“Christina! Over here!”

Christina had just stepped into Morrison’s Broadway Ice Cream Saloon when the feminine shout caught her attention. She spotted Patricia at a small wooden table near the back. The large room was packed with diners and tables, not an empty seat to be found, and all the moisture left Christina’s mouth. She hated crowds. She also disliked meeting new people and making small talk, which was why she wished she’d never allowed Patricia to blackmail her into coming today.

Two young women were already sitting at Patricia’s table. These were clearly the two friends her cousin had mentioned, the ones she’d wanted Christina to meet.

Was it too late to turn around and return home? Well, Oliver’s home. At least there she could be alone and not have to deal with this cacophony. God knew Oliver wanted nothing to do with her. Her husband had disappeared after the night of the house tour. In the two days since, he had not joined her for breakfast, tea service, or supper. She had considered going to the greenhouse to visit him but remembered his request when they married. All I ask is that you respect the privacy of my chambers and the greenhouse. He’d made it clear those two places were reserved only for him.

Friend. He is only a friend. Yes, and if a little flutter erupted in the region of her heart every time she thought of him it was best ignored. She could not allow herself to believe foolish things when it came to her husband. They were friends and she liked spending time with him. That was all. She could have sworn he felt the same about her, but she was obviously wrong. It was clear he preferred to be left alone.

Patricia appeared in front of her, clearly thinking Christina had not seen or heard her seconds ago, and several pairs of eyes were now watching them. “Hello. I am so glad you came,” Patricia said, leaning in to kiss Christina’s cheek.

“I know I am late. Perhaps I should go home and we may do this another time. You have probably already ordered and—”

“No, silly. We waited for you. No one has ordered yet.” She reached for Christina’s elbow. “Come along. I shall introduce you.”

Short of tearing her arm free and making a scene, there was nothing Christina could do to prevent the inevitable.

Just go. It cannot turn out as terrible as you fear. She hoped, anyway.

Patricia led them past table after table of well-dressed women. It was a gay scene, with everyone eating and laughing, waiters carrying trays bearing treats. Christina wished she could relax and that her tongue did not feel like a dry old carpet.

Patricia gestured to the two women at the table. “Tina, allow me to introduce Miss Kathleen Appleton and her cousin, Miss Anne Elliot. Friends, this is my wonderful cousin, Lady Christina—oh.” Patricia covered her mouth, her eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Oliver Hawkes.”

The two strangers nearly fell out of their chairs. “Wait—Oliver Hawkes?” The one called Kathleen gripped the table, her eyes round. “Hawkes, as in the big house right next to Patricia? Is he the recluse?”

“He is not a recluse,” Christina said, for some reason feeling obligated to lie on Oliver’s behalf. She lowered herself into the empty chair and settled her skirts.

“Oh, do tell.” Anne put an elbow on the table and leaned in. “What is he like?”

“Before we start asking her a thousand questions, we must order.” Patricia nodded at the waiter hovering nearby. “What is everyone having today?”

Christina studied the menu, frowning. The last thing she needed was to drop ice cream on her best day dress, giving everyone a great chuckle over her clumsiness. Once, she had sat on a chocolate bonbon, leaving an awkward brown stain on her dress. Her mother had refused to lend her a shawl to wrap around her waist on the walk home, saying the taunts from the other children would serve Christina right for being so inept.

“Pistachio for me,” Anne said, waving away the menu.

“I like their tutti-frutti. Two scoops for me,” Kathleen told the waiter.

“I shall have orange sherbet.” Patricia held out the menu to Christina. “Tina?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“You must order something.” Patricia frowned. “It is tradition.”

Make an effort. Try to fit in with the other girls. She thought of the plainest flavor, one that might disappear on her clothing. “Vanilla, please.” The waiter nodded and then disappeared.

“Now, we were discussing your husband.” Anne rubbed her gloved hands together. She had brown hair and blue eyes, with her afternoon dress a matching shade of blue. “You said he’s not a recluse.”

“No. He is deaf. I think he merely finds it easier to stay home.”

“Deaf,” Kathleen breathed. Her blonde looks were quite different than her cousin’s, but she was dressed just as smartly. “Fascinating. How do you two communicate?”

“That is not the most important question to ask a new bride,” Anne said to her cousin before turning to Christina. “Is he handsome and is he a good kisser?”

