Chapter 19
When the dinner bell rang, Phaedra found she had no appetite, a gaping, hollow pit churning where her stomach should be.
Every thought felt consumed by the fate of the late mistress of the house, and she found herself unable to move, unable to tear herself away from the book, reading page after page until she was fully convinced of her truth.
And when she did finally look up, it was not because of the door creaking open, nor the sound of footsteps moving through the room, but the weight of a hand landing on her shoulder.
She froze, the space around her coming into sudden focus.
Gloom had descended over the library without her noticing, and a lit candle now stood on the table before her, its feeble light sharpening the features of the figure kneeling beside her chair.
And as her gaze finally locked with his, she was pinned in place by the notion of stepping into the very scene described in the journal—a woman sitting by the fireplace, surprised by the unexpected return of her husband.
The thought pushed through her like a needle, threading a thin line of fear through the tapestry of her already muddled emotions, and she stared into the face she had held in her mind for the last hours, the stern lines and intense gaze she had imagined behind the embellished words.
The flame of the candle danced in his darkened eyes, and Phaedra’s heart stuttered as his hand slipped from her shoulder to her arm.
Then his face softened, a gentle concern rushing to replace whatever illusion had previously marred it, and Phaedra realized he was speaking.
“… was told you were not at dinner. I was worried when I could not find you. What have you been doing… here… in the dark…”
His last words faltered as his eyes lowered from hers, and he reached out to cup her face in his hand, his thumb brushing over her parted lips.
Phaedra’s breath caught, the movement so unexpected, the touch so very tender that her body seemed to clench around itself.
She watched his eyes fix upon her lips, and a tremor rushed down her spine—a dark, wild feeling blossoming to life in her core—and she dared not move, afraid to break whatever spell had hold on him.
But before she could give herself over to whatever end would come of it, before she could even decide if it was something she truly wanted, it was over. Nathaniel had pulled his hand away, his gaze falling to the dark stain on his thumb. Blood.
Phaedra stared at it, at the crimson deepened to black in the candlelight, her hand lifting to her lips. Yet it was not surprise that filled her with the metallic tinge now evident on her tongue, but a forlorn gust of disappointment crashing into her with the force of her returning breath.
She had misinterpreted his gesture. His intention. And the horror of her assumption rushed to her face in a torrential blaze.
“It’s nothing,” she said, not entirely sure for whose benefit. “I’m fine. I must have grazed it with my teeth unknowingly. I sometimes do that when I’m in thought.”
He studied her a moment longer, hesitation clear in his face, and Phaedra tried with all her might not to read anything into it, nor the way his fingers twitched as if he would touch her again.
There was enough folly among her thoughts for one evening.
But then he slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to her. “Here.”
She stared at the fine linen of the monogrammed fabric, the intimacy of the offering flustering her anew. “No, Mr. Hawthorn, it’s fine—”
“Please,” he cut her off, pressing the handkerchief into her palm. “Take it.” His fingers warmed the skin of her wrist for a mere moment before they were gone, and Nathaniel stood to step up to the fireplace. “You must be cold. Allow me to make a fire.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice suddenly unsure, her mind only now grasping the chill of the air around her. She was cold. How had she not noticed it sooner?
She pushed back into the confines of her chair as Nathaniel knelt to coax a small flame from the kindling.
Light, newly birthed, moved into the room, drawing contours and bleeding color into everything it touched. It crawled up the walls, heightening the space around them, and Phaedra felt as if a weight had been lifted, a sense of ease returning with the warmth in her limbs.
She pressed the handkerchief to her lips and breathed in, the scent of him invading her senses with the same speed the growing light enveloped his form.
There was something so unearthly beautiful about him as he stood there on the precipice of light and dark, his hair shining golden from the flames, his body draped in the clinging shadows of his dress, and Phaedra found her eyes wander over him with something far beyond the fascination of the painter.
It felt like something dark, the way it gripped her body in a shuddering grasp, a yawning chasm eerily akin to hunger opening up inside her.
It moved like something desperate, urging her to rise to her feet and step to his side.
To take his hand knowing that any touch of their skin would make this growing ache—
“Better?” he asked.
Her eyes shot to his, and for a moment she could believe he had heard her. That the low timbre of his voice and the hopeful searching in his stare were the proof of his own consent to whatever reverie her thoughts had been submerged into. That she would need only reach out and it would be done.
But she knew it could not be. Knew she should not want it.
She could feel her own frantic pulse against the tight skin of her throat, and she forced her eyes away from his as she ground out, “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
She stared at her lap, at the worn volume still clutched in her hand, unsure what to say next. She wondered if it could have been but the book’s strange influence that had caused her mind to reel into such a frenzy, pulling into life things that were simply unthinkable.
She dared a glance at Nathaniel, and found him looking at her with a curious expression.
“What is it?” she asked.
The corner of his lips turned up in the hint of a smile. “I have something for you.”
Phaedra straightened. “For me?”
His smile widened, and he bent to pick up a parcel from the table, one she had not noticed before.
He extended it toward her, and she took it almost mechanically, her brow creasing with confusion, waiting for him to supply more information.
But he merely said, “Open it,” before sinking into the chair opposite hers.
Still uncertain, Phaedra examined the package, then opened it carefully. And then she could do nothing but stare.