Lady Christina Barclay was officially trespassing.

Yet as she stepped out of the mews and into the magnificent empty gardens behind this large Fifth Avenue home, she could not bring herself to care.

The home belonged to her cousin’s reclusive neighbor, a man Christina knew very little about. Since arriving in New York three weeks ago from London, she had learned his parents had died some years ago and that he never left his house. Her cousin Patricia hadn’t ever clapped eyes on the man, not once in her eighteen years.

None of that mattered to Christina. She had no interest in the man’s life or his problems, only the tranquil gardens behind his home. The space was full of winding paths, alabaster statues, and utter quiet. It had become her slice of solitude in a busy modern city filled with noise and smothering crowds every which way she turned. Not to mention the gazes that brimmed with judgment and scorn following her every movement. In this peaceful place, Christina could be alone, away from the rest of the world.

So yes, she was trespassing but for a noble cause. Namely, her sanity.

Early every morning she escaped her cousin’s home to stroll about these gardens. Here, she could forget the scandal that had brought her family to America, as well as the pressure from her parents to marry a rich man, thereby solving all their financial troubles.

The future of the Barclays rests on your shoulders, her mother often said.

Heavens, the mere idea caused Christina’s stomach to clench. She had never been comfortable around people, let alone men. There had been no friends or family around during her childhood in London. Of course years had passed before she realized the problem was not her; it was her mother. Lady Barclay was widely disliked in society, even before their money disappeared. Still, this did not help Christina’s confidence when it came to meeting people.

You have the beauty to attract a rich man if you would only smile, her mother said. I had the eye of every gentlemen in the room when I debuted. Of course, you are not as pretty as I was at your age . . .

Christina dug her nails into her gloved palms. How she hated when her mother said that. What was there to smile about when you were being paraded about like a lamb for slaughter?

The bitter wind whipped across her skin as she ran a hand along the top of a short hedge. Even in winter, the carefully manicured paths were pretty, just empty plots where flowers would soon bloom. Trellises and arches abounded, the stone fountains dry and dormant. There was even a hedge maze. Perhaps she’d attempt it in the spring, if she were not married by then.

A shiver unrelated to the outside temperature went through her. Her American cousin, Patricia, told Christina not to worry, that marriage would not be so bad, but Christina doubted this. She brought no dowry to a marriage, no social standing. Instead, she would bring scandal and debt. What man in his right mind wanted as much?

She rounded the next bend and something large darted out from the bushes then stopped on the path. It was a dog. A very large dog. She froze. Suddenly, it spotted her, its head snapping up. Small dark eyes pinned her to the spot.

She had no idea what to do around a dog. The countess had never allowed pets in the Barclay household. Was she supposed to speak? Run? Kneel?

“Good boy,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. “I mean you no harm.”

Unfortunately, the only way to reach her cousin’s home was to cut through the gardens. She had to find a way to get around the dog unscathed.

There were iron benches along the path, hedges beyond that. No one was nearby. Perhaps she could lose the animal in the hedge maze. Legs shaking, she inched backward, never taking her gaze off the dog’s large teeth. At her movement, the dog’s tail started wagging. That was a positive sign, correct? “See, everything is perfectly well. I’ll just turn around and—”

The dog bounded forward as if chasing prey. Panic shot through her limbs as fear clogged her throat. Oh, dear Lord. It was coming straight for her. She could not move, her muscles clenched in absolute terror. Just as the dog leaped to rip her to shreds, Christina screamed. Giant paws landed on her chest, pushing her down, and she felt herself tipping over, falling toward the stone path. Her arms flailed but came up empty.

A flash of pain erupted on the side of her head . . . and then everything went black.

Oliver Hawkes was hard at work on his latest prototype when something nudged his leg. He glanced down and found Apollo, his dog, looking at him expectantly. Oliver signed for the animal to sit.

Apollo obeyed then prodded Oliver with his snout once more before trotting to the main door. That was odd. The dog had an entrance of his own that allowed him to come and go as he pleased. Why was he trying to gain Oliver’s attention?

Putting down his soldering iron, Oliver rose and opened the door. He motioned for the dog to keep going, to show Oliver what he’d found.

Apollo darted through the door. Oliver followed, the frigid air slapping his face and blowing through his thin shirt as if he were naked. He hunched his shoulders and hurried after his dog. Hopefully, this would not take long; otherwise he might suffer hypothermia.

Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he watched as Apollo loped toward the maze. Oliver knew every inch of these gardens; he’d played in them often enough as a boy. His mother had loved it out here as well, taking him on adventures every chance they had, and the memory caused a dull ache in his heart. Even fourteen years after his parents’ deaths he missed them terribly.

