Page 23 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“There was a metronome,” she said, her eyes snapping to his. “In the painting of your mother. On the side table, together with two stacks of what looked like exercise books. One was more ornate than the other, so I am guessing both you and your sister played. And under the bench, there was a footstool, so you must have been quite young at the time?”

Nathaniel stared at her, mouth agape, then quickly blinked away his astonishment. “Yes, that is correct. We both learned as children.” He folded his arms around his chest, his brows pulling together. “My father was quite adamant about it. Well, at least in regards to me. Ana begged him incessantly to participate, but only when I offered that it might speed up my progress to have a learning companion did he finally relent. He was rigorous in his demands, but for once I did not mind, because, surprisingly, I was rather good at it.” The corner of his lips lifted, but there was no mirth to its tilt. “It was maybe the only thing I was good at. The only thing that kept me sane.”

His voice lowered over the last words, as if they were no longer directed at her. She saw the tick in his jaw, sensed the danger of the morose cloud hovering over him, so she quickly said, “But you still play.”

He raised a brow at the assurance in her tone, his tentative smile now genuine. “I’m curious to know why you would think that?”

She smothered her own smile, her eyes wandering to the rolled up sleeves of his shirt then down to his long delicate fingers. She could easily imagine them flying over ivory keys, their motion soft yet precise.

“Your hands,” she said with certainty. “When you’re contemplating something, you sometimes drum your fingers, but in a way that has a sort of defined rhythm to it. And then there is the way you move your arms, with your wrists always held loose, while your forearms are…” She paused as her eyes lingered on the smooth skin and the strength visible in the lean muscle. Her fingers twitched with the memory of touching him mere minutes ago, and her throat felt suddenly dry as she ground out, “Well developed.”

She spun toward the table, straightening her tools into neater rows.

“Impressive.” He moved closer, leaning against the tabletop beside her. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze as it brushed over the lines of her profile. “You are very… observant, Miss Mercer.”

“I am a painter, Mr. Hawthorn.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It is my job to be observant.”

“True,” he mused, his voice a low hum in the emptiness of the grand space. “But I feel there is more to you than simply seeing. And while I do not know how you came upon such understanding, I do know one thing.”

“And that is?” she asked lightly. She could feel the heat creeping into her skin, her fingers rigid as she righted the brushes in their pot.

“That bringing you here may have been the wisest decision I have ever made.”

Her eyes darted to his, her breath catching from the intensity of his gaze. And as it lowered to her parted lips, she could not halt the thrill rushing down her spine, its source now far beyond the effect of his unexpected praise. And on its heels, a shuddering chill, freezing her limbs to the spot, its bite broken only by the blessed sound of the dinner bell, splitting the heavy silence between them.

Phaedra let out a breath, thanking her guardian angel for this sign of mercy, but before even the thought of fleeing could take root in her mind, Nathaniel asked, “Will you join me for dinner?”

She blinked. “I…”

She glanced at the painting, hoping it would offer her an excuse to stay instead. But it seemed the heavenly favor did not extend to the rest of her evening.

“Yes,” she said. “This still needs time to dry.”

If he had noticed the reluctance in her voice, he showed no sign, motioning instead toward the door. “Please.”

With rigid fingers, she removed her painting smock, draping it over the stool. And as she finally fell into step beside him, head bowed, thoughts tangling into unrecognizable forms, she could almost feel the disapproving gaze of the portraits following her out.

CHAPTER 14

Phaedra tossed and turned in her bed, sleep held at bay by the unrelenting tension in her limbs and the unyielding tumult in her mind.

Dinner had not gone as expected, Nathaniel being summoned by an urgent message before even having a chance to sit down. His displeasure of leaving her had been evident, and he had excused himself with the promise that he would return as soon as his business would allow it. Yet even with this offered reprieve, Phaedra had found herself in a state of tense anticipation, the food, despite its richness in flavor and presentation, like ash on her tongue. And when she had finished and he had still not returned, she had retreated to her room in haste, lest she would encounter him on her way.

She rolled onto her back and stared into the darkness above her bed, urging the interminable hum beneath her skin to cease. She knew it to be madness, this ridiculous state she found herself in, all from a single look a mere boy had given her.

Only Nathaniel Hawthorn was no mere boy. And she⁠—

She grit her teeth.

She should have known better. And her frustration, fiercely at war with the tightness claiming hold of her body and the wild thoughts yearning to invade her mind, was nothing more than the product of her own disappointment. Because she should have expected this. She should have known.

It was all there, in the intimacy of their endeavor, the way they were secured together in a house where beauty and tragedy clashed into each other without a clear boundary. The way the unexpected mystery made everything around them feel so uncertain. It should have been no surprise that sooner or later they both would look for any sign of familiarity or comfort. People have been known to come together for far less. And he was undoubtedly a very handsome man, while she, despite the ten or so years she had on him, was still a beautiful woman.

What she needed to do now was to be more prepared. To ensure that this would never happen again. To keep him at arms length, where he belonged.

The conclusion seemed to calm the whirlwind of her thoughts, but the tension in her body lingered, telling her that it would not be sated by mere rationale.

She groaned, and sat up, glaring into a room cloaked in darkness, the pale light of the moon still hours away. Her feet sank into soft slippers as she stood, the shadows around her shifting to fold onto her form, the only white sail in a sea of black. She bent to light the candle on her bedside table, the scratch of the match deafening in the silence. Then she pulled her dressing gown from the back of the chair, and stepped outside her room.