Chapter 22
Without the burden of agonizing over the perfect color, Phaedra made quick work of detailing the painting. And by the time the gray light of the afternoon began to fade, she found that she was finished. All that remained was the dress.
The fireplace had been lit for her, and she settled into the plush chair beside it, her weary body grateful for the repose. She placed the sewing kit on the low table before her, then opened the parcel to pull the fabric onto her lap.
A long exhale broke through her lips as her fingers dipped into its softness, the surface smooth and luminous, yearning to be touched.
She wondered what unholy urge could have seized her to close up the box after Nathaniel had left, and a shard of almost anguished remorse stabbed into her for denying herself this view, this feeling.
For what had she achieved but to inflict upon herself the pain of the parting, the agony of separation?
No. She would never do such a foolish thing ever again.
It was hers now. And she would cherish it the way it was meant to be cherished.
She pulled the fabric open, the cloth unspooling across her lap, and she draped it across her arms, relishing in the feel of its weight. It almost felt like sacrilege to cut into it. But then again, so would denying it its destiny.
Phaedra tilted her head, her eyes following the dance of the firelight shimmering across the surface of the cloth, and for a moment she wished it was her own dress she would be making.
She could almost see it, how the radiant color would come alive so vivid against the white of her skin, luminous against the dark of her hair. How it would cascade over her, this blend of light and dark merging in a sensual dance, hiding and revealing as it swirled around her form.
She could almost feel the heady sensation as it draped over her curves, feel how Nathaniel’s eyes would roam over her body as if she too would be a work of art.
She could see how he would approach her, his fingers burning to touch, the ache visible in every line of his face, every edge of his straining form.
And all it would take would be but a thin crack in his carefully constructed facade before his resolve would shatter, and he would finally bend his knee before the reign of the longing he could no longer deny.
Phaedra’s lips tilted as she reached for the scissors, the blades whistling through the material as if in song.
Through glazed eyes, she threaded the needle, then pierced the fabric with fingers that no longer wavered.
Then she pulled and folded, tightened and ruffled, again and again until what came to life in her hands was nothing short of perfection.