When he rounded the bend to the sitting area, his stomach dropped. Jesus . . . A figure was on the ground, unmoving.

And it was a woman.

Oliver dashed forward, his heart pounding as he fell to his knees. Her skirts had twisted around her legs, her body slumped under an iron bench as if she’d tried to catch her fall on the seat but had missed.

He reached out, desperate to assess how badly she’d been hurt. Blood streamed from a cut on her brow. Damn it. She must have hit her head on the way down.

Was she dead? With two fingers, he searched her neck for a pulse. Relief cascaded through him when he felt a weak, but discernable, heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing even. She was alive.

He needed to send for Dr. Henry Jacobs. This woman could very well be concussed. Sliding his hands under her, he lifted her into his arms and started for the house. Henry would know what to do. The doctor would quickly set this woman to rights and then Oliver would send her on her way.

He did not care for strangers.

Oliver strode across the terrace and entered the house. A footman emerged from a side room, his eyes instantly popping open. It was not every day that the staff saw their master carrying an unconscious woman.

With his hands otherwise occupied, Oliver forced out a voice he himself had not heard since boyhood. “Send for Dr. Jacobs.”

The boy nodded, running off to the telephone in the front entry. Oliver continued with the girl, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of rooms, until he reached the study.

He placed her on the long sofa then covered her wound with a clean handkerchief. Her cheeks were bitten with cold, her lips blue. Exactly how long had she been outside? After wrapping her in a wool blanket, he marched to the bellpull and yanked. They needed hot water and clean bandages, now.

Movement in the doorway caught Oliver’s eye. His butler, Gill, stood there. “Sir, I understand there is an injured girl,” the butler signed. Gill had learned how to sign along with the Hawkes family when Oliver lost his hearing fifteen years ago. It had taken time but most of the staff had picked quite a bit of sign language up as well, though Oliver also excelled at reading lips. And when all else failed, he could write in the small ledger he carried in his pocket.

Oliver signed, “She fell outside. Her head is bleeding.”

Gill’s brows lowered in concern. “Oh, the poor dear. I shall bring clean water and bandages. Anything else?”

“Not yet,” Oliver signed. “I sent Michael to ring Jacobs.” Gill nodded and hurried from the room.

The wait seemed interminable. During his breaks in pacing the floor, Oliver placed a small pillow under the girl’s head and adjusted her limbs to make her more comfortable. Some color had returned to her face, thank Christ. She was actually quite pretty, with chestnut hair and creamy skin. Classic features of strength and fortitude, like a strong nose and high cheekbones. Her clothing conveyed former wealth, the fine wool of her coat well constructed, if a little on the shabby side.

The young woman stirred. Panicked, he glanced toward the door. Where the hell was Gill? Better for her to wake with calming words from the butler rather than a silent, surly man looming over her. Unfortunately, the damn servant was nowhere in sight.

What in God’s name was Oliver to do? Rub her forehead? Pat her shoulder? Tap her cheeks? He’d never cared much for society’s ridiculous rules but even he knew there were boundaries as far as touching a strange young lady. He settled for standing a few feet away, just in her line of vision. It would have to do. If she wished for coddling and niceties, she had fallen outside the wrong house.

No idea how long he waited but it felt like forever, long enough for the fire to start dying in the hearth. Finally her lids fluttered open, and large eyes focused on his face. “Where am I?”

He hesitated. He rarely used his voice, well aware the sound came across as different. Not at all what he’d sounded like when he was still able to hear. A multitude of shocked expressions and cruel snickers from strangers in his late teens had made that perfectly clear. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the tiny ledger and pencil he carried. You are safe, he wrote. You fell and hit your head outside in my gardens.

He offered her the paper, but she just blinked and squinted at it. “I apologize but the words are fuzzy. Please, tell me where I am.”

She tried to sit up and he held up his palms, motioning she should stay put. Thankfully, Gill entered at that moment, supplies in hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, Oliver signed to Gill, “You had better answer her questions and reassure her before she gets agitated.”

Gill frowned as he signed, “What have you told her?”

“Nothing,” Oliver signed. “She is your problem. I merely brought her inside.”

The woman shrank further into the sofa and carefully watched the two of them. Her chest rose and fell quickly as if she were truly scared, so Oliver motioned for Gill to get on with it.

As the butler began to address the young woman, Oliver moved to where he could see both their faces, allowing him to read their lips. Gill told her Oliver was deaf and communicated by using his hands. She blinked a few times in response then cast Oliver a curious glance. Surprisingly, her expression held genuine interest, not the mocking derision he expected from the outside world. Well, at least not yet. Give her time. She’s had a nasty bump on the head.

