Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAPHNE
T here’s one thing I hate more than raw broccoli, and that is salad. Whoever thought drizzling oily sauces over cold leaves was a good idea should be arrested. I push the soggy leaves across my plate with my fork, eyes downcast while I try to act more demure than disgusted. Thank the All of All dainty bites are considered polite. And that there’s bread.
My date and I sit across from each other at a small table in a dimly lit restaurant called The Golden Stone. The walls are dark slate interspersed with trickling water features that evoke the feeling you’re inside a cave. The occasional lightbulb hangs from climbing ivy while green fire sprites flutter overhead. The restaurant is in the fashionable part of town, a portion of the city that serves very little interest to me. For fashionable places mean crowds, and this restaurant is no exception. Each table is occupied by a well-dressed party, most of whom wear evening dresses or suits with frock coats. No one is outfitted in workday attire like me.
I came directly after work, choosing a leisurely walk over hurrying back to my apartment to change. At least I wore my nicest waistcoat, one of mauve brocade, and my slacks are wide-legged and flowing, almost giving the impression of a skirt. Then there’s my date. Patrick Wright is outfitted in a gray suit, though upon seeing my attire, he removed his jacket. I expected him to question my choice of clothing, but he merely greeted me and thanked me for meeting him after work.
All in all, he’s a kind, polite human male.
Nothing to complain about.
Aside from him ordering me salad.
“How is your latest illustration, Miss Hartford?” he asks, taking a sip of wine. His salad plate is empty, and our entrées should arrive soon.
I take the opportunity to set down my fork and feign interest. “It went well,” I say, modulating my voice the way I know I should, pitching it slightly higher, softer. I’m reminded of what Monty said to me when we practiced formal introductions.
…you don’t have to pretend to be anyone you’re not. You deserve to be loved for exactly who you are.
I force the memory away and continue. “My first two covers are officially finished, and I turned the latest one in for the art director’s approval today. She loved it.”
He gives me a warm smile. “Congratulations. I’m truly impressed by you.”
I wish my heart fluttered at his words. Or his face. Aesthetically speaking, he’s perfect. Too perfect. His hair is styled so neatly it looks like a painting, not a strand falling out of place when he moves. His brown eyes are kind, his nose is straight, and his jaw and cheekbones are sharp enough to cut the metaphorical corset strings on any blushing heroine’s undergarments. It’s like he stepped straight off the pages of one of Edwina’s books. And that makes him the ideal specimen to serve as my model.
My heart grows heavy as I reflect on what my supervisor said when she approved my painting today. “There’s so much emotion here. So much tension. I feel like I’m looking at a true moment in time, witnessing something meant to stay behind closed doors. Perfectly provocative.”
She was right. My latest painting—the one I based on my mirror activities with Monty—was a true moment in time. I finished it quicker than any other, not even needing a reference for the hues, tints, and shadows. Everything remains clear in my mind. Not just about what we did in my hotel room, but every moment from that weekend.
Including what Monty said on the ride home from the train station.
Be a good girl and give Patrick a chance, all right?
That’s exactly what I’m doing. I pull myself out of my head and turn my attention over to my date. To his gentle gaze, his strong hands, his handsome visage. Try as I might, I can’t stir an ounce of sexual attraction, but I can’t let that sway me. I simply need to get to know him better, and that takes time. And I do still have some time before I need to secure a husband?—
The word husband conjures images of a laughing face, of shoes skidding across muddy grass, of leaping onto tables, of my own expression glowering at bad jokes, of fingers that wind through mine when my panic rises, of my hand running through pale wet curls, of thoughtful gestures and keen attention that sees deeper into me than anyone ever has.
“Are you all right?” Patrick has leaned forward, his head tilted to the side. His expression is kind—so annoyingly kind. Why does it irritate me so? Why does his perfection grate so aggressively on my nerves?
Before I can answer, a waiter comes to take our salad plates and replace them with our next course. It’s a hearty stew, which thankfully has meat in it this time. Even so, my appetite is weak as I stare down at my bowl.
A palm falls over the back of my hand, and it takes all my self-control not to flinch away. “Miss Hartford, are you?—”
“Why did you ask me out to dinner?” The words leave my lips, devoid of my prior efforts to sound ladylike.
His brow creases and he slowly pulls his hand from mine. He drums his fingertips on the table as if giving my question ample thought. “As you may have surmised, I’m seeking a wife. I enjoyed meeting you at Mr. Blackwood’s wedding and wanted to get to know you better.”
“Yes, but why me? Was it merely convenient proximity? Is there something about me that makes you think I’d pair well with you?”
He gives an easy chuckle. “I’m not going to insult you by pretending we had some dazzling connection or that I fell for you during our conversation and subsequent dance. I simply found myself attracted to you and wanted to see if there was compatibility between us.”
“You were intrigued by my looks? That’s all? You’re attempting to secure a wife based on visual appeal?”
“I have other criteria, but physical attraction is what draws me to a potential spouse. That may come across as superficial, but I don’t mean to be. I come from a family that has always approached matrimony this way. When a man is ready to find a wife, he chooses someone who suits him and his needs—or our family’s needs—during a predetermined timeline. Love comes later. I have more freedoms than my older brothers and a career that generates personal wealth, so I don’t need to marry for prestige. I’m ready to settle down, simple as that. I’m a touch too pragmatic to wait for the whimsies of love to carry me away before I choose a bride. I apologize if that is unromantic.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s…it’s relatable.” If we’d had this conversation a month ago, we’d have been on the same page. This was exactly how I’d intended to find a husband. Not only did I not have the luxury of time to let my heart guide me, but a logical match felt safe. If I married before someone could see the rougher sides of me, I’d be at less risk of being alone. Less risk of being discovered as the untamed creature I really am—and rejected for it.
