To Beguile a Beast by Elizabeth Hoyt

an order, spoken in commanding tones, but Helen thought perhaps there was a hint of a plea underneath the gravel in his voice, and that decided her.
    She wandered closer to where he stood. “What would you like to talk about?”
    He shrugged, his face averted again. “Don’t women always have something to babble about?”
    “You mean fashion and gossip and other terribly unimportant things?” she asked sweetly.
    He hesitated, perhaps thrown off balance by the iron underlying her tone. “I’m sorry.”
    She blinked, sure she had misheard him. “What?”
    He shrugged. “I’m not used to the company of civilized people, Mrs. Halifax. Please forgive me.”
    It was her turn to feel uncomfortable. The man was obviously grieving the death of his loyal companion; it was unkind of her to snap at him. In fact, considering she’d made her living for the last fourteen years by catering to the needs of a man, it was rather out of character for her.
    Helen pushed that strange thought aside and wandered a little closer to Sir Alistair, trying to think of a neutral topic of conversation. “I thought the meat pie at dinner was quite good.”
    “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I noticed that the boy ate two slices.”
    “Jamie.”
    “Hmm?”
    “His name is Jamie,” she said, but without any censor.
    “Quite. Jamie, then.” He shifted a little. “How is Jamie?”
    She looked blindly at her feet. “He cried himself to sleep.”
    “Ah.”
    Helen stared out at the moonlit landscape. “What a wilderness this is.”
    “It wasn’t always.” His voice was low, the gravel making it rumble in a sort of comforting way. “There used to be gardens that led to the stream.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “The gardener died and another was never hired.”
    She frowned. The ruined terrace gardens were silvered in the moonlight, but she could see that it was terribly overgrown. “When did the gardener die?”
    He tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. “Seventeen… no, eighteen years ago?”
    She stared. “And you’ve never hired a gardener since then?”
    “There seemed no need.”
    They stood in silence then. A cloud drifted across the moon. She wondered suddenly how many nights he had stood thus, alone and lonely, looking out over the ruin of his garden.
    “Do you…”
    He tilted his head. “Yes?”
    “Forgive me.” She was glad the darkness masked her expression. “You’ve never married?”
    “No.” He hesitated, and then said gruffly, “I was engaged, but she died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    He made a movement, perhaps a halfhearted shrug. He hardly needed her sympathy.
    But she couldn’t leave it alone. “No family, either?”
    “I have an older sister who lives in Edinburgh.”
    “But that’s not too far away. You must see her often.”
    She thought wistfully of her own family. She hadn’t seen any of them—her sisters, brother, mother, or Papa—since she’d gone to Lister. What a price she’d paid for her romantic dreams.
    “I haven’t seen Sophia in years,” he replied, interrupting her thoughts.
    She looked at his dark profile, trying to make out his expression. “You’re estranged?”
    “Nothing so formal.” His voice had grown cold. “I simply don’t choose to travel much, Mrs. Halifax, and my sister sees no reason to visit me.”
    “Oh.”
    He pivoted slowly, facing her. His back was to the moon, and she couldn’t see his expression at all. He seemed suddenly bigger, looming over her more closely—and more ominously—than she’d realized.
    “You’re very curious about me tonight, Mrs. Halifax,” he growled. “But I think I’d rather discuss you.”
    T HE MOONLIGHT CARESSED her face, highlighting a beauty that needed no additional ornamentation. But her loveliness didn’t distract him anymore. He saw it, admired it, but he could also see past the surface camouflage to the woman beneath. A vivacious woman who, he suspected, was not used to labor yet had spent the day