leaf of one of the many
shunned
roses. “I’m an architect who has a passion for botany. Everything I’ve told you is true, Eleanor.” He leaned in. “Except . . . for that day in the bakery, when I had to leave. I didn’t really have trees to plant and weeds to pull. I had to get back to the project we were working on at the time.”

“We?”

He nodded. “I own a construction company.”

She laughed. “Of course you do.” But she meant it this time. “What were you working on then?”

“A warehouse downtown. A renovation.”

“And what are you working on now?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Another renovation, actually.”

“Is that what you like to do most? Renovations?”

“No.” His laughter came out flat. “That’s merely where the work happens to be available right now. My preference is new construction. I recently submitted bids to design and build two other projects—a photography studio and a library. But I have yet to hear back from them.”

“I predict you will. Very soon. And that you’ll be awarded the contracts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll choose to believe the same.” Yet his manner lacked his usual bravado.

“Well . . .” Mindful of the time, Eleanor glanced at the chatelaine watch affixed to her shirtwaist. “I’d best be getting back.”

He gestured. “Allow me to see you out.”

“Why? Lest I cannot find one of the
seven
doors
located along that north wall just there?” She attempted to mimic the same tone he had used with her upon their first meeting here in the conservatory, and was glad when it drew a smile.

“You don’t forget much, do you, Miss Braddock?”

“I believe I could say the same of you, Mr. Geoffrey.”

She preceded him from the propagating room and back through his
haven
, grateful he hadn’t inquired about Mr. Hockley, and still not believing Aunt Adelicia had brought that subject up at such a time. And on purpose, Eleanor knew. The woman never did anything without thinking it through first.

Still two rooms away from the nearest door, Eleanor caught the scent of roses. She glanced back at Marcus. “What would you build if you could build anything you wanted?”

“Hmmm. . . . A building more beautiful, more awe-inspiring than anyone has ever dreamed or imagined, Eleanor Braddock. People will stop on the street just to stare at it.” His smile worked like a tonic, drawing her in. “They’ll admire the design, the way the structure blends seamlessly with nature. As though all that beauty—the building, the trees and hills surrounding it—had been created for that exact spot on earth. Together, from the very beginning.”

The way he described it sparked something inside her, like the strike of a match setting flame to a wick. But it also brought to mind what she’d been contemplating last night . . . the extravagance of this estate, and others like it.

She paused by the cast-iron cobra fountain. “But this
more
beautiful,
more
awe-inspiring building, Marcus . . . what would it be for?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . what would be the purpose behind building something”—she tried to smile but couldn’t sustain it—“
so
very beautiful. Surely your desire isn’t
only
to create something more beautiful so that people will stop to admire it.”

He took a moment to answer. “Of course, that’s not the only reason. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to create something beautiful.” His eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “When you cook, isn’t your goal to not only make the food taste good, but also to make it . . . pretty? As you said last night?”

Eleanor had to think back. The slice of buttermilk pie, and how she’d apologized for having crushed it a little in the transport. “Well . . . yes, of course, I do. But . . .” She exhaled. “You can’t compare a pie to a
building
.”

“
Ja
 . . .” He nodded. “Sure, I can. Because we’re discussing why to create something more beautiful instead of . . . simply functional. So the comparison is justified.”

“The comparison is silly.”

He eyed her. “Tell me you don’t do your best to make whatever food you cook look appealing.”

She huffed. “Well, yes . . . I do. But that’s because part of the pleasure in eating is the presentation of the food.”

“Ah!” He held up a finger. “But making it beautiful does nothing to actually enhance the flavor of the food, Eleanor. It’s strictly
ästhetisch.
Or . . . aesthetic, as you Americans say. Am I correct?”

She pushed his finger aside. “The point I was trying to make is that cooking something with the mere purpose of it being beautiful is
never
my primary motivation. Nor, in my opinion, should it be yours when you’re designing a building.” Hearing the urgency in her tone, she attempted to soften it, not wanting to sound as perturbed by the discussion as she felt. “Beauty can be found in function, even in simplicity. And in the purpose for which a building is built and how it’s used.” She met his gaze with challenge. “Not everything has to be
beautiful
to be worthy of admiration, Marcus.”

No sooner did the words leave her mouth than she wished she could recall them. Beneath his discerning gaze, she felt exposed. Knowing she wasn’t a beautiful woman was one thing. But the possibility of discovering that the man she cared about—
far
more than she should—held a similar opinion, was more than her heart could take.

She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound normal and more confident than she felt. “I hope you get the chance to build your building someday, Marcus.”

He looked at her for a long moment, as though weighing his response. “Thank you, Eleanor. I do too.”

Again, she heard that thinnest sliver of doubt in his voice. And with uncustomary boldness, she briefly pressed a hand to his chest, thinking of what he’d told her only hours earlier. “Don’t give up. Keep trying, regardless of the risk. Because how else will you ever know, if you don’t try?”

The blue of his eyes deepened as he moved closer. He slipped his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Unable to move, much less form a thought, Eleanor could scarcely breathe.

He pressed a slow, warm kiss to her forehead. “
Danke
,” he whispered, lingering, his breath warm on her skin. “
Für die süße Erinnerung.”

Eleanor closed her eyes, her pulse racing.
Thank you . . . for
the sweet reminder.
The nights of reviewing her German textbook were proving helpful. She kept still, wanting to memorize the moment.

Far too soon, he stepped back, looking at her with an intensity that made her face burn.

“I’m sorry to have kept you so long this morning.” His voice sounded a little hoarse. “Especially after keeping you out so late last night.”

“Yes . . . it was quite the inconvenience, Mr. Geoffrey. And not enjoyable in the least.”

Surprised at the control in her own voice, she was even more so at the smirk that tipped his mouth. It was downright roguish, and
tempted her thoughts down an enticing path they’d not traveled before.

She didn’t know much about the ways of a man with a woman, and her instincts could well be leading her astray. But for the first time in her life, she thought maybe, just maybe, she might be about to learn.

“Leave it to Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham to hire a European architect to design a garden at an asylum.”

Marcus looked up from where he was measuring for the statue installation to see Dr. Crawford walking toward him. He quickly recorded the figures in his notebook, then extended his hand. “Good morning, Dr. Crawford. How are you, sir?”

“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Geoffrey. And from the looks of things here, you are too.”

Marcus surveyed the landscape along with him, proud of what he and his crew had accomplished. “It’s taken a little longer than I thought it would, but we’re nearing completion.”

“Things often take longer than planned in my line of work too. But working on a Saturday, Mr. Geoffrey. That’s dedication.”

All week long Marcus had intended to get out here, but with the problems he’d had on the job in town—men being out sick, supplies not being delivered on time, shoddy workmanship from three new hires, whom he’d just as swiftly fired—he hadn’t had the opportunity.

Crawford looked over at him. “When Mrs. Cheatham told me she wished to install a
simple
garden”—he laughed under his breath—“this is hardly what I envisioned. What you’ve done here, Mr. Geoffrey, is nothing short of remarkable. I, along with the other board members, am most grateful to both you and Mrs. Cheatham for your contribution to the asylum.”

“It’s my pleasure, sir. I’m grateful you’re pleased.” Marcus gestured. “I think the walking paths turned out especially well. As did the fountain. Unfortunately, the flowers probably won’t last much past the first of November. Not with the cooler temperatures we’re having now. But at least you can enjoy them throughout the month.”

Dr. Crawford pointed. “Some of our patients are already enjoying them.”