You’re a monster.
But that changed after this weekend. I saw what marriage looks like for a true love match. I’ve witnessed vows from the heart. Ever since, a yearning for that has taken root, and it isn’t even about matrimony. It’s about that connection. That kind of relationship. That true knowing between two people. Being seen and accepted.
You love the rain.
Even though I’ve acknowledged this new yearning, I don’t know what to do about it. Ever since I first glimpsed the first human city and fell in love with art, I’ve battled the opposing sides of my heart. The one that seeks comfort. That runs and hides when I’m scared or feels rejected. That avoids crowds and friendships unless they’re forced upon me. That participated in a drunken handfasting out of a temptation to bind myself to someone who will never leave or hurt me.
Then there’s the other side. The one that snuck back to the first human city I saw, to covertly visit galleries, lurking in corners in terrified fascination. The one that took the opportunity to learn to draw, even if it meant donning uncomfortable dresses, mingling with young women I didn’t know, and learning etiquette too. The one that returned to society, even after I’d experienced so much pain the first time. That picked up a paintbrush all over again and bled my heart onto canvas. That took the terrifying step and guided Monty’s hands on my body and asked for what I wanted.
It pulls me even now, one side begging me to accept this kind, straightforward man’s advances, the other telling me to run, to find Monty and tell him what’s in my heart.
My throat constricts at the thought.
No, he already rejected me.
Patrick releases a soft sigh. “Miss Hartford, I know you aren’t interested in me the way I want you to be.”
My pulse quickens. I open my mouth but it’s not like I can lie. Besides, do I even want to?
“I had an inkling even during our dances,” he says. “Your affections were—and likely still are—engaged elsewhere.”
I sink against the back of my chair, shoulders falling as I lose all remaining motivation to keep up my cultivated guise.
He chuckles. “It’s selfish of me, I know. I’m burdening you with having to reject me. Regardless, I’m prepared.”
“You knew…” I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “You knew I wasn’t interested, yet you pursued me anyway?”
“I knew, but I didn’t know know. Until you outright state your disinterest, I can’t be sure. Though before you can reject me, I suppose I must first state my intent. I wasn’t prepared to do this tonight, but you are far more direct than I expected you to be. So here it is. I am seeking a wife and am interested in courting you. Will you accept?”
“Why?” My voice trembles. “Why ask if you think you know my answer? Isn’t it going to hurt if I reject you?”
He shrugs. “It might, but it might hurt just as badly to never know if I’d had a chance. Furthermore, don’t you deserve to know how I feel? Or at least my intentions with you? It must feel gratifying to know you’re desired, even for superficial reasons.”
I suppose he’s right. His attention is flattering, and were my heart not so tangled up with Monty’s, I might be more than flattered. I might be elated. Especially now that I’ve dropped my guard, and he hasn’t shown an ounce of disappointment in me. I arrived at our fancy date dressed in casual attire. I slumped in my seat and ceased trying to speak softly. And he’s still waiting for me to reject him.
I’ve never seen myself this way. As someone who could do the rejecting.
Maybe that’s because I’ve hidden myself away as much as I could, all to avoid being rejected. Scorned. Disappointing people— repulsing people—when they realize I’ll always be a wild fae creature at heart.
Maybe I hold more power than I’ve ever given myself credit for.
“Now, come on,” Patrick says, his voice full of resignation despite the easy grin on his face. “I’m ready if you are.”
I blink at him. He really expects me to state it out loud? But it’s so obvious. Wouldn’t he rather keep his pride?
His earlier words return to me.
Until you outright state your disinterest, I can’t be sure.
It might hurt just as badly to never know…
My mind catches on that, replaying his words until something clicks into place.
Until you outright state your disinterest…
I rise from the chair so fast that the feet scrape against the stone floor. The hum of quiet conversation cuts off from our neighboring diners as they stare at me with curious looks. I pay them no heed, my eyes unfocused. “He didn’t reject me,” I say under my breath. “He hinted at it, but he didn’t state his disinterest outright. It hurts just as badly to never know.”
Patrick tilts his head. “Miss Hartford?”
I lift my gaze to his, and my lips curl into a sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wright. I’m not actually quiet and demure. I’m quiet, but it’s because I’m shy around strangers and socially awkward. It takes all my energy to pretend otherwise. One time, I bit a girl’s ear off when I realized I’d been the butt of several ongoing jokes. Tonight, I didn’t want salad or soup or whatever main course you ordered for us. I wanted steak, and I wanted it rare. I wanted to eat it with my hands. These are things you probably would have eventually learned about me, if I gave you a chance. I think I could come to like you. I think you could be the perfect model for my paintings. Probably the perfect husband too. But…there’s someone else.”
His expression falls, and I realize how painful it is to be the one doing the rejecting. But I can’t lead him on, just like I can’t shield myself from emotional pain. “There’s someone else,” I repeat, voice trembling. “He’s not perfect, but he already knows me the way I want to be known. I need him in my life, whether we’re friends or lovers. He deserves to know how I feel, because it’s like you said. It must feel good to be wanted, right? I want to tell him all of that, even if it hurts me in the end.”
Patrick blows out a soft breath, then gives me a small grin. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away from the table. That’s when I remember the attention I drew when I stood. Attention that is very much fixed on me still. Heat crawls up my neck, and I dip into a clumsy curtsy, then grimace at the tables around me. “Sorry. I…I’m going to…go.”
Patrick rises, maybe to offer me a parting bow, maybe to try and walk me out. I don’t know because I don’t look back. Instead, I run out the door and down the street, my heart racing. For once, I’m not running from fear or pain. I’m running toward it.