“You mean he cannot hear?”

“No, but he reads lips quite well.”

She gave no outward reaction to that information, instead gazing about the study. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”

“Please, remain calm,” Gill responded. “No one will hurt your ladyship here. And this is the home of Mr. Oliver Hawkes.”

Ladyship? The girl was an aristocrat? Oliver hadn’t expected that. “Ask her where she is staying,” he signed.

Gill relayed the question. Unfortunately the girl stared at her lap while answering, preventing Oliver from reading her answer. He snapped his fingers at Gill. “Tell her to look up when she speaks,” he signed to the butler. “Otherwise I cannot read her lips.”

Her cheeks flushed when Gill translated—was that embarrassment?—and she trained her gaze on Oliver’s forehead. “With my cousins, the Kanes.” She turned back to Gill. “Does he know them?”

Annoyance rippled across Oliver’s skin. He snapped his fingers at Gill once more. “Tell her that he is able to answer for himself seeing as he is not an idiot,” he signed, his hand movements sharp.

“She clearly meant no harm, sir,” Gill signed, but Oliver held up a hand to stop him.

“Just tell her,” he instructed.

Though Gill did not use Oliver’s exact words, he informed her that she could speak directly to Oliver, reminding her he could read her lips.

Her throat worked as she swallowed and her gaze landed on Oliver’s forehead again. “I apologize.”

Why could she not look him in the eye? Was she scared of him? Repulsed? He squared his shoulders and told himself he did not care. She’d soon be gone and he could return to his quiet life of experiments and learning. The people of this city could all go to hell, as far as he was concerned.

“Was it your dog that knocked me down?” she asked.

Apollo had caused this? Guilt swamped Oliver but he squashed it when she continued to avoid his eyes. He quickly signed, “I apologize for your injury, but he does not appreciate trespassers. Nor do I. What were you doing in my gardens?”

Gill flashed Oliver an unhappy look but nonetheless translated. The woman’s bottom lip trembled. “I am sorry. I was not expecting to see a dog and I lost my balance when he approached me.”

“That does not explain—”

A footman strode into the room, a tall black-haired man behind him. Oliver immediately went over to Dr. Henry Jacobs, his hand extended in greeting. The two had known each other nearly two decades, since an illness took Oliver’s hearing at the age of thirteen.

In fact, it had been Henry who taught Oliver to speak using his hands. Most American doctors and schools limited deaf instruction to speaking and reading lips, believing the deaf should assimilate to the hearing world whether they wanted to or not. The French, however, had developed a manual communication system using hands, and a school in Connecticut had adapted the system for American use. Because Henry’s father was deaf, Henry had traveled to Connecticut to learn this signing system. He quickly became renowned in the city for teaching sign language to others, and Oliver’s mother had hired him when the doctors finally gave up on saving Oliver’s hearing.

Now he was the closest thing Oliver had to a friend.

“You are looking well,” Henry signed after placing his bag on the ground.

“Must be all the whoring and boozing,” Oliver answered. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Happy to help,” Henry signed. “I was at the hospital uptown today.” He turned toward the sofa. “And you are the injured woman I have been told about. Are you able to recall what happened?”

“I was knocked down by a dog. Apparently I hit my head on a bench when I fell.”

“May I take a look at your injury?”

“Of course,” she answered, fingertips gingerly touching her injury. “Though I cannot imagine there is much to see other than a bump on my head.”

“Oh, you would be surprised.” Henry gave her a kind smile, the one Oliver knew the doctor used to put patients at ease. Henry knelt by the side of the sofa and put his black bag on the ground. “What is your name, miss?”

Oliver wasn’t certain he’d read her answer correctly so he glanced at Gill. His butler spelled each letter. Christina. A pretty name. It suited her.

Henry performed a quick examination, focusing mostly on her coordination and vision to look for signs of impairment. During this time, Gill had a tea tray brought up. Oliver helped himself to a few scones while he attempted to curb his impatience. It was not easy. The sooner she left, the sooner he could get back to his workshop.

Finally, Henry finished cleaning and bandaging her wound. “I cannot see there are any serious injuries, miss, but you should take it easy for a few days. You have a nasty gash on your head. Make sure to rest and drink plenty of liquids.”

“Oh, I am certain there is no cause for concern.”

Henry presented her with a card. “A head injury is not to be taken lightly. Send for me or your family physician if you start to see double.” After she nodded and thanked him, Henry threw a meaningful look at Oliver. “May we speak privately?” he signed.

