Page 19 of To Love a Beast

Like a dog beaten and left to fend for himself, Everett had lost his trust in humanity. The destruction of his face had been bad enough, but everything that followed had turned him cynical. His mother's withdrawal. Society's eagerness to believe the March family's lies about Everett being the villain. Men he considered friends distancing themselves to protect their reputations. Every horrified look from a stranger during his trip to Texas. Each stupid kid who trespassed his property on a dare to sneak a peek at the Monster of Manticore Manor. They all hit like a kick to a mongrel's ribs, leaving him to snarl and snap even at those who didn't deserve it.

He expected to be hurt, so he avoided contact with the outside world. When the outside world dared to infringe upon his privacy, he struck out in order to reinforce the barrier he'd constructed for self-preservation. But when his usual tactics failed to send Miss Rosenfeld running yesterday, she'd left him feeling out of control. Vulnerable. So he'd snapped and growled and acted completely uncivilized.

The Lord expected better from him. He expected better from himself.

By the time Everett reached the tree and lowered himself to sit beneath its branches and lean against its trunk, he knew what he needed to do. But it would require a good deal of mental and spiritual fortification before he attempted something so radical.

Callista met the day with a refreshed spirit and renewed positivity. How could she not when she'd slept on a mattress that felt like a cloud? No straw pieces jabbing through the worn tick to poke her back. No rumbling snore from Papa on the other side of a paper-thin wall to wake her during the night. No cold draft whistling through the cracks to chill her nose and toes. She'd been so pleasantly cozy, she'd almost slept in.

Almost. Mr. Griffin's desire for efficiency and ridding himself of his unwanted houseguest overrode the luxury of a comfortable bed. She might have been given a chamber fit for a princess with its pale green walls, white furnishings, and plush rugs, but she wasn't a princess. She was an employee. One who still had to earn her right to be here.

Hope sees possibilities, where fear sees only barriers. Her mother's words rallied Callista's optimism as she washed her face and dressed in her blue work dress. She knew what to expect from her employer now, so he'd not surprise her again with his foul temper. He could snap and snarl as much as he liked. She'd take no offense. Neither would she respond in kind. Not as she'd done last night. Gracious. She still couldn't believe she'd argued with the man. Worse, she'd cast blame on him for a tumble that was completely of her own making. Even after he'd caught her. Or attempted to catch her. The intent to rescue had been the same regardless of his level of success, so she ought to credit him with the good deed. Yet she'd failed to demonstrate one iota of gratitude for his gallantry. She'd thanked him for not dismissing her but nothing else. How mercenary of her.

Today she would do better. She would smile and be utterly agreeable. And avoid the library ladder, no matter how strongly the beautiful books on the top shelves beckoned.

She pinned her hair into a serviceable bun and tied her work apron around her waist before striding to the door of her room. When her hand clasped the handle, she paused. Grant me patience and a cheerful spirit, Lord. May I turn the other cheek as many times as needed and count myself blessed for having this job. May I work as if working for you, and may I bring you glory with the labor of my hands and the attitude of my heart.

After joining Mrs. Potter, Mr. Lightfoot, and Mr. Timens in the kitchen for a simple repast of scrambled eggs, toast, and jam, Callista reported to the library promptly at eight o'clock. Not sure when Mr. Griffin might arrive to discuss his project with her since he apparently enjoyed long, rambling walks each morning, Callista busied herself by arranging some of her favorite stamp templates and ornamental tools. Imagining in her head how each finished design would look, she laid out several different possibilities for her employer to choose from, each in a different style, from very ornate to classic and reserved. Once she knew in which direction his tastes lay, she could offer individual recommendations to fit his overall aesthetic.

When she'd completed five different design options and Mr. Griffin still had not arrived, she turned her attention to his shelves. Not for personal exploration this time. She'd learned that lesson. No, she sought out books that would tell a story about their owner. Where his interests lay regarding content and what style of covers appealed to him.

