Chapter 3

THREE

She could feel his gaze upon her. Her first sight of him had made her heart race and her lungs feel as though they owed not fully expand. It had been curious to her at first, Eugenia's insistence that she attend her luncheon. Typically she avoided all such events, as well her friend new.. But that had not been an option.

For weeks, since she'd read Eugenie's tea leaves, she'd been constantly peering into the future, trying to discern what was coming. And her every attempt had failed. Cards, tea leaves, even the ancient crystal ball she had plucked from the trunk of oddities she'd inherited from her aunt had failed to yield any real clarity, only more of the same confusing images time and again. Violence. Bloodshed. A man tall and dark. And everything else curiously muddled, insensible. Hidden.

But clarity was not lacking on all fronts. Suddenly and without warning, understanding swept through her. It was fully apparent why Eugenie had insisted on her attendance. It had been the previous Sunday, after church, when Eugenie had broached the subject of hosting a small gathering. No doubt her friend had seen the man at church that same morning and had begun plotting then. But she would not be managed by anyone, including her oldest friend.

To that end, she found Eugenie offering last minute instructions to her servants. "What are you about, Genie? And do not bother lying to me. I know there is a scheme afoot."

Genie turned to her, wide eyed and apparently innocent. "I cannot fathom what you are talking about, Bella."

"I'm talking about the remarkably tall, dark haired, handsome and quite mysterious stranger who just strolled into your garden with Edwina Hollander!"

Genie laughed. "Oh, him! He is Mrs. Hollander's elder brother, here to support her as she begins the slow process of re-entering society—well, what is considered society here in Highgate. He is a Mr. Crane—I'm afraid I cannot recall his given name from our brief introduction after church last week."

"Swear to me this is not some ham handed attempt to get me married off, Genie. Swear it!"

Eugenie laughed. "Gracious, Bella, you are so suspicious! He is handsome, though. That much cannot be denied. But, alas, you need not fear that I am matchmaking. By all accounts, he is quite the confirmed bachelor. I heard it from his own lips. Why, he's near forty and has apparently no intent to alter his unmarried state."

Bella did not breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, she found herself curiously disappointed. Not that she wished for marriage. She did not. There was the family curse, after all. Not to mention that she valued her independence greatly. Why it should matter that this man, this Mr. Crane, was not looking for a bride she could not say. It certainly should not have caused any sort of emotional response within her. In truth, one look at him had her heart racing and the blood rushing through her veins. She was not so naive as to not understand precisely what that meant. But attraction—desire, even—were no basis for action, not when she had no intention of ever pursuing more than that.

She would, she decided, simply keep her distance. If she could avoid further interaction with him then there would be no chance to let those feelings grow into something unmanageable. There would be no chance for the Goodwynne curse to claim another victim.

He's probably an odious bore who thinks all women are empty headed twits and who can't be bothered to listen to another soul because he already knows everything about everything. Even as she mentally catalogued the faults he likely possessed, she knew it was only wishful thinking. She wanted him to be those things because it would make it easier for her to stamp out the physical connection she felt after a single glance. Because the last thing that she wanted, ever, was to fall in love and be so vulnerable to a man. In fact, she'd vowed that it would never happen again. It was a promise she meant to keep.

It had taken him the entire afternoon. Indeed, half the guests had already left before he found himself with an opportunity to speak to her. It had been Mrs. Frye who had indicated to him that Miss Belladonna Goodwynne (and he had Mrs. Frye to thank for providing the enchantress' given name) had gone back to the garden after the meal to tend a somewhat sickly rose bush. Their hostess had boasted of Miss Goodwynne's remarkable abilities with plants. It was a skill, he thought, that no doubt contributed to the rumors about her.

For himself, Desmond was not a disbeliever in the paranormal and occult. There were things in the world far beyond his ability to understand, but he did not believe in spells and hokum. That, to his mind, was naught but superstitious nonsense. What others saw as magic was simply something that they as yet lacked the knowledge to comprehend.

Traversing the garden path that Mrs. Frye had indicated, he saw her surveying the plant carefully. Her pensive expression had resulted in a slight pout to her lips that could well challenge his disbelief in spells, for surely she was casting one over him. He'd never been a man given to particularly strong passions. Oh, he was as susceptible to lust as any man. And the physical relief provided by a warm and willing female was always welcome. But it had never felt imperative. It had never felt as though his life might very well end if his inconvenient desires were not adequately slaked.

Once (possibly) chance encounter with her and that was no longer true.

"Miss Goodwynne, good afternoon," he managed.

She glanced up, took one look at him, and Desmond would swear, considered running. But then she squared her shoulders as though prepared to do battle and inclined her head in greeting. "Mr. Crane, isn't it?"

"Yes. Desmond Crane. And you are Miss Belladonna Goodwynne—local healer, soothsayer, and possibly sorceress," he replied.

With an arch look, she scolded, "You listen to gossip with a far too ready ear, Mr. Crane."

"Only when I find the subject matter so intriguing. And I do, Miss Goodwynne, find you very intriguing," he admitted with ease. He saw no point in attempting to hide his interest in her. Such games were for the very foolish and the very young. He was neither of those things, nor was she.

"You are very bold, sir."

"I see no reason in prevaricating or pretending otherwise. Not when doing so would only delay me in reaching my objective," he said, stepping closer to her. He lifted one of the branches of the rose bush, careful of the thorns and inhaled the scent of one of the blooms. After a pause, long enough for her to pose an answering question, he continued, "Do you wish to know what my objective is?"

She did not meet his questioning gaze, but removed a pair of shears from the basket on her arm and began carefully pruning leaves from the bush. "I can hazard a guess. I can also advise you, with utter certainty, of what the outcome will be. I have no interest in flirtation."

"That's good. Neither do I," he said. "Flirtation implies that it's a game, or something that is not serious at all. Certainlysomething that is not lasting. And I am quite serious. My objective, Miss Goodwynne—though you did not ask—is simply to know you. To know, without question, if you are as extraordinary as I imagine."

She did look at him then, those wide amber eyes alight with anger. "I am not extraordinary at all. I am very, very, terribly ordinary. Regardless of what others might say of me."

He grinned. The snap in her voice, the flash of fire in her eyes told him that whatever the source of her prickly caution, she was not immune to him. "Then walk with me tomorrow and prove it."