Chapter Eight The Performer #2
He traced his fingers down my back, then trailed along my hip as he passed back to the front.
When he returned to face me, he cocked his head, a sign of worry.
“Maybe eat something more than an apricot a day, and perhaps you may gain some color. You’re as white as the sheets on your bed, excluding the marks from your affinity for bruising. ” He glanced down at my legs.
“I quite like my apricots,” I hummed. “What would you suggest?”
“Something with more substance.”
“I eat plenty. If you were home more often, perhaps you would be lucky enough to witness it.” My words were nippier than anticipated.
“Then perhaps I need to start cooking for you. Just to make sure,” he teased, then moved closer to my bed.
A twist in the pit of my stomach excited me for a moment, only to see he was reaching for the silk robe draped over the side. He burnished the delicate fabric between his hands, holding it up for me to dress.
The sigh that escaped me came out in a quick huff. I turned my back to him as I shoved my arms in each sleeve, one at a time.
He closed the robe, engulfing me in his arms before tying a near knot in front. His rough, scarred hands contrasted with the sheen of the silk. They lingered for a moment, his lips lowering to my ear. “I could use some company with my wine, if you’ll have me?”
My breath hitched. “I may be able to help you with that,” I answered, my voice barely louder than the beating of my heart. My disappointment melted into something else, acceptance in defeat.
“In all sincerity,” he began, “I’d like to hear about the apricots.”
I sighed as I settled back into the couch, looking over at him at my side. We decided to open yet another bottle of wine from our wedding night. It was already half empty before we could blink twice.
“What about them?”
“You can’t possibly like them enough to consume so many.” He laughed.
I draped my legs over his lap, sinking into the armrest of the couch as I explained, “Iron deficiency, I told you.”
“There are plenty of ways to consume a healthy amount.”
“I like fruit. The flesh is satisfying to bite through.”
“These aren’t from the market.”
“No.” I sighed. “From home.”
“Home?” He placed one hand on my ankle, squeezing gently as he sipped his wine.
“We didn’t always live here.” I laughed. “My parents are new to their fortune. We come from Tournon-sur-Rh?ne, France. There is no comparison when it comes to stone fruit.”
“Is there really that much of a difference?”
“Of course!” I gasped. “How could you say such a thing!”
He held his hand and glass up in surrender. “Fine! Fine. What is so special about them?”
I settled back down and took a long sip of the wine. “Well, what makes wine good? It’s all wine, is it not? So why is one expired grape worth more than the next?”
“Well, for one, all apricots grow in the same span of time. You don’t have to wait a handful of years before you eat it.”
“Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s something as simple as being too sentimental. Extended family sends me dried fruit often. It is better than any candy.”
“Is it the sweetness that you like?”
“It is half of it.” I finished my glass and reached over to place it on the table. “Do you not have anything that reminds you of home? The one before this one?”
He leaned back against the sofa, a genuine thought stirring. “Certain foods bring back the faintest of memories, but it’s as fleeting as the smell of a cigar from a passerby.”
“Was it so desolate that you cannot remember a single sweet moment?”
“I am afraid my memories are bland, utilitarian at best,” he joked, but I could sense it was only half a ruse.
I sat up, folding my arms over my bent knees as they tented over his legs. “You don’t talk about your family.”
“There is none to speak of.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I am being honest.”
“Siblings? Mother? Cousins?”
“Orphaned.”
He didn’t look at me, but I stared anyway. A deflated, sinking feeling bloomed in my gut, guilty of being too nosy.
It never occurred to me that this could be the case. I half expected a second family or estranged relatives, but not once did I think he was without. His desire for stability might go deeper than fortune, the support of having a family at all enough for him to accept this horrid arrangement.
“Arkady,” I slurred, grabbing his jaw and twisting it my way, “I am your family now, and you are mine.”
He chuckled at the gesture, pushing my hand away. “I’m not sad. I can’t remember anyone to be sad about.” He smoothed his hand over my leg. “Konstantin is the closest I have to what you are asking about. He is like a brother to me, we shared the same foster home.”
“Ah, like a brother,” I repeated, the epiphany only a couple hours late. I leaned forward, sliding myself into his lap as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
He raised a brow, setting his glass down on a side table cautiously.
