The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) Read Free

so fragile—would not survive. Its well-being was now my responsibly, and I would not abandon it, no matter the consequences.
    I tucked the flower beneath the flap of my pelisse overcoat, raced out of the enclosure, shut the gate, and snagged the umbrella.
    When I arrived behind the English hedgerows, I spotted the top of the stranger’s hat bobbing on the other side, a few inches taller than the six foot barrier. I peered through the leaves. Coachman Giddings and Uncle Owen leaned against the carriage, deep in conversation with him. His back was turned, broad shoulders tense in the dissipating light.
    Perhaps he was relaying how a brash young woman had spied upon his private grief then fell on her backside with all the grace of a circus clown. I bided my time and stayed hidden, trusting Uncle to keep my secret.
    Once the stranger had climbed a white steed and trotted cautiously down the road back to town, I plunged from the bushes and stumbled by Giddings’ horses. The crinoline beneath my skirts slapped the lead mare. She bucked and reared, her mouth and eyes wide with terror, aiming to trample me beneath her forelegs.
    Uncle lunged, thudding us both into the mud.
    A dull pain rattled my shoulder blades, quickly passing as I gasped for air. Coachman Giddings settled the rigging while Uncle helped me stand and straighten the hateful contraption holding up my hems.
    Lavender twilight bent shadows around us, but I could still make out his lips. Although I didn’t need to read his words to know I was being scolded. He’d always forbidden me to be in proximity of horses, since they were flighty and I couldn’t hear to react to them.
    I patted my coat’s flap to check the blossom underneath. Assured of its safety, I interrupted Uncle’s concerned ranting with a question of my own. “Who was that man?”
    The worry line across his brow deepened. “The Viscount, Lord Nicolas Thornton.”
    I snapped free of Uncle’s grasp. “How dare he come! All these months, Mama couldn’t even rest for his incessant missives to buy the house.” Tears burned behind my eyes. “And now he storms her burial to feast upon her carcass.”
    Devastation twisted Uncle’s features.
    I bit my tongue. Because I couldn’t hear, I tended to say whatever entered my mind without a thought as to how it would sound to another person. Uncle’s gaping wound was proof of the sword I wielded so carelessly. “Please, forgive me.”
    He took my hand inside both of his. Cold, wet gusts whipped at my dress as I was dragged into the depths of sadness in his eyes: lost moments, never to be reclaimed … nagging regrets and bittersweet longing.
    Uncle was my rock, and nothing hurt more than hurting him. “Why was the viscount here?” I asked, lacing our fingers tighter to pull him back from his grief.
    He squeezed my hand. “To meet you. He’s a fine gentleman, Juliet. I’ve invited him to call before he returns to Worthington at week’s end. He’ll be by on Thursday.”
    “To what end?”
    “He wishes to give you his condolences, naturally.”
    “No.” I swallowed. “Condolences are only natural coming from a friend. He knows nothing of me, and nothing of the woman Mama was. He only knew her through missives he sent, all selfishly-motivated.” It was common knowledge the viscount was an only child and didn’t get along well with his father. Perhaps that made him less sympathetic to familial boundaries. “He’s coming to offer again on the estate. The fool won’t take no for an answer.”
    Uncle shook his head. “I truly hoped, after your mother’s death, you would feel more amenable toward him.”
    “ Amenable ?” I held my vocal cords lax in hopes my voice remained soft and steady. I bit back the urge to tell Uncle about the viscount’s strange actions earlier. Lord Thornton was twenty-seven years old and a nobleman. Men of his age and breeding were expected to suppress their passions, not bang their heads on iron fences. But I