Chapter 3
Her steps fell muffled on the carpeted stairs as Phaedra descended into the grand foyer, eyes unfocused on her dusk-set surroundings, her mind completely consumed by the witnessed apparition.
There was a tightness in her chest, leaving her breath short and shallow, her heart fluttering like a caged bird.
But it was the burning in her cheeks that flustered her the most, and the way that heat seemed to radiate like furious lightning rushing beneath her skin.
It left her feeling faint, her movements fragmented, as if her body were no longer her own, but moving to the silent music of some elusive enchanter.
But as she stepped into the dining room, her eyes falling on Nathaniel seated at the head of the table, her mind went pleasantly blank, as if a veil had been draped over the tumult within, subduing its erratic swirl.
She let out a slow breath, her gaze moving over the lavish decor of the room, furnished with impeccable taste and undeniable affluence.
The walls were covered with dark wood paneling, reliefs of ornate motifs framing the artwork displayed.
Drapes of deep umber hid the tall windows, the light of the crystal gasolier glinting on the gold threading.
A long dining table stood in the center of the room—a shining mass of walnut decked in stark white linen.
China, glass, and silverware glittered as if made from fine jewels, the darkly upholstered chairs only emphasizing their radiance.
A lush carpet ran the length of the table, its design a dizzying pattern of intricately woven silk.
Phaedra had witnessed prosperity before, knew the luxuries money could buy. But all this, in a single room…
It was exquisite.
Then her eyes returned to the form of Nathaniel Hawthorn, the reason behind her unexpected privilege to be here, and she wondered what it must feel like to live like this. Amid all this splendor.
It must have been new to him as well, if what he had said was true.
If he had indeed been away most of his life.
Yet he did not look out of place as he sat there, his pale complexion, despite the severity of his features and the darkened skin under his eyes, made lively by the warm glow of the gasolier.
And with the lines marring his forehead and his sunken posture casting his countenance into gloom, he almost seemed…
older. As if the shadow of his father had descended over his form, commandeering it for whatever purpose he could not fulfill in his own time.
Then he looked up at her, the mirage dispelled by the vividness of his youthful gaze.
It was not him.
Of course it was not.
Nathaniel stood, his brow smoothing, the darkness falling away from his expression. “Miss Mercer, good evening!” He bowed his head before motioning to his right. “Please, have a seat.”
Phaedra stepped up to the table as Nathaniel pulled out her chair.
“Thank you.”
She sank into the seat, peering down the length of the table while Nathaniel returned to his chair beside her. A servant approached to plate their first course.
“Will it be only the two of us tonight, Mr. Hawthorn?” she asked.
“It does seem extensive, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes shot to his, only now realizing how her words, spoken out of sheer curiosity, could have been misconstrued as politely concealed offense. But the apology, ready on her tongue, did not manifest as she recognized the glint of amusement in his otherwise serious face.
Her lips twitched as she reached for her glass. “It is indeed more than what I normally partake in.”
He raised his head, his narrowed eyes moving over the abundance of dishes before them.
“I have tried to tell my staff that such a display is quite unnecessary. But they have assured me in full confidence that it is in fact a demand of my status. Though why my status should be so famished, I have no idea.”
Phaedra spluttered into her drink. She snatched the napkin from her lap, stealing a glance at his pleased expression before dabbing at her face.
It suited him, this almost roguish tilt to his lips, so very contrary to his previous reserved manner. It seemed to brighten his very person, removing him from the darkened context of his life, allowing him to be the essence of what he truly was—a charming young man.
Phaedra cleared her throat, unable to suppress her own smile. “I imagine that quite burdensome.”
“It is indeed,” he nodded severely, then gestured to the soup set before her. “Please.”
Phaedra picked up her silverware and savored the rich flavor, its warmth spreading throughout her body. Famished or not, Nathaniel’s status evidently had a delightful palate.
“Do you seldom have company?” she asked between spoonfuls.
He nodded, his light brows furrowing. “Since my return there has been much to take care of. But if I am honest…” He raised his hand, stifling a cough with his fist. “I do not particularly care to… entertain.”
His voice broke as another cough followed on the tails of the first, multiplying manifold, and he pushed back in his seat, turning from her into a handkerchief.
When he finally turned back, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining with a different kind of light.
One that inflamed, rather than brightened.
“Do excuse me,” he said, his words reverberating with a rough timbre. He shot her a feeble smile, but it faded as he beheld her expression. “I apologize for having startled you, Miss Mercer. Rest assured it is no longer contagious. Nor is it anything serious.”
“Oh?” she managed. But it was not the sign of illness that drained the amusement from her face, nor the fear of infection that tightened her lips, but the mortification of her own insensitive folly.
Another blunder, so close on the heels of her first. She knew she was not always adept at pleasant conversation, but this had been absurdly tactless, even for her.
“It is but a nasty remnant of lung fever,” he went on, seemingly unaware of what exactly had caused her discomfort.