Christina felt her skin heating. “I . . .” She looked at Patricia for help.

“You must forgive Anne,” Patricia said. “She is frightfully direct.”

“Always,” Anne confirmed. “I cannot help myself. Father says I shall never find a husband to put up with my smart mouth.”

Kathleen elbowed her cousin. “Remember what Aunt Ada said: men like women with smart mouths.”

“No, she said ‘busy’ mouths,” Anne said, chuckling. “And we all know what that means.”

No, Christina wanted to say. I haven’t a clue what that means. Was it something prurient? Goodness, how she hated feeling stupid.

“You must forgive her.” Kathleen patted Christina’s arm. “She has never learned the ability to censor herself. You need not answer her.”

“Especially since you do not know the answer,” Patricia said.

Christina thought about the way Oliver’s eyes had darkened in the portrait gallery, how he’d stared at her mouth so intently, and she bit her lip. He had been thinking about kissing her, she was nearly certain.

Not that he had admitted it when she asked.

Patricia gasped. “You do know! When did that happen?”

Several heads swiveled their way and Christina wanted to crawl under the table. “Shh, you are drawing attention to us.”

“Let them gawk,” Patricia said, though she did shift forward and lower her voice. “Wait, you finally kissed Oliver. I must hear the details.”

The other girls leaned in as well, and Christina blinked. They had just met yet these two appeared equally invested in the conversation. She had not expected that. Clearing her throat, she said, “He did not kiss me, but . . . but I think he wanted to.”

“I knew it.” Patricia sat back, her expression smug. “Your husband is fond of you.”

“Why would he not be fond of her?” Anne’s gaze darted between Patricia and Christina. “I feel as though I am missing something.”

“You need to seduce him,” Patricia said, ignoring Anne’s question.

Christina shook her head vehemently, memories of the wedding night returning to singe her skin with mortification. “I could never, not in a million years. I would die of embarrassment.”

The waiter arrived with their orders and talk around the table switched to a comparison of the various flavors. The other three all swapped dishes to try each flavor. Christina kept to her vanilla, taking extreme care not to get any ice cream on her clothing.

“So your husband.” Anne pointed her spoon at Christina. “What do you plan to do?”

“Nothing. I have not seen him in almost two days. He has disappeared.”

Silence descended until Kathleen blurted, “He is a recluse. How far could he have gone?”

“He asked me to respect his privacy. I am attempting to do so.”

“I had not thought husbands were allowed privacy,” Kathleen said, glancing at the other two women for confirmation.

Anne lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps when it comes to their mistresses but not inside their homes.”

“Anne!” Patricia covered her mouth, her expression dancing with mirth. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Yet you know I am right. Christina, you should corner him. Ask what is happening between the two of you.”

“Unless you do not wish for anything to happen,” Patricia said, watching Christina’s face carefully. “But I think you do. I think you are sweet on Mr. Hawkes.”

“I am not,” Christina said. “He has been very kind, is all.” His hot stare had been very kind indeed, kind enough to send her entire body up in flames. She had been close to melting into a puddle on the floor.

“Like a cream puff,” Patricia muttered, eyes assessing Christina’s face. “So what would you do, Anne?”

“I would find him and ask why he is so hot and cold with me. Preferably at night, wearing something revealing.”

“Yes, I like that idea,” Kathleen said. “Or better yet, wear nothing at all.” All three girls broke out into giggles.

Christina did not share in the merriment. She would rather die than confront Oliver about this. He had made his position quite clear and remained determined to resist whatever attraction was building between them. What else could she do but to respect his wishes?

The three girls continued to laugh and discuss Christina’s marriage, and the uncomfortable knot in the pit of her stomach grew larger. While they might not be intending to ridicule her, it also did not seem as if they were laughing with her. Instead, she felt excluded—again. Standing on the outside, not part of the joke.

The knot inside her twisted and burned until it wound up her throat, lodging tight. Her corset felt like a shrinking band, squeezing her ribs and preventing air from reaching her lungs. With shaking hands, she pushed her ice cream away. She needed to leave, now. Before the girls noticed her misery. Before she could no longer breathe. Before she ruined everything.

Pushing back, she shot to her feet. Patricia glanced up, concern lining her face. “Christina, are you—?”

