19. Want to See Something Ruined?
WANT TO SEE SOMETHING RUINED?
Fable
The Lord never came out of his room, according to Gavin.
So I never got to apologize. I fell asleep dreaming about the Lord tying me to a bed and making sweet love to me.
My skin was hot when I woke up, and my panties were soaked.
I doubt he’d do anything sweet to me in bed, like in my dream, and that excites me even more.
My gaze strays to the mansion from where I hide in the line of trees bordering the nice lawn.
I couldn’t leave knowing I might not come back without returning to the ruined part of the mansion for content.
That would be a missed opportunity. Being extra careful, I took the long way here, entering the woods by the pool house so no one would see me journey to the west wing.
Humidity sits heavy in the air, promising rain.
Hopefully not until I get back. I didn’t notice any dark clouds in the overcast sky.
Thick grass rustles under my sneakers as I hurry now that I’m close.
I stop a short distance from the hole in the building and watch for anyone.
My black hoodie covers my hair, and the white mask conceals my face.
The fog is thicker in the woods than near the house.
I stop to record it and pan to the crumbled opening of the mansion, zooming in on the ivy clinging to the exterior wall. Beautiful.
“Beautiful.” The echo of my thoughts comes from behind me in a deep voice.
I flinch and turn, praying it’s Gavin.
A tall figure cloaked in black—tailored pants, fitted dress shirt, fedora cap, and plain mask—stands near the trunk of a huge magnolia tree with white blossoms.
Staff don’t wear designer clothes like that. Is it a Lord? If so, which one?
Act cool. I didn’t do anything wrong. I recorded the building, but I didn’t go inside. “Hi.” I wave like an idiot. “Morning stroll?” His clothes say no.
He doesn’t reply. From his height and build, he must be one of the triplets—as Noah sometimes calls the Lords who look alike. An idea forms.
“Can I ask you for a favor? It’s nothing big. It’s just a message for one of your friends. Another Lord.” Unless this is my Lord.
He nods, standing there all big and imposing like he’s a villain from a thriller.
“There’s a Lord with a Scottish accent. He wore a serpent mask last night and a wolf mask the night before.
I don’t know if that helps.” I let out a breath, feeling like an even bigger idiot.
“My name is Fable. I want to get a message to him and let him know that…” How to say this?
“I interpreted something wrong, and I… I’m sorry.
I want him to know I’m sorry for how I acted.
If you could tell him that, I would appreciate it. ”
He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps that have me sweating. When he stops before me, I hold my ground. “Were you about to sneak into the west wing again?” he asks in a British accent.
It’s that Lord. Dammit. “No. I was out for a walk.”
“Like you were yesterday?”
I raise my chin. “I was keeping my distance.”
“You were hiding.”
“I was just leaving, actually.” Now that my plan is a bust. “Will you tell him for me, please?” I plead.
“Consider it done.” He slips his hands into his jacket pockets. “Want to see something ruined?” he says the last word in an enticing way.
A rush floods my system. “Will I get in trouble?”
“Not if you’re with me.” He nods deeper into the woods and strolls in that direction.
I hesitate for a second, worried my Scotsman might get mad—jealous—if I hang out with another Lord. But he said the word ruined, because I mentioned liking that kind of thing when we were in the west wing, and that isn’t something I can walk away from.
I jog to catch up with him, stomping over leaves and twigs scattered on the grass.
“You sound like a bear.” He laughs softly, his rich voice alluring.
“You sound a bit like the other Lord. The Scottish one.”
“Do I?” He keeps his gaze on the trees ahead, as calm as ever.
“Your voice is more refined. His is throatier, but sometimes it’s not.” His tone is a bit all over now that I think about it. Maybe from being aroused when we’re together.
“You know we fake accents.” He says it like it’s common knowledge.
I nod. “Are you faking yours?”
“I’m quite impressive at it, aren’t I?”
“Quite,” I reply, feeling posh, as I ponder if he could be that good at it.
“Is the other Lord faking his Scottish accent?”
“One of the Lords is Scottish.”
The ground slopes and the trees clear, revealing a brick wall that’s partially crumbled with an archway. My eyes widen with awe. “Is that a secret garden?”
“See for yourself.” He gestures for me to enter.
I pass under the archway and follow the steps that lead to a man-made pond.
It’s square and filled with muck, moss growing on the stone edges.
Purple and orange wildflowers hug the border.
A lower brick wall surrounds the area. It too is lined with overgrown shrubs, some dotted with purple buds.
On the left, a tall tree grows near a small brick building with arched windows and a matching door, the glass intact.
Lush branches with star-shaped white flowers canopy part of the roof, their tiny blossoms falling to the ground.
Footsteps sound from behind me.
“What’s that?” I point to the small building.
“A garden house.”
“Can I go in it?” Best to ask first. He was kind enough to bring me here.
“Sure.” He walks with me to the structure. I lift my phone and record the garden as I go, noticing a few small, moldy statues among the bushes.
