Page 23 of To Love a Beast

"A good host considers the comfort of his guests above his own convenience." Everett moved his sketchbook to make room on the corner of his desk for the food-laden tray. "I'd not want to upset Miss Rosenfeld's appetite by forcing her to behold my mangled face across the dinner table."

Lightfoot raised a brow at him and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you think Miss Rosenfeld the type of female to be put off by a few marks on a man's skin, you're a dimwit."

Taken aback by the insult, Everett rose from his chair to face his valet on equal footing. "I hardly think my courtesy deserves your scorn."

"It does when you're using it as an excuse to hide." Lightfoot sighed, then gave up his scowl and unknotted his arms. "She asks about you, you know. Worries that her presence is keeping you from your normal routines. If you really cared about her feelings, you'd quit making her feel like a trespasser and move about the house in a normal fashion. Perhaps even have a conversation with her from time to time. Two people so enamored by books are sure to find something meaningful to discuss."

Engage her in conversation? His stomach twisted. Yes, he'd survived their initial design meeting. There'd even been a few moments where he'd forgotten about his face entirely as the two of them dug into artistic details. But casual conversation was a different animal. It was . . . personal.

Everett camouflaged his unease with a scoffing sound. "I'm hardly the charmer I used to be. She'd likely find me tedious."

Lightfoot's eyebrow inched back up into the you're a dimwit position. "If she was interested in handsome, charming men she wouldn't have fought so hard to free herself from that buffoon who tried to make off with her this morning after church."

Something surprisingly primal surged though Everett's chest. "What buffoon?"

If some man had laid hands on her . . .

"Called himself Ambrose Batton. Visiting the area on some kind of hunting expedition. Has one of those faces women swoon over and struts around like he owns everything he sees. Tall, muscular, oozing confidence."

Everett hated him already.

"I didn't see where he came from, but I saw the flock of females hovering around him as he entered the churchyard and approached Miss Rosenfeld. The blighter had the nerve to take her arm and lead her away as if she belonged to him. I spotted her tugging to free herself from his clutches and hurried over to intervene. Batton didn't take too kindly to my interference, but too many people watched for him to take a swing at me, so we made it away unscathed."

Lightfoot chuckled. "You should have heard her scathing opinions on the man during the wagon ride home. Not once did she mention his handsome face or manly physique. She was too busy complaining about his rudeness, presumption, and arrogance." Lightfoot peered at Everett with a look that punctured his defenses. "She expressed how thankful she was to be working for a man who treated her with respect. That even when you were at your most beastly, you were twice the gentleman as Mr. Batton."

Everett had no words. His brain churned too slowly, struggling to process all that Lightfoot said.

His valet clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Your face does not define you, Griff. Your actions do. A woman of a discerning nature will see the man behind the scars. It's up to you to determine what type of man she will find when she does so."

Chapter 11

Callista turned her face to the sun and drank in the warmth, enjoying the moment outdoors before she returned to the library to continue her work. Her strolling companion nudged her in the ribs, eliciting a laugh as she stumbled sideways and tried not to topple over.

"No fair pushing me when my eyes are closed, Spartacus. I need time to brace myself for your affection." She rubbed the giant dog's fur and laid her head atop his for a quick hug.

Mr. Griffin had been right about Spartacus's loving nature. The big furball had shown no hesitation over making friends with the visiting book binder. The meat scraps Mrs. Potter provided eased the original introduction, but now the Mastiff listened for her footfalls and ran to greet her whenever she exited the house. Unless, of course, he was already occupied on one of his master's long rambles.

"Can you believe I've been here for three weeks? I'm almost halfway done with my commission." A fact that should fill her with satisfaction, not the strange emptiness that plagued her whenever she contemplated leaving this place.

The people at Manticore Manor had become a second family of sorts. Mrs. Potter with her tea parties and affectionate nature filled the motherly niche in Callista's heart that had been vacant far too long. Mr. Timens with his stuffy manners and tender heart. How she adored teasing him out of his propriety and catching him in a smile. And dear Mr. Lightfoot. Her champion and friend. She just might miss him most of all.

Well, perhaps not most of all.

Callista turned toward the house and peered up to the dormer windows that marked the attic where Mr. Griffin painted each afternoon. Something about the man captivated her. Perhaps she longed to soothe the woundedness inside him. Or maybe her book-loving soul simply recognized a kindred spirit. Or it could be the mystery shrouding his secret studio that tantalized her imagination. She'd never had much willpower to resist an intrigue.

He'd been less aloof of late, too. Even joined them for meals now. By far her favorite interactions with him, though, came in the late afternoons. About two weeks ago, he'd started coming to the library to read before dinner. He'd pick up the book left by his favorite chair, the overstuffed burgundy leather one with the matching ottoman, and read quietly in the corner. The only sound being the occasional turn of a page. He didn't converse with her. He did peek at her work as he moved past her work station—not in a critical way, just with the innate interest of an artist appreciating another's craft.

At first, his presence had been terribly distracting, but once she acclimated, she found she enjoyed having him there. It reminded her of working alongside her father and alleviated much of the loneliness that pressed in on her at the end of a day spent alone.

Four days ago, however, everything changed. He finished the book he'd been reading, the copy of Treasure Island that she had recovered for him, and he'd selected a new novel to read from her growing pile of completed volumes. King Solomon's Mines. A story only a few years old, and one she'd not yet read. He must have recognized the yearning in her voice when she mentioned that fact, for he made the most astounding offer. To read it aloud to her. As long as his reading wouldn't deter her from her work.

Too excited by the prospect of hearing the story to even contemplate turning him down, she accepted—probably with far too much enthusiasm for someone claiming to be a diligent professional.

Mercy, but that man could read. His rich, baritone voice brought Allan Quatermain to life in a way that brimmed with masculinity, perfect for an adventurer and big game hunter. And his inflections! Exquisite. Everett Griffin could have been a stage actor, so well did he capture the emotions of a scene. All without stirring from his chair. It proved quite challenging to stay on top of her work when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and listen to him.

A woman could fall in love with a voice like that.

Callista's hand froze on top of Spartacus's head. The dog whined and tilted his face toward her, as if he could feel residual frissons from the lightning that had just bolted through her. Love? That was not an appropriate notion to associate with one's employer.