“I must go. Thank you for inviting me.” Gathering her gloves and hat, Christina hurried out of the ice cream shop and onto the street. She took a deep breath and rushed along the walk toward Oliver’s house. At least there she could be alone.

Oliver struggled to see in the dying afternoon light. He would need to switch on the overhead bulbs soon.

Shifting on the stool, he arched his back to stretch the sore muscles. He had been working since dawn in the greenhouse, taking breaks for only coffee and lunch. The tests on a smaller battery for his hearing device were promising. He did not wish to apply for a patent until everything was operational and mechanically sound, however. A deaf man patenting a hearing device would gain attention, but that could not be helped. All he could do was to ensure the device worked properly.

Any public failure on his part was a surefire trip to the lunatic asylum.

And wouldn’t his cousin love that? With Oliver incapacitated, his marriage annulled, and Sarah not reached majority, Milton would gain control of the Hawkes fortune. The very idea nauseated Oliver.

So he had to get the device working, as cheaply and efficiently as possible. That meant a portable battery that would not corrode over time. And he was close.

Close, yes. But that does not explain why you are hiding from your wife.

Retrieving his soldering iron, he sighed. He was not hiding, per se. Merely giving the two of them distance. He had blundered badly the other night. After nearly kissing her, he had disappointed her by not being honest about it. Had she wanted him to kiss her?

I have been waiting for you.

He could not stop repeating her words from their wedding night in his head. She had been prepared to consummate their marriage. Was he the world’s biggest fool for saying, “no”?

It had been an offer born of duty, not lust, he reminded himself. Refusing had been the right thing to do, and he had to continue to remain strong. When she was ready she would find a society husband who would take her on trips, sing with her in the moonlight, and throw lavish parties in her honor. Everything Oliver could not.

The greenhouse door opened and Apollo jumped up from the floor, his tail wagging at the unknown visitor. Oliver’s breath caught. Was it Christina?

Gill appeared, stepping into the workroom. Swallowing his disappointment, Oliver put down the tool he was holding and turned toward the butler. “What is it?” he signed.

“I apologize for the intrusion but I came to inquire about your plans for dinner.”

Plans? He had no plans. Gill knew this perfectly well. “Why would tonight be different than last night?” He had eaten here, in his workroom. It was his usual routine when engrossed in a project. Except when you are dining with your wife.

No, no more of that. He had learned his lesson. Proximity to Christina meant wanting Christina. If he stayed away from her, remained busy, then perhaps these fantasies about her would cease.

“Because you are married,” Gill signed. “And your wife dined alone last evening.”

Gill had been closer to Oliver than almost anyone in the past decade, so it was not the first time the butler had taken Oliver to task. Though Oliver disliked being reprimanded, he tolerated it from Gill. Usually.

However, his wife was a subject not up for debate.

“We do not have that type of marriage,” Oliver signed. “She agrees with me. Furthermore, none of this is your concern.”

“The happiness and well-being of the household is my concern and I do believe Mrs. Hawkes is unhappy.”

That news landed in Oliver’s stomach like a lump of coal. He did not wish for her unhappiness. On the contrary, he had arranged for accounts to be set up for her at all the Ladies’ Mile shops. A carriage waited at her disposal. New York City was the grandest city in the entire world, with all sorts of entertainments and interests. “I thought I heard her leave earlier,” he signed.

“She went for ice cream at one of the local saloons,” Gill signed. “I believe her cousin and some other ladies were to meet them.”

“Well, there you go,” he signed. “She is probably stuffed and worn-out from all the giggling and gossip.”

“Hardly,” Gill signed. “She returned in tears, dashing up to her bedroom and we have not seen her since.”

In tears? He straightened. “What happened?” he signed.

“I have not been informed. Shannon has not yet been admitted to her ladyship’s suite.”

Had something transpired with Christina’s cousin? Patricia Kane was a bit like Apollo in that she was brash and determined, running at full speed rather than moving stealthily. Oliver would not be surprised at all to learn that Patricia had somehow hurt Christina’s feelings.

Or it could have been these other ladies Patricia had invited. Oliver knew firsthand the cruelty society women could dish up. He had suffered through the sneers and strange looks, the biting comments, until he had walked away from that nonsense.

