Chapter 5 #3
“She’s a good kid,” Vincent said, as if he wasn’t betrothed to a woman almost the exact same age.
“It’s a shame, what happened to the Sinclairs after her father passed.
Lost their house, their titles, their fortune.
Everything that was worth a damn. It’s hard not to feel sorry for Miss Sinclair…
I can’t imagine what it must feel like: hanging on to your old life by your friends’ coattails.
She couldn’t even afford to have a proper dress made for the Flights of Fancy party. ”
“I liked the boa.” He kept replaying it over and over in his mind—the moment he’d watched the black feathers fully unfold into wings.
“She wears it an awful lot.”
“She should! It suits her. Brings out the color of her eyes.”
“I suppose one might see it that way.” Vincent tilted his head. “If you appreciate that sort of thing.”
“I do,” Ezra reminded him.
“Still playing it safe, I see.”
And yet, Celia hadn’t exactly felt safe. Ezra swallowed, thinking of the chain that had disappeared between her breasts…
What else was she hiding?
He had a feeling that, despite her encyclopedic explanations of the Order, they hadn’t even scratched the surface.
“I contain multitudes.” Ezra tried to mirror Vincent’s playful tone, but there was too much glass in his voice. “And apparently you do as well… Biz was certainly turning heads last night.”
The other man gave a slight wave, as if he was swatting off a fly. “I should hope so! I had to go all the way to Paris to get that dress—and the matching suit took Johnston here two months to make.”
The tailor was just finishing up his measurements, looping the measuring tape around his square shoulders as he excused himself to a back room.
A thick silence settled in his wake. Ezra kept watching Vincent in the mirror.
On the young man’s jaw was a glisten of golden stubble—a reminder of lazy mornings long ago, when the sun played with steaming ribbons from their teacups.
The years since had not touched Vincent Cain, not the way they’d transformed Biz.
“Do you love her?”
Vincent’s eyes met his in the glass. Something sharp passed between them. “Biz is a wonderful young woman. I meant every word I said to her last night.”
Yet love had not been included in his vocabulary. Ezra didn’t want to be hypocritical—he’d shared his own heart with men and women alike, but he’d never known Vincent to so much as glance at a girl, before Biz.
“Love is a luxury. Marriage is a necessity. Biz and I, we’ve come to an understanding.
She knows what she’s getting herself into…
” Vincent took a step closer so that he was no longer just in the mirror, but filling Ezra’s peripheral vision as well.
“Look, Bright, I’d appreciate if you could be a good sport about the engagement—I know things became complicated between us at Oxford.
” Vincent’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyelids fluttered, and suddenly Ezra felt fingers brush along the inside of his wrist. “It’s a delicate situation we find ourselves in. ”
It certainly did feel breakable.
Ezra turned away from the mirror and looked down at his wrist. Nothing was glowing, on the outside at least. But there was the old thrill that always came with Vincent’s touch—it was like a song rushing through his blood, reminding Ezra that he was alive, still alive, despite everything.
His body was made for more than just war.
That was the lesson Vincent Cain had taught him at Oxford. But how much more?
He met Vincent’s stare.
How long had it been since his last breath? It felt like an eternity.
“Good news, Mr. Cain!” The tailor, thankfully, announced his reappearance loudly. It was enough for Ezra to pull away from Vincent’s touch. “Mr. Bright’s measurements are quite close to some of our ready-made suits, if you’d like to purchase one of those today,” Johnston offered.
“Yes, please get him out of this potato sack!” Vincent replied.
There was a marked difference in the suit the tailor brought for Ezra to try on. It wasn’t velvet, but you could still sense the richness of the fabric and every care-filled stitch. It almost felt like armor, Ezra mused as he buttoned up the waistcoat.
“You see?” Vincent crowed from beside him. “What a change the right cut makes. You look like one of us!”
Ezra swallowed. He didn’t think Vincent meant the comment to be cruel—the other young man was just careless like that.
And why shouldn’t he be? Vincent Cain had never spent his summer days hiding from the sun.
He’d never had to choke back his childhood tongue until it languished—half forgotten—in his throat.
He’d never had to sit in a classroom while a professor made disparaging comments about his ancestors.
He’d never had to hide half of himself in plain sight.
He’d never had to play it safe because he was safe.
A man like Vincent could afford anything.
And Ezra?
He had always walked a fine, unending line.
Even this suit could never bridge the difference.