The Lord in black opens the door for me. I record my entrance, climbing the two steps, and walking inside. Dirt peppers the black-and-white checkered stone floor. Potted trees and withered plants occupy the space along with a stone bench and a tattered lounge chair that looks historic.
I get it all on video. “Why do you think this was built so far from the house?”
“There’s a tennis court behind here and a very old toilet, original to the home.”
I glance at him. “Toilet?”
“Bathroom.”
“Ah,” I say, then my brows bunch. “They had indoor plumbing back then? What year was this built?”
“It was started in 1897 and finished in 1899.”
“Gilded Age then.” Mom almost took a job cleaning a Gilded Age hotel in Rhode Island, Sea House, but turned it down because she worried we’d be too exposed. I exit through the door and video more of the garden and lake.
The black Lord follows, and I sense him watching me. “Do you like stuff like this?”
“Not really.”
“Can I see the tennis court?”
He nods at the garden house. “It’s around back on the right.”
I smile and record some broken, empty ceramic pots on my way. A set of stairs with an iron railing curves up to a grass-and-dirt tennis court. Trees surround it on all sides except for one that offers a view of the Hudson.
“Wow.” I walk to the edge of the court for a better look. A cool breeze catches my hood, blowing it off my head, the wind swirling my hair behind me. I record the view and zoom in, aware of the Lord watching me from the top of the stairs.
“You still love this,” he murmurs with surprise and awe.
“What?” I glance at him, the dark Lord of the ruined gardens.
“I said, you love this. Why?”
How to explain. I spin and take it all in, glimpsing part of the pond from this viewpoint, and consider my answer in a way I never have before. “Besides its haunting beauty, there are no rules here. No restrictions. No order. It’s freedom.”
“It’s neglected. Forgotten.”
“Being forgotten can be a good thing,” I say more to myself, my thoughts on my dad. If only he’d forget me.
Wes
The sorrow in her voice grips me. I have to ask, “In what way?”
Her white masked face turns toward me, lingering as she decides whether to share this secret. “Being forgotten can mean you’re safe.” She stares back at the river.
My shoulders harden to cement, and my fists clench. “Safe from who?”
Goddammit. I should have pretended to be the Scottish Lord. I didn’t know she’d open up to me. If I’d pretended to be him, like I’d planned, I could use this to get her to open up more when we’re together. This garden was going to be my gift to her to get her to forgive me.
I planned to take her here next weekend when I returned from London, but I spotted her in the back hallway, racing toward the pool house, knowing exactly where she was going. The west wing.
Instead of heading to my car out front, I took a shortcut and got there first, where I waited.
My plan was to scare her off, but the disappointment in her eyes had me offering the garden today.
I could have pretended to be him, the Scottish Lord, but I didn’t want to.
I wanted it to be the real me who showed her this place—as real as I can be with her.
Now everything is screwed up because she’s bonding with the British Lord and not the one she’s consented to be with.
“Fable?” I step closer to her from behind as she stares over the colorful trees to the river. “Is someone after you?” Is that why she changes jobs and moves so often?
She turns her head and looks at me with alarm, as if she forgot who she was with. A fake sugary smile tilts her lips. “Of course not. I’m fine.”
She is far from fine. That smile is her tell. I’ve seen her use it, and now I know it’s to hide a lie. I want to take her with me and keep her at my side until I know what’s going on. Short of kidnapping her, keeping her blindfolded, and locked in my London flat, there is no way I can do that.
She’s safe here. I can have the security team watch her, without her knowledge, and hire more to protect the property. No one will get to her while I’m gone. When I get back, she and I are going to have a talk. She might hate me afterward, but I’d rather she hate me than get hurt in any way.
“Thank you for this.” She swivels to me, staring up at my face.
She can’t see any of my features, unlike last night when I had her in my arms in the hallway, and her gaze dropped to my mouth, driving me to haul us into the nearby darker corridor.
She shouldn’t be able to tell who I am. We haven’t been this close since the night she rescued me six years ago, when my face was still swollen.
Even in Lachlan’s hallway, she was several feet away.
If she studies online images of me, she shouldn’t be able to connect the dots by my mouth either. Still, it made me nervous.
Right now, I’m covered completely. The hair at my neck, more brown than dark blonde, is visible, but that’s it, and I’m not the only Lord with light hair.
There is no way she could connect me to this place, and no reason she would assume I come here. She knows nothing about me, which bothers me considerably because of how much I know about her.
I check the time on my Rolex. The jet is set to leave in an hour. I won’t make it and need to call and let the pilot know I’m running late.
“I have to go, but do me a favor.” It’s all I can do not to touch her silky strands, which carry a red tint under the cloudy sky.
“Don’t leave the grounds until your Lord comes back next weekend.
He’s leaving, as are all the Lords. If you need anything, ask one of the security team.
We like knowing our staff are well cared for and safe. ”
She’s slow to respond—because she’s skeptical. I get it. Then she does the worst thing of all. Her lips curl into another deceptively sweet smile. “I won’t.”
Fuck.