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Everett lunged forward with arms outstretched, cursing himself for being so foolish as to startle her.

She crashed against his chest, her head knocking against his cheek bone with bruising force as the two of them toppled.

His rear rammed the floor, quickly followed by his shoulder and the back of his head.

The wind rushed out of him as one of her knees jabbed his midsection.

His delusions of chivalrous grandeur had been as flattened as his backside.

A competent gentleman would have swept the dangling damsel into his arms with grace, her arms perfectly circling his neck as he kept even her toe from striking the ground. All he'd managed to do was break her fall and amplify his headache tenfold. Some hero.

Her elbow clipped his jaw, aggravating his head. "Get off," he groused.

"I'm trying."

Good grief, man. You didn't even ask if she was hurt .

A moan pressed out of him, only partially caused by the feminine palms squishing his ribcage as she tried to rise.

"Sorry."

Cracking open his good eye, he located her waist, grabbed hold with both hands, and gently tossed her to the side.

Then, gritting his teeth, he sat up slowly, careful to jostle his head as little as possible.

As much as he wanted to get this initial meeting over with, he was in no condition to conduct business.

"You're dismissed, Miss Rosenfeld," he ground out.

At his words, she ceased straightening her clothes.

Her eyes widened in alarm then hardened in determination.

"We have a contract, sir. I admit that I allowed myself to be distracted by your collection, but you bear some responsibility for my tumble as well.

If you hadn't frightened me, I never would have fallen. "

"If you'd been aware of my presence, my voice wouldn't have frightened you."

Her right brow lifted in affront. "I would have been aware of your presence if you had spoken when I first entered instead of lurking in a dark corner."

"Timens told you . . . argh! Why am I arguing with you? I'm the one in charge." His voice rose to a near-roar level, which didn't help his head any. He squeezed his eye shut. "We will discuss the project in the morning. I am feeling unwell after being flattened by my resident book binder."

"In the . . . morning?" The softness of her voice cut through the pounding in his temples. "I thought you'd dismissed me."

Everett opened his eye and slowly focused on her face. "I did. You're dismissed for the rest of the night. My staff can see to your accommodat—"

Oh. She thought he'd fired her. He probably should have, but that ship had already sailed, and he wasn't one to go back on his word.

"I'm not sacking you, Miss Rosenfeld. I agreed to give you a one-week trial period, and despite what my fearsome appearance might lead you to believe, I'm a man who honors his commitments.

If your skills are as proficient as you have led me to believe, you may stay until the entire project is complete.

Though I pray you work quickly, for you are proving to be a plague upon my health. "

He turned away, intending to quit the room before any other disaster could strike, but a featherlight touch to his shoulder blade arrested him where he stood.

"Thank you, sir." Her fingers lifted from his back but not before he felt her gratitude radiate through her hesitant touch and curl around his stone of a heart.

She'd touched him. Of her own accord. His hands trembled from the magnitude of the event, and a craving he'd thought long dead resurrected in him. A craving for affection. Tenderness.

A craving that would only lead to misery if he allowed himself to wish for what he could not have. Balling his unsteady hands into fists to hide the evidence of his weakness, he leaned away from her.

"I'll . . . do my best to be as efficient as possible," she promised.

He nodded and took a step toward the door before her voice stopped him again. Thankfully, she kept her hands to herself this time.

"Might I rearrange the tables in this room to create a suitable work area?" Her words spilled out with greater speed and enthusiasm now, as if she'd already forgotten their argument and had turned her attention to more pleasant matters. A skill he'd yet to perfect.

"Do as you see fit." She could hang from the rafters if it would get her out of his hair more quickly. "Pilfer from other rooms, if it helps."

Proud of his magnanimity, Everett stood a little straighter as he strode for the door.

"Oh, I'd hate to disturb any of the rooms currently in use," she said from behind him, her tone light and distracted. "I'll just ask Mr. Lightfoot to show me to the attic. I'm sure I can find something suitable th—"

"No!" He spun to face her, his legs braced apart and his chest heaving like a gladiator preparing to battle a lion. "The attic level is forbidden. You are not to venture above the second floor for any reason. Is that understood?"

Glossy brown eyes blinked at him from within a face so innocent she would have fooled a lesser man into believing her harmless.

But Everett knew the truth. Callista Rosenfeld posed an unprecedented threat.

If he failed to keep his guard up, she'd slink behind his defenses with her courage and kindness and shred all of his carefully crafted scabs, leaving his spirit more torn and bloody than his face had ever been.

Callista spent the next two hours setting up her equipment and organizing a workspace in the library.

Timens and Lightfoot assisted. Timens by running through his mental inventory of every piece of furniture in the manor to uncover those best suited to her needs, and Lightfoot by actually fetching and delivering the items.

By the time Mrs. Potter called them to supper, Callista had transformed the north side of the library into a reproduction of her father's workshop.

She'd rolled up the carpets and removed the finer lamps and chairs, not wanting to risk damaging the more expensive items while she worked.

Then, she'd assembled the board shear and the binding press, prepared her leather-working tools and the embossing press, and set out glue pots, brushes, measuring sticks, and cutters on a large, rough-hewn table borrowed from the garden shed.

Her first trunk now contained the supply of treated calfskin Mr. Griffin had ordered while the second served as storage for the gold leaf, embossing sheets, and ornamental irons that would be used for the detail work.

Callista surveyed the room, satisfaction welling inside her.

It felt good to be organized. It renewed both her hope and her optimism.

She had everything she needed to be successful.

Her tools, her training, and her unwithering determination.

All right, so maybe her determination had withered a bit after meeting the fearsome and perpetually foul-tempered Everett Griffin, but she had no doubt that a meal and a good night's rest would prove restorative.