If they had dared to hurt his wife . . .

He made a quick decision. “I shall dine with Christina,” he signed. “Make sure the staff knows. I will go up and visit her now.”

Gill’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yes, sir,” he signed.

A knock on the adjoining door nearly caused Christina to drop her book. She had been wrapped securely in a blanket in front of the fire, reading, since returning from the ice cream saloon. She had not expected to hear a sound come from Oliver’s bedroom. Was he there?

Of course he is there. Who else would be knocking?

But why knock when he could not hear her answer?

Throwing off the blanket, she hurried to the door. Sure enough, Oliver waited on the other side. His rumpled hair stood at various angles, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly, and dark circles lined his eyes. He wore his customary shirtsleeves with no coat, and she made every effort not to stare at the sinewy forearms revealed by the rolled cuffs.

His green eyes searched her carefully, the moment stretching so long that she finally brushed a hand over her nose and cheeks. “Is something on my face?”

“No, not at all,” he signed and spoke. “I apologize. Were you coming down to dinner?”

Dinner? She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. Oh, yes. It was nearly time for supper. When it had become apparent Oliver was avoiding her, she had taken most meals in her suite. “I had not planned on it. Were you?”

“I thought I would eat with you tonight.”

This was quite a turnabout. He went from nearly kissing her to ignoring her, now he wanted to share dinner again. This about-face exhausted her. On top of this afternoon’s disastrous outing, she had not slept well the past two nights and was utterly drained. Going down to the dining room sounded like a Herculean effort at the moment. “I think I shall eat up here. Perhaps tomorrow—”

“Then I shall eat here as well. That is, if you do not mind?”

In her bedroom? Oliver planned to eat here, with her bed not even a few feet away? She blinked at him. “You wish to dine here? With me?”

“Yes, of course. May I come in?”

Anne’s advice from earlier came to mind. I would find him and ask why he is so hot and cold with me. Preferably at night, wearing something revealing.

Christina considered her high-neck shirtwaist and long skirts. Not revealing in the least, unless bare earlobes and knuckles were arousing.

Not that she was attempting to arouse him. They were friends, nothing more. And that was fine with her. She did not have many friends—or perhaps any friends after running out on Patricia today—so the company was welcome. Oliver’s presence might even distract her from her melancholy thoughts on how silly she had acted earlier at the ice cream saloon. “Please,” she signed and stepped aside to give him room.

He strode in, Apollo on his heels. Stopping, Oliver snapped his fingers at the dog then pointed at the open door to his suite. The dog did not budge, merely stared at Christina with round curious eyes, his tail wagging slightly. Oliver tried one more time but Apollo did not pay him any attention.

“He may stay,” Christina said, but then she realized Oliver was looking at the dog and not at her. She tapped his shoulder. “Apollo may stay.”

“Are you certain? I would not want him to knock you down again.”

The animal stepped toward her and nudged a cold, wet nose into her palm. She laughed, the feeling so foreign. Looking at Oliver, she asked, “What does he want?”

“He likes to be scratched behind his ears.” He demonstrated and Christina quickly repeated the motion under the other ear. Apollo made some chuffing noises, apparently happy with the attention. He really was adorable, if one liked large domesticated animals.

“If we ignore him, he will lie down in front of the fire and nap for a bit.” Oliver snapped his fingers to get the dog’s attention and pointed at the floor. Apollo trotted to the place Oliver indicated and sat, his tail moving happily.

Christina went to the bellpull. “I will request food for us. Anything in particular you like?”

Oliver waved his hand before signing, “Whatever the kitchen has prepared is fine with me.” He lowered himself into one of the armchairs by the fire and Apollo came over to settle at his feet. It was so domestic, so right, that Christina’s heart squeezed in her chest.

When her maid arrived at the door, Christina requested provisions. Shannon nodded and disappeared down to the kitchens. Christina then sat in the armchair opposite her husband and tried to make herself comfortable. Husband. It was such a strange concept. Did all married women feel that way, or only the ones who had not consummated their marriages?

“How are you?” Oliver signed.

She remembered the signs he had taught her weeks ago. “Well. And you?”

“Fine.”

