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She deserved someone who could fulfill her needs, not just physical but emotional. When he’d withdrawn into himself following his mother’s death, latched on to the solidity of his vices, the immediate distraction and pleasure they brought, he knew he’d been turning his back on the traditional things: a wedding, marriage, children. Now, even if he wanted to change that, he’d lived a life of isolation for so long he couldn’t feel much of anything except the rawness of grief and intensity of self-loathing.
He stopped in front of the window, stared out at the wind-tossed sea. Then saw his reflection in the glass. His hand came up, touched the ugly ridges of the largest scar that snaked down his face. Scars that had disgusted Kacey, caused more than one person in his life to look away, unable to meet his eyes without staring.
Rosalind hadn’t. She’d faced him without flinching. He hadn’t missed the answering flicker of desire in her own eyes. What would she do if she knew the extent of his own lust? The almost animalistic need to claim her body, which had seethed beneath the surface ever since he’d seen her in London?
Miss Sutton had nothing to fear from his visible scars. It was the cold, dark bastard who lurked inside him who should frighten her most of all.
CHAPTER SIX
ROSALIND AWOKE TO a faint glow behind the curtains. She lay still beneath the comforter, luxuriating in the feel of actual silk against her skin.
When she’d walked into the room the night before, it had been like walking into a fairy tale. Hardwood floors with streaks of gray and tan had gleamed beneath the light of an actual chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling. Antique furniture in various shades of blue and trimmed in toffee-colored wood, from the navy chairs situated in front of a white stone fireplace to a periwinkle blue fainting couch arranged in front of the massive windows, had been polished to perfection. Paintings adorned the walls, all of them featuring various seascapes or the surrounding cliffs.
And the bed...the glorious bed had sat on a raised dais with actual curtains gathered with gold ropes at the corners. The number of pillows would have made her father and brothers roll their eyes.
But it had been perfect. Even with the ocean obscured by the rain and the gloominess of the man who had escorted her upstairs, it had eased the iron grip that tension had kept on her chest since she’d dropped the file on the table and left the chateau.
It had also been a much-needed balm for the chaos that had scraped her heart raw in just one hour. She’d lost control and insulted the highest profile client she’d ever worked for. Then, when she’d been so close to freedom, she’d almost been crushed by an ancient oak.
And rescued by the very man she’d offended moments before.
She pulled a pillow over her face and groaned into it. Yes, it had been terrifying to realize how close she’d come to getting hurt or even killed during the storm. But she’d lived through her fair share of nor’easters and even the occasional hurricane growing up on Maine’s rugged coast. She’d learned resilience at a young age.
What unsettled her more was her reaction to Griffith and his unexpected bravery. The man had gone from selfish bastard to selfless hero with one act. It had confused her, made some of the respect and curiosity she’d experienced when she’d first researched him resurface.
His anger, too, had intrigued her. Not that she was going to put up with being his emotional punching bag for whatever issues he was dealing with. But his reaction to her being in the chateau, to her appreciation for the room, had seemed rooted in something other than simple selfishness. As she’d told him before she had—yes, foolishly—walked out into the storm, he seemed like he was in pain. Not just grief, but something more, something deeper.
Frustrated with herself for ruminating on him, she sat up and tossed a pillow across the room. What was the point in thinking about him? Wasting time and energy theorizing about his hang-ups when he had made it clear he wanted her gone as soon as she was able to? Honestly, she thought as she threw back the covers, it was a good thing he’d left her alone last night. She’d been vulnerable, susceptible to her feelings of gratitude and attraction. Yes, the man was ridiculously handsome. But she had held out this long on having sex. Had rebuffed advances from men far kinder as she waited for the right one, the one she felt both an emotional and physical connection to. When she finally took a lover, it would be someone she could potentially see a future with.
No matter how intriguing or exciting Griffith Lykaois was, he was the exact opposite definition of a long-term boyfriend. He would tempt a woman to indulge, enjoy, lose herself in pleasure.
And then he’d be gone just as quickly as he’d arrived.
What she needed to do now was get up, gather her things and get out of here. Make a plan for how she would drop the news to Mr. Nettleton about the unsigned contract. Make a contingency plan in case he decided to fire her or in case Griffith had already called to demand the same thing.
She stopped her runaway thoughts. Breathed in deep.
You had a bath in an actual claw-foot tub last night. Focus on the positives.
Her stomach rumbled. She had eaten a late lunch in Étretat before she’d set out for the Chateau du Bellerose. The chaos of the afternoon, including dealing with Griffith Lykaois and nearly getting squished by a centuries-old oak, had driven any thoughts of hunger from her head. After she’d gotten out of the tub, exhaustion had enticed her into bed.
She slipped out from under the sheets and the pleasant weight of the down comforter. Cool air kissed her bare skin. It had been odd sleeping nude, but her clothes had been soaked, from her favorite coat down to her underwear. She pulled a light, airy blanket off the corner of the bed and wrapped it around her body as she moved to the windows. She drew back the curtains.
And caught her breath.
Behind the house lay an incredible garden, one full of winding paths made of what looked like the same crushed seashells as the drive and encircled by a towering ivy hedge. There were occasional trees, including a willow with long strands of leaves that flirted with the surface of a pond. Benches had been added, too, and an occasional statue.
But the pièce de résistance was the roses. Hundreds and hundreds of roses in varying shades of red, pink and white. Crimson blooms climbed over a stone archway. Softer colored flowers that reminded her of ballet slippers spilled from a stone urn. Ivory roses adorned row after row of bushes.
Grief slid in, quiet at first. But it grew, slow and steady, until her body was heavy and her joy disappeared.
She moved to the windows and leaned her head against the cool glass. It had been two years since she’d gotten the first phone call from her father. Her mother had come down with a mild but persistent fever just a month after recovering from what had seemed to be a mild bout of pneumonia. She’d video-called home, seen Mom propped up in bed and rolling her eyes as Dad had fussed over her. Her mom had asked her about her classes, if she was dating anyone, the mother-daughter railroad trip they had planned for the summer that would take them from Italy to Monaco.
It had all seemed so ordinary. Just a simple fever.
Then the second phone call had come at two in the morning. The tension in her father’s voice, the hint of panic underlying his thick Maine accent, had set her nerves on edge before he’d even told her that her mother’s fever had spiked and she was in the hospital. It was the first time her mother had been to a hospital in over two decades, the last time for the birth of Rosalind’s youngest brother.
Rosalind had hung up and started packing as she purchased a ticket home. She’d been walking into the airport when her phone had rung again.
