Read Online Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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stopped to check the paint on a windowsill, she said, “There’s a local handyman we—the Gattings and I—have used over the years. He’s reasonable and reliable. If you wish, once you have your list, I could get him in.”
To her surprise, Glendower shook his head. “No.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll do the work myself.”
Rose blinked. She thought of how high the guttering was, thought of how stiffly he moved . . . wondered why a gentleman might wish to do such work himself. . . .
He halted again, this time to assess the sturdiness of a piece of latticework anchored to the side of the house.
Rose halted a few feet away. Her gaze on his face, she bit her lip, wondering how to phrase the question that had leapt to her mind.
Stepping back from the lattice, balancing his cane against his leg, he drew out his notebook and pencil.
She watched him open the book and saw his lips curve, distinctly wryly. “No,” he said, his gaze on the page and the words he was writing, “I have plenty of money.” He paused, then, as if sensing that more explanation was required, added, “I need the exercise or my muscles will atrophy—grow weak again. I need to keep using them, in lots of different ways.”
She was intrigued, yet . . . “There’s exercise, and then there’s hard work.”
He chuckled and put away his notebook. “Indeed.” He sounded genuinely amused, not offended in the least by what another employer might have viewed as a temerity.
Reassured, Rose continued to keep pace with him as he walked further, rounding the next corner to examine the front of the house. She waited, hoping . . .
Halting to squint up at the front façade, he said, “The monastery was a Benedictine house—it was the done thing for everyone, including any laity within the walls, to contribute to the house’s maintenance and repair, each according to their talents.” He glanced briefly at her, long enough for her to glimpse the self-deprecation in his eyes. “When I first arrived there, I had no useful talents, not in that sense. But there were many brothers who did, and they consented to teach me. Subsequently, I discovered that I had an unexpected aptitude for . . . I suppose one could say crafting and repairing things. Working with my hands to make physical things work.”
They strolled on, and, after a moment, he continued, “I know it’s not a customary occupation for a gentleman, but I derive great satisfaction from it—from putting things right and making them work.”
Thomas heard the words, his first attempt at explaining to anyone his liking for such activities, and realized the connection, the essential similarity between his habitual occupation through the morning—investing and managing funds to create money to put things right—and what had come to be his preferred means of filling his afternoons. Two sides of the same coin, one largely cerebral, the other solidly physical.
Halting ten yards away from the house, in line with the front door, he turned to consider his housekeeper. “So,” he concluded, meeting her soft brown eyes, “I’ll do the necessary repairs myself.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then inclined her head. Halting, too, she glanced at the house. “Do you have any thoughts as to the order in which you’ll tackle the tasks?”
He shifted to face the house; they were standing close, only a foot between them. “The repainting should wait until the weather improves, so at the moment that goes to the bottom of the list.”
Busy studying the façade, she hadn’t seen him move. As she, too, swung to squarely face the house, her shoulder brushed his.
Sparks flared. That’s what it felt like. He could all but sense their mutual attraction crackling in the air.
His muscles, more susceptible than most men’s through habitually being tensed, trembled. He gripped the head of his cane tightly, his knuckles paling as he fought the impulse to react, as he
To her surprise, Glendower shook his head. “No.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll do the work myself.”
Rose blinked. She thought of how high the guttering was, thought of how stiffly he moved . . . wondered why a gentleman might wish to do such work himself. . . .
He halted again, this time to assess the sturdiness of a piece of latticework anchored to the side of the house.
Rose halted a few feet away. Her gaze on his face, she bit her lip, wondering how to phrase the question that had leapt to her mind.
Stepping back from the lattice, balancing his cane against his leg, he drew out his notebook and pencil.
She watched him open the book and saw his lips curve, distinctly wryly. “No,” he said, his gaze on the page and the words he was writing, “I have plenty of money.” He paused, then, as if sensing that more explanation was required, added, “I need the exercise or my muscles will atrophy—grow weak again. I need to keep using them, in lots of different ways.”
She was intrigued, yet . . . “There’s exercise, and then there’s hard work.”
He chuckled and put away his notebook. “Indeed.” He sounded genuinely amused, not offended in the least by what another employer might have viewed as a temerity.
Reassured, Rose continued to keep pace with him as he walked further, rounding the next corner to examine the front of the house. She waited, hoping . . .
Halting to squint up at the front façade, he said, “The monastery was a Benedictine house—it was the done thing for everyone, including any laity within the walls, to contribute to the house’s maintenance and repair, each according to their talents.” He glanced briefly at her, long enough for her to glimpse the self-deprecation in his eyes. “When I first arrived there, I had no useful talents, not in that sense. But there were many brothers who did, and they consented to teach me. Subsequently, I discovered that I had an unexpected aptitude for . . . I suppose one could say crafting and repairing things. Working with my hands to make physical things work.”
They strolled on, and, after a moment, he continued, “I know it’s not a customary occupation for a gentleman, but I derive great satisfaction from it—from putting things right and making them work.”
Thomas heard the words, his first attempt at explaining to anyone his liking for such activities, and realized the connection, the essential similarity between his habitual occupation through the morning—investing and managing funds to create money to put things right—and what had come to be his preferred means of filling his afternoons. Two sides of the same coin, one largely cerebral, the other solidly physical.
Halting ten yards away from the house, in line with the front door, he turned to consider his housekeeper. “So,” he concluded, meeting her soft brown eyes, “I’ll do the necessary repairs myself.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then inclined her head. Halting, too, she glanced at the house. “Do you have any thoughts as to the order in which you’ll tackle the tasks?”
He shifted to face the house; they were standing close, only a foot between them. “The repainting should wait until the weather improves, so at the moment that goes to the bottom of the list.”
Busy studying the façade, she hadn’t seen him move. As she, too, swung to squarely face the house, her shoulder brushed his.
Sparks flared. That’s what it felt like. He could all but sense their mutual attraction crackling in the air.
His muscles, more susceptible than most men’s through habitually being tensed, trembled. He gripped the head of his cane tightly, his knuckles paling as he fought the impulse to react, as he
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