“I have been unfortunate enough to contract it over the winter. But I have since recovered, even if its unsavory effects continue to linger. It is why I have been delayed in my return, and why everything is still in such… disrepair. The work is continuous, but,” he leaned back, allowing the servant to clear the used plates, “there is still much to do. Thankfully, the rest of the house is still in a livable state. Have you found your accommodations in order?”
Phaedra blinked, the question catching her unawares.
“Yes,” she stammered. “I have.” She moved to allow the second course to be placed before her, appreciating the interruption so that she might gather her crumbling wits. “It is, in fact, more astonishing than I could have expected.”
“Truly?” He cocked a brow. “I must admit, that does surprise me. I imagined this house quite notorious.”
She smiled. “It is. But the rumors do not do it justice. It is simply…” She shook her head, looking about the room. “Magnificent.”
“Hmm,” he said, and it was her turn to raise her brows.
“Do you not think so?” she asked.
“I do not not think so,” he said, then took a bite of his salmon.
Phaedra followed suit, studying him from under her lashes.
She wondered if this almost cold detachment was genuine, or if it was something carefully and methodically crafted.
A shield, perhaps. But to protect against what, she could only surmise.
Even if the evidence had seemed glaring that morning in the drawing room, she could not presume to know this man. Nor this family, for that matter.
They had been private, the Hawthorns—this she knew.
Despite their wealth, they had not mixed with high society, shunning the social life they would have undoubtedly been more than welcomed into.
Even their home was chosen as far away as possible from the cornucopia of spectacle that was London society.
Phaedra chewed on a slice of cucumber, savoring its rich seasoning before saying, “It must have been a stimulating experience, growing up here. Even if the time had been a short one.”
“I suppose.” He shrugged. “But quite frankly, I do not have many memories of the house from my childhood. At least not of its… objects. I was rather surprised by the extent of my father’s collection when I arrived.
I guess there is less of it now.” He peered into his drink, stirring the contents.
“I imagine he would be devastated to know how much has been lost.”
He drained his glass, his eyes trained on the wall across from him, as if he did not dare look at her.
As if afraid to witness her reaction should she have caught the mockery in his tone.
She had. But even if he had looked, he would see no judgment in her face.
She could understand the bitterness of an ill-resolved relation more than most. And now, he would never have the chance of resolution—whatever that might have been—even if he wished.
“It is a terrible thing to have happened,” she said.
He worked his jaw, before finally answering, “Yes. It is.”
He glanced at his now empty glass, and a servant stepped to his side to refill it.
But he waived him off, reaching for the decanter in the middle of the table.
The burgundy liquid poured like fresh blood, radiant against the glittering crystal of the glass.
He studied it a moment, and Phaedra could not help but wonder if his mind had filled with such dark associations as hers had.
If, perhaps, he was like her. But the hope dissolved even as it formed as she remembered his words about the manor and his very apparent disregard for the beauty within.
“I hope you do not think me terribly callous for speaking of the dead so,” he said at last.
His countenance had returned to the severity that seemed its resting state, and Phaedra could not determine if he would be more appreciative of her protest or her sympathy. But before she could decide, he went on.
“He was my father, I suppose I do owe him some… well, if not gratitude, then at least some modicum of respect. Even if I do not always agree that I should.”
Phaedra looked at him, at the strain hidden within the confines of his body, the storm brewing just below the surface of his emerald eyes, and felt the familiar thrill stir within her mind.
She averted her eyes, and raised her own glass to her lips. “Death does not excuse the deeds committed while alive,” she murmured before taking a sip.
“No,” he agreed. “It does not.”
He pulled in a breath, his eyes clearing with the straightening of his posture.
“I apologize for troubling you with such bleak topics,” he said.
“No, not at all,” she said, placing the glass back onto the table. “I know family can sometimes be…” She shrugged a shoulder. “Complicated. And parents, well… Sometimes they fall short of our expectations. Force us into behaviors we ourselves would not choose. Actions we later regret.”
She felt his eyes affix to her profile, yet it did not feel unpleasant, the way they probed, like needles sliding beneath her skin. But it was unusual to find herself the subject of study, and she wondered what he saw. And how he would judge it.
“I think in that regard we can agree,” Nathaniel finally said. “Although, I must profess my sympathy if we agree on anything more than theory.”
Phaedra allowed her lips to tilt into a ghost of a smile.
“Please forgive me if I have stirred unpleasant memories,” he continued. “It was not my intention, and I shall pry no further. But when it comes to the sordid details of my own family life, I’m afraid I myself must forgo such regard.”
She shot him a glance, her brows furrowing. “How so?”
“Our contract,” he said simply, then smiled at her even more perplexed expression. “Later.” He motioned toward her plate. “Eat. We shall discuss the details afterwards.”
Phaedra loaded her fork, her eyes never leaving his face.
There was something sharp behind his returning joviality, like ragged edges of glass pushing through the soft cushion they were stuffed into.
She noted the heavy thump of her heart, the way its beat slowed, as if careful not to subdue the sound of his voice were he to say more. But he did not.
She raised the fork to her lips.