Silence descended, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock. Her palms were damp, uncertainty skating down her spine. She had wanted the company but now could not think of a thing to say. He was so appealing, with his brilliant green gaze and strong jaw. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, giving her a perfect view of his bare forearms, their sculpted strength apparent even in the firelight. No matter the circumstances, he seemed comfortable in his own skin. Confident. Endlessly fascinating.

“What are you reading?” he signed, using his voice for her benefit, then pointed to her book on the end table.

“The Portrait of a Lady.” She picked up the book and showed him the cover. “Have you read it? Oh, that was a stupid question. The book came from your library. Of course you have read it.”

The edges of his mouth curled. “I have read it. But it was not a stupid question. I haven’t read everything in my library.”

“No?”

“No,” he signed. “I used to have more time for reading, among other things.”

The way he said it had her dying to ask what those other things entailed, but she respected his privacy. His past was his own, unless he chose to share. That was how friends interacted, right? “I always make time to read.”

“I did as well,” he signed. “But then I chose to focus on my inventions.”

She nodded and the silence descended once more. Questions floated through her mind, all the things she longed to know about him, but the courage to ask them eluded her. It was easier to use his pencil and ledger to communicate her deeper thoughts, honestly. Not that she could admit as much to him. What sane person found it easier to write to a person sitting across from them rather than use words?

“Would you care to learn a few signs?” he asked.

Relief filled her. “I would like that very much.”

Over the next few minutes he instructed her on simple signs, mostly the objects in the room, such as the lamp, fire, and bed. She repeated them and he grinned. “You are a much better student than I was for Dr. Jacobs,” he signed, still speaking for her benefit.

“Who?”

“The physician that looked after you when you fell. He taught me sign language.”

Ah, that made sense. The two of them had signed quite rapidly with one another. “After your illness?”

He nodded. “I was fourteen when the doctors gave up on curing me. It was then my mother learned of Dr. Jacobs. His father was deaf and not an oralist so—”

She held up her hand. “What does that mean, an oralist?”

“At deaf school they teach students to speak and read lips. They believe that is the only way deaf people can function in society. To blend in with everyone else.” He grimaced, his hands moving as he spoke. “I lost my hearing at thirteen, so I am able to still remember tones and sounds. As a result, my voice is more intelligible than it may have been otherwise.”

She thought his voice quite intelligible but did not interrupt.

“But not all deaf people are able to speak easily, especially if they have been deaf since birth. Verbal communication can be challenging in such case. Henry knew there was a way, a method they teach in France that allowed the deaf to communicate with their hands. He traveled there, learned the language, and brought it back to New York.”

“And taught you.”

“Yes,” he signed.

She braved asking him a personal question. “What was it like when you first discovered you were deaf?”

He paused for a moment. “Terrifying. As if a switch had been flipped and all the sound in the world had been removed.”

She could not even imagine. “Your parents? What did they do?”

“Took me to the best doctors in the country. When that failed they threw money at every quack, medicine man, charlatan, and medium in the Northeast. They were determined to find a cure.”

Despite the toll that must have taken on him, Oliver appeared to still hold a deep affection for his parents. How lucky of him, to have experienced that unconditional love—even for a short time. “And then?”

“When a cure could not be found my parents threw themselves into helping me every way possible. Not only did they learn to sign, they forced the staff to learn as well. Hired the best deaf tutors. Found Dr. Jacobs.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course. You need not ask permission first, you know. Just ask me.”

“When you use your voice, why do you sign as well? Should not one replace the other?”

He lifted a shoulder as if this had not occurred to him. “Habit, I suppose. It is the way my brain thinks. Signing is not something I consciously force myself to do; I just naturally do it. Though speaking and signing together can slow me down at times.”

That made sense to Christina, seeing as how this was two forms of communication happening at once.

“And for the record,” he said. “You are the only person with whom I use my voice.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” he signed.

She ducked her head, more pleased by that bit of information than she wanted to let on. Oliver was remarkable, an incredibly intelligent person. Not to mention generous and handsome. How did all of New York not know this? Every single woman in the city should have fallen in his garden to gain his attention. Lucky for her, she supposed, they had not. Otherwise he would have married some other woman, leaving Christina to deal with Van Peet and her parents alone.

A knock sounded, causing Apollo to rise and hurry to the door, his tail wagging. “Ah, the food has arrived,” Oliver signed.