The two of them walked into the corridor. Henry placed his bag down and began signing. “Why was she in your gardens?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never met her before today.” At Henry’s disbelieving expression, Oliver signed, “You think I am lying.”

“I think there is a young pretty girl wandering about your estate. Dare I hope you have decided to secure future generations of Hawkeses?”

“I am not courting her. The idea is preposterous. And my sister is welcome to carry on behalf of the family.”

“I think it is a marvelous idea,” Henry signed. “First, Sarah is only eleven. Second, you need to rejoin the rest of the world.”

This was an old battle. Oliver’s hand movements grew sharp. “I am perfectly fine just as I am.”

This was not a lie. He’d tried to carry on with what gentlemen considered a “normal” life after school. It had resulted in being called “dumb” and “broken” at every turn. Why should he try to fit into a society that so readily dismissed him? That would sooner see him locked away in an asylum before allowing him into the Metropolitan Club? As far as he was concerned, the uptown set could go hang.

Henry’s mouth tightened but he did not argue. “I shall send you my bill.” He clapped Oliver on the shoulder and departed.

Christina was sitting upright, drinking tea, when the man walked back in. So this was Mr. Hawkes, the recluse her cousin had told her about. He was fairly young, which surprised her. Dark hair had been swept away from rugged features, showing off a Roman-type nose and broad jaw. Full lips and nice, even teeth. She noticed he wore only shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, along with dark trousers tapered to his long legs.

However, it was his eyes that drew her in. A vivid green, the irises were so unique and pretty they were almost difficult to look at. Right now, his eyes were focused intently, appreciatively, on her, as if he saw every flaw, every lie she’d ever told and did not mind a bit. As if he found her fascinating and beautiful—which had to be her imagination. She must’ve hit her head harder than she thought.

The butler signed to Mr. Hawkes and then disappeared, leaving her alone with the owner. Weirdly, that did not concern her. According to the butler, Mr. Hawkes had rescued her earlier when she fell. If Mr. Hawkes meant to do her harm, why bring her inside and call a doctor? Still, she had likely overstayed her welcome.

“A gentlemen is always less eager for a lady’s company than she for his,” her mother liked to say.

Christina set her tea on the table and started to push up, but Mr. Hawkes surprised her by motioning for her to remain seated. Even more alarming, he dropped down next to her on the sofa. She tried to remain calm and not fidget as he pulled a small ledger and pencil from his pocket and began writing in it. He held the words out for her to read. How do you feel?

Silly. Embarrassed. Tired. Where should she possibly start? She lifted her head so he could see her face. “Sore.”

He nodded as if that was what he expected. I am Oliver, he wrote.

“Oliver.” He could not hear her, of course, but he appeared pleased at her repetition. She wanted to . . . Well, she was not certain, but she wanted to know more about this man. She might never get the chance to ask him questions again and he seemed in no hurry for her to leave. “How does one say that in your language?”

His head jerked, brows dipping, before he bent to write. Why?

Had she offended him? “I was merely curious but I understand if you would rather not show me.”

His gaze remained wary, but he moved his fingers to spell his name. Christina lifted her hands. “Show me.”

Slowly, he formed each letter, waiting patiently as she clumsily shifted to mirror him. Though the placement was unfamiliar, the letters made sense. She tried again, by herself this time, and he corrected her twice. When she finished, he smiled at her, and heat spread over her entire body. Goodness, he had a devastating smile.

She liked this exchange between them, a quiet conversation without shouting or biting criticism. It was refreshingly easy to talk to him. She was not ready for their interaction to end. “Now sign mine,” she said.

He obliged, again teaching her the correct letters. She practiced until she could do it unassisted.

His pen scratched over the paper. Are you a lady?

“Yes. My father is the fourth Earl of Pennington.”

He wrote, Benningson?

She took his pencil and corrected the spelling. Ah, he wrote. Would you care for more tea?

His posture was relaxed, his expression curious. She was not nervous, she realized. Normally, she’d be searching for an escape when a man talked to her, palms sweaty inside her gloves. But Oliver was different than the loud and brash braggarts she had met in New York society. There was a confidence about him that she liked, a calm air of authority. “No, thank you,” she answered. “Do you live here alone?”

He nodded. My sister is away at school, he wrote.

“I would love to live alone. People must think you are lonely but it sounds like heaven to me.”

He frowned and she wondered if he’d misunderstood her. She reached for the paper but he stopped her, writing his own response. I read your lips but I still do not understand.

She lifted a shoulder, not intending on answering. All she’d wanted was to let him know that she envied him. That she did not care if he was a recluse.

