Page 57 of Her Beast

“No, this entire area is all yours.”

“Do you have a private greenhouse, too?”

Humor glinted in his eye. “No, I’m afraid there is only one of those.”

“And I have driven you from it.”

“Not at all.” He hesitated, and then said, “To be honest, I’ve rarely used it.”

“That is a shame. It is quite the nicest I’ve ever seen. Your gardener is superlative.”

“Indeed, he is.”

Again, the silence stretched.

“This must be a very odd house.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“I didn’t mean that in a negative way,” she hastened to assure him. “I just meant that my rooms seem to be in the middle of the house, which appears to be almost entirely contained by the rest of the house.” She gave a small laugh. “I’m not really describing it very well.”

“You are correct; it is… unusual. I designed it specifically to suit my needs.”

She perked up at this interesting tidbit. “What needs?”

Again, he hesitated. “It serves both as my home and business office so I need to compartmentalize those two areas.”

Julia wasn’t sure what he meant, but three servants entered bearing trays just then, and there was no opportunity to pursue the matter.

Once everything had been set out Barton dismissed the servants and looked across the dozen dishes at her. “I thought we might enjoy dining more simply tonight.”

Julia laughed. “Your notion of simple is interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve eaten better here than I have anywhere else in my life.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Although I’m surprised to hear Tommy Harlow keeps such a meager board. Back when I knew him, he enjoyed a good meal.”

Julia suspected Nadine—who was thin to the point of emaciation—was responsible for her father’s almost spartan habits, but that was hardly proper conversation. Instead, she said, “That must have been a long time ago.”

“It was a lifetime ago—yours, to be precise. When I knew him, he was married to his first wife.”

Julia lowered the spoonful of consommé she’d just lifted to her mouth. “You knew my mother?”

“I did, but not well. We all came from the same area—me, your mother, father, and of course your Uncle Brian.”

“My father never talks about where he came from.”

“What about your uncle?” he asked, his gaze almost intense. “Does he ever tell stories of his past?”

“My Uncle Brian? I haven’t seen him for years—not since I was little. He left England not long after my mother died. I scarcely remember him as I was barely five at the time. He lives in Paris and must love it there because he never visits.”

Julia ate in silence for a while, arguing with herself before once again setting aside her spoon. “Will you tell me what it was like growing up?”

He wiped his mouth with his linen and sat back in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

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