The Lord's mercies were new every morning, after all.

"If it weren't for the bookshelves, I'd think myself in the attic.

" Mr. Lightfoot smiled as he strolled into the room and turned a circle to take in all the changes she had wrought since his last furniture delivery.

"Griff's studio looks much like this. Bare floors, rudimentary furnishings, paints and brushes readily at hand.

Though his supplies are spread about much more haphazardly.

He could take a few notes from your tidiness. "

"You've been in the attic?" Callista's curiosity instantly spiked. "I thought the space was forbidden."

"Ah. That it is. I shouldn't have mentioned it." A flicker of guilt materialized in his gaze before melting away behind his unflappable good cheer. "Mr. Griffin allows me entrance once a month to clean and air out the space while he is engaged elsewhere."

"He must trust you a great deal."

Lightfoot's expression grew contemplative, his grin softening to a small and much more intimate smile.

"He and I have been through quite a lot together.

Even so, he takes care to cover all his art projects before allowing me entrance.

It's not the space he guards, you see, it's his spirit.

He is at his most vulnerable when he paints.

As an artist yourself, I imagine you can understand his need for privacy in such moments better than most."

Actually, she didn't. She'd always worked at her father's side, the two of them supporting and encouraging each other.

Then again, she didn't really consider herself an artist. An artisan, yes, but not an artist. Perhaps that was the difference.

While she created beautiful designs that pleased the eye, her work didn't really touch the heart.

Not like a poem or a painting or a musical composition.

Still, it must be rather lonely never to reveal one's soul to another.

"Anyway," Lightfoot said with a clap of his hands and a winning smile, "enough talk about attics. Dinner is served, and I, for one, do not intend to keep Mrs. Potter waiting." He sketched a bow and offered an arm. "Shall we?"

"I'm afraid I'm not terribly presentable.

" She'd been so eager to get started after Mr. Griffin departed, she hadn't even taken the time to change out of her travel dress.

Now she was wrinkled and rumpled and likely disheveled.

She reached a hand to her hair, and sure enough, found a lock that had fallen from its pin to dangle behind her ear.

"It's just an informal supper among the servants," he assured her. "No need to get gussied up. Though, I'll be happy to direct you to the washroom if you'd like to clean the dust from your hands first."

"Yes, please." Callista couldn't have gotten gussied up if she'd wanted to, seeing as how she was wearing the best dress she owned. But clean she could manage.

After washing her hands, face, and neck, and taking a quick moment to repair her hair, Callista rejoined Mr. Lightfoot in the hall.

He led her into the dining room, a large room with a gleaming mahogany table at the center, surrounded by high-backed upholstered chairs and crowned with a glittering crystal chandelier that likely cost more than the house she and Papa lived in.

"There you are, dear." Mrs. Potter scurried forward, clasped Callista's hands, and drew her deeper into the room. "I didn't know what you might like, so I emptied the cupboards and brought out a little bit of everything."

"My goodness." Callista stared in wonder at the dozens of dishes set upon the table and immediately wished her papa could share in the bounty.

"Come," Lightfoot urged as he pulled out a chair for her. "Take a seat."

At the head of the table?

He must have read the disbelief in her eyes for he chuckled. "Tonight you're our honored guest. Tomorrow, you'll be an ordinary drudge like the rest of us and can sit wherever you like."

Timens scowled as Lightfoot pushed in Callista's chair. "A drudge? Really, Lightfoot. Could you not come up with a less dreary descriptor?"

"Sorry, old friend. I made the mistake of looking in your direction while speaking, and that was the only term that sprang to mind."

Timens shot the valet a haughty glare as he assisted Mrs. Potter into her chair. "I fail to see the connection."

"Shall I fetch you a mirror?" Lightfoot pretended to head for the door, earning another scowl from the butler.

"Enough, you two." Mrs. Potter shook her head even as merriment glimmered in her eyes. She turned to Callista. "They do this quite often, I'm afraid. Pay them no mind, dear."

Callista hid a smile behind her napkin. Lightfoot must have caught a glimpse of it though, for the scoundrel winked at her, nearly causing a giggle to burst from her throat.

After the men joined the ladies at the table, the tone grew serious as Timens offered a prayer of thanks for the food.

A thanks Callista felt quite keenly after the amen was spoken and platters, bowls, and other serving dishes danced by her in dizzying waves.

Lightfoot seemed intent on putting some of everything on her plate.

Smoked trout, bean salad, deviled eggs, red cabbage, tomato jelly, crispy toast, and some kind of gray stuff she didn't recognize.

Lightfoot encouraged her to try it, ensuring her it was delicious.

She followed his example, spread some on her toast, and took a hearty bite.

The mineral taste of liver coated her tongue and nearly made her gag.

Callista reached for her water glass, desperate to rid her mouth of the vile concoction.

Lightfoot leaned close, amusement lacing his voice. "Chicken liver paté is considered quite a delicacy back East, but it's not for everyone. Griff can't stand the stuff."

Callista dabbed her napkin against her mouth to ensure no residual paté breached her defenses. "It seems your employer and I have something in common."

"Yes, it does. I wonder what other compatibilities we'll uncover during your stay." Lightfoot leaned back in his seat and took another bite of his paté, his expression thoughtful.

Compatibilities? Odd word choice. Callista held the valet's gaze for a moment in an effort to decipher his meaning, but he only grinned and turned his attention to his fish.

He must be teasing, as he'd done with Timens earlier. She smiled even though she hadn't caught the joke and decided she must be too tired from her long day to decipher the nuances of conversational subtleties. Perhaps she'd see things more clearly in the morning.