The man was an artist, Lightfoot had said. He painted upstairs in a secret studio. Yet he loved books. The sheer magnitude of his collection made that assumption obvious. Some people owned large collections as a symbol of wealth or prestige. However, her new employer went out of his way to discourage visitors and sought to impress no one. His collection had been procured strictly for his own pleasure.

She perused the shelves she could reach without the aid of the ladder and found books on European architecture, Renaissance painters, and even a manual on photography. To be expected for a man interested in the visual arts. He also had tomes dedicated to topics of business, history, and religion. Although, nearly half of his collection consisted of literature.

Quite astonishing. She wouldn't have guessed him to possess the sensitive nature required to appreciate poetry, drama, or romantic novels, yet he had entire shelves dedicated to those genres. The majority of his fiction collection consisted of adventure novels and mythological tales. Finding a scholarly guide to mythological literature accidentally shelved with the novels, she slid the volume from its place and noticed considerable wear at the corners and along the spine. Curious, she flipped through the pages until a section fell open of its own accord.

What had so captured Mr. Griffin's attention that he'd propped the book open to this page often enough to cause a small break in the spine? Mystical Beasts and Mythological Monsters. Her chest ached at the telling chapter title. She thumbed through the first few pages of the section, noting an underlined passage pertaining to manticores and another regarding his namesake, the griffin.

Is this how he saw himself? As a monster? The thought sobered her even as it tugged on her sympathies. No wonder he was so foul tempered. He was fulfilling the role he'd assigned himself, a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions.

A knock brought her gaze to the door where she spied the man at the center of her thoughts. Only, he looked very little like the man she'd encountered yesterday. Probably because he wasn't scowling.

"I thought it best to alert you to my presence before speaking this time. Didn't want to risk another tumble." Mr. Griffin's mouth twitched a bit on one side, almost as if he were trying to smile.

It seemed her employer could surprise her after all.

Chapter 9

Miss Rosenfeld smiled at him. Not a new circumstance. In their brief acquaintance, she'd favored him with at least half a dozen of the things. Yet they still took him by surprise. Hit him square in the chest every time. Odd for a man who used to collect feminine smiles like a post office collected letters. In the past they'd come with such frequency and volume, he'd taken them for granted. After a five-year drought, however, he now recognized the rare and exquisite treasure of a woman's smile. Especially one as free of artifice as the one currently aimed in his direction.

"I appreciate your caution." She set the book she'd been examining on the worktable closest to the shelves then made her way toward him. Miraculously, the welcome in her gaze didn't dim as she neared. It seemed she'd acclimated to his scars faster than he'd acclimated to her smiles. "Hopefully, I'll prove less clumsy with my feet on the floor."

There was nothing the least bit clumsy about the way she moved through the room. She possessed a natural grace that many New York debutantes would envy.

Before she reached him at the doorway, she diverted to a larger worktable littered with scraps of leather, iron hand tools, and embossing stamps.

"I've laid out some preliminary design options for you to consider." Her attention moved to the table as her fingers slid along the wooden edge beneath the display. "Once I get a better feel for your personal preferences, I can tailor specific motifs for your collection."

Throat suddenly tight, Everett took a single step into the room. "Before we discuss the bindings, I need to address another matter with you."

She turned and stepped closer to him, her large brown eyes blinking innocently up at him. "All right."

"I . . . uh . . . need to apologize." The word tasted foreign on his tongue. He couldn't recall the last time his lips had shaped those particular syllables. He'd been too concerned with fortifications and barricades around his own spirit to consider anyone else's feelings. Not the most laudable conduct on his part.

Everett forced himself to hold her gaze. He had to fist his hands and lock his knees to manage the feat, but he did it. "I behaved like a boor yesterday, and I'm sorry."

Her eyes lit as if he'd just bestowed a marvelous gift, and then the blasted things began twinkling. Completely unfair of her to let them glimmer about like that. Made it hard for a man to breathe properly. Not to mention the fact that now he wanted to paint her again.