I wanted to kiss him. Now that we were nose to nose, I didn’t know if I could do it. Like walking to the cliff, only half expecting to make it to the edge, not knowing you’d have to decide whether or not to jump.
With trembling hands, I touched his shirt. Dust and pieces of clay were rough under my palms, and I was hesitant to touch his skin like it would burn me. His breathing was shallow; his chest rose and fell against my hands.
When I glanced at him, he looked at me strangely. Lord, his eyes were such a thing to get lost in. It almost made me forget that he was some mysterious, unreachable, unknowable creature.
I’d like to pretend he wasn’t. That he was something attainable.
I tipped closer, though it may be I was swaying from intoxication, a fruity delirium that maybe my husband would find it in him to hold me, to touch me.
“Kiss me.” My lips brushed against his as they formed the words. “Please.” My voice strained.
He hesitated.
It was like a rope was twisting around my gut.
Then, I kissed him.
His lips were so soft, unlike the skin of his hands. To my surprise, he leaned forward. His tongue was warm and the taste of wine was richer. His hands settled on my shoulder blades before smoothing down low on my back. His tongue danced with mine, his grip on me tight and secure.
He twisted our positions, my back hitting the cushions of the sofa before his body separated from mine.
I sat up to reach for him again, but he placed a hand on my chest, pushing me back down.
He looked down at me with something like pity, or disappointment, or both.
Tears pricked at my eyes, and I took in a shaky breath. “What is wrong with me?”
“What?”
“I must be hideous to you. God! You can’t even stand to sleep in the same room as me, never mind be near me!” I slapped my hands over my face, trying to hide the inevitable flush. I hoped the cushions would engulf me, eat me up between them, so I might disappear like spare change.
I was so foolish. It had never been this hard to catch someone’s attention; he was a man, for God’s sake! Perhaps something was wrong with me instead of him.
A light chuckle was heard, and I removed my hands from my face. “Why are you laughing at me.”
Arkady shook his head, amused at my tantrum. “Is that really what you think?”
“How else am I supposed to take it!” I slapped the decorative pillows when my arms flopped beside me.
“Petronille, we have to work on your confidence.” He leaned over so his arm rested on the sofa backing as he hovered. “You’re intoxicated. I prefer to have you in better spirits and conscious when I do decide to pursue you. Don’t you agree?”
I gulped, staring up at him. “What about our wedding night?”
“You seemed a bit peeved.”
“I was.”
“And you wanted me to have sex with you then?”
“Yes,” I huffed. “It’s what you’re supposed to do!” My voice came out more like a squeak, an irresolute statement.
“I think we are past the point of doing things the right way, don’t you?”
I shrugged and glanced away.
“We can argue about it tomorrow. Sleep off the wine.” He moved some hair away from my face, some sort of glimmer in his eye at the thought.
“Only if you would at least entertain breakfast with me.” A hiccup bubbled in my throat, mortification burning into my cheeks. “You have to give me the chance to argue.”
“Deal.” He stood from the sofa and approached the corner chair to settle himself.
I wanted to call out to him again, but I didn’t want to ruin the clever exchange.
As he settled, his pants wrinkled, and I could see now that they were likely self-hemmed.
The seated position exposed the small pattern on his socks.
He didn’t bother taking off his dress shoes.
Those shoes were scuffed to all hell, his collar unstarched, suspenders out of date.
Yet, he pulled it off. Just the way he held himself was intrinsically fashionable.
He leaned back in the seat and grabbed his pipe. It was as if he had always lived here, making a home out of the parlor room. Perhaps it reminded him of his mess of a studio.
He pulled out a book from a pile on the floor, taking great care in opening it, inspecting the table of contents, the foreword, things not too many would spend such time on.
His attention to detail made sense for an artist. I should have suspected it might bleed into the other parts of his life, his mannerisms.
I wanted to be studied. I wanted to know what he would say.
If I let him get close enough, truly close, what would he say if I promised I wasn’t listening?
How did he speak of me when I wasn’t by his side?
What was it like to be perceived by someone whose entire life was art?
Would he see the beauty in my potential, or would he just see raw material?
My vision blurred, my eyelids possessing such heaviness, I couldn’t keep him in sight. Carried off to the back of my mind for the night.