In fact, there were days she wished to be left alone, not to be forced to hunt for a husband. Too bad her mother would never allow it. The best she could hope for was to marry a wealthy man who did not beat her and to survive childbirth. Such was a woman’s lot in life.

Oliver bent his head and wrote, I thought you felt sorry for me.

“No, I do not. Should I?”

No, he wrote. Of course not.

Just then the huge dog that had knocked her down trotted into the room. Christina froze, uncertain what the animal would do. Did Oliver allow the beast to roam indoors?

Oliver snapped his fingers and the dog came right to his side, pushing his nose into his master’s palm. The dog did not appear to be vicious, but one could never be certain. It hadn’t hesitated to pounce on her in the gardens. Oliver petted the animal and she edged away, trying to put as much room between her and the dog as possible.

When Oliver noticed her reaction, he bent to write, He will not hurt you.

Before she knew what was happening, Oliver reached to pick up her hand. She had taken off her gloves earlier and the contact of his warm skin against hers sent a jolt through her. What was he about?

She tried to pull away, but Oliver did not release her, holding up his free hand to indicate she should have patience. Then he slowly dragged her palm toward the dog, placing her hand on the animal’s back. The fur was soft and sleek, and she quickly forgot about the impropriety of Oliver’s touch. She gave a few tentative strokes. The dog seemed to like this, his tail wagging, but when he tried to turn around Oliver held him steady. She let out the breath she’d been holding and simply enjoyed the velvety sensation against her palm.

“It is soothing,” she said, her eyes on her hand.

Oliver tapped her arm and when she looked up, he pointed to his green eyes and then her mouth. Ah. He could not read her lips if he could not see her face. “It is soothing,” she repeated.

They sat close to one another on the sofa and the intimacy of the situation struck her, especially because of how intently he was staring at her lips and mouth . . . almost as if he were thinking of kissing her.

All the moisture left her mouth and her tongue grew awkward and thick.

You are ridiculous. He is not interested in you; he is trying to communicate with you.

Embarrassed, she let her gaze fall back to the dog. Merely because she enjoyed this interaction with Oliver did not mean he fancied her in return. He was a recluse, after all, though she could not understand why. The man was ruggedly handsome and seemed comfortable in his own skin. Intelligent. Kind. Perhaps he merely needed a friend.

And why on earth would that friend be you?

She could almost hear her mother’s voice saying this. No one could cut Christina quicker than her mother. Of course, there was some truth to it. He was being solicitous, end of story. He hadn’t asked her in for tea. She had injured herself on his property. More than likely he was anxious to get rid of her but too polite to mention it.

She rose and wobbled a bit. Oliver’s big hand shot out to steady her. “Thank you,” she said once she’d collected herself. “For everything. I would have frozen to death if you had not found me and brought me inside.”

You are welcome. He went back to his paper and wrote, Are you able to find your way home safely or shall I find a footman to escort you?

She noted he hadn’t offered to escort her himself. “No, I will be fine. It is not far.”

They stood for a moment, the silence stretching. Why was she so reluctant to leave? Perhaps you are in need of the friend, not him. Hard to argue that point; other than her cousin, she had no friends close to her age.

The Barclays were impoverished, so far in debt that London society had completely turned their backs on them. The only choice had been to flee to America. Who would want to be friends with a girl in such a situation? She was tainted, an outcast.

So she knew better than to ask. Instead, she said, “Would you mind if I continued the use of your gardens for my daily walk?”

His brows shot up, eyes round and wide. You walk in my gardens every morning? he wrote.

“I will not get in your way, I promise. And I will not fall again.”

“No,” he blurted, and they both blinked at the sound. He was able to speak?

She stuck to the topic at hand. “Why?”

He started writing once more. Because it is my home and I do not wish to have strangers strolling about the property.

The words irritated her. She was not one to usually argue, but those walks were important to her. Necessary to her sanity. Perhaps if she wrote it she’d craft a better case for herself.

She pointed to his ledger and pencil, which he promptly handed her. We are not strangers, not any longer. And I swear not to disrupt anything. You will not even know I am there.

I will know, he wrote, underlining the word “will” three times.

How? In nearly three weeks I have not encountered a soul in your gardens, she wrote then passed the ledger over to him.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Nevertheless, this is my house and I prefer to be left alone.

She finished reading and bit back a sigh. He misunderstood, clearly thinking she would pop into the house and sit down to a chat. All she wanted was to continue her walks in his empty gardens. Instead of pushing the issue, she held up her hands in surrender. Let him think he’d won. “Thank you for your help today. Good-bye, Oliver.” She signed his name as he had shown her then walked out into the corridor in search of the front door.