“So yourpreferred environmentis running away from your environment?” Ester asked, brow arched.
“Hm. Something of that nature,” Julian replied, taking a drawn-out sip of his tea.
“But why be away from people at all?” Ester wondered aloud. “And why away from Windermere? It seems to satisfy all your needs for isolation.”
Julian’s expression darkened. “It was my father’s house. And always will be.” His voice held the weight of a closed door. Abruptly, he stood. “Anyway. Shall I show you the rest of the house? There are some parts of this drafty old pile that are quite special, even in the depths of winter.”
Ester rose also. This man intrigued her. The more she spoke to him, the more mystery seemed to be unveiled. And the more questions presented themselves to be answered.
She walked around the table to stand beside him, and for a moment, waited to be offered his arm. Then she remembered why that was not going to happen. Julian seemed to think about it though, before clearing his throat and taking a step away from her.
“Follow me,” he said somewhat awkwardly, with all the grace of a man leading a funeral procession.
Ester followed along hallways which were precisely as he had described.Draughtyand somewhatdark. Dust had a hold in most places it seemed, though they came across Molly dusting as they entered the Great Hall.
The ceiling was high overhead and vaulted with massive beams of dark wood. The floor was of ancient flagstone and dark gray. At one end of the room was a set of doors, and at the other, a staircase of polished, dark red wood. Paintings hung on the paneled walls leading to the front door. These struck Ester over and above the grand dimensions of the room. She was drawn to one in particular, which depicted a young woman with goldenhair and blue eyes that shone from the dark background of the painting.
“Oh my,” she breathed, approaching the portrait. “That’s… quite an impression.”
“My mother,” Julian said, stepping up beside her. “There is very little of her in my appearance. I take after my father, as you can no doubt see.”
Ester tilted her head, looking closely at the playful, secretive smile that the beautiful woman had been depicted with. She took in the eyes especially, and then looked at Julian. In the dim light, he looked dangerously handsome, his jawline sharp, lips just a hint away from a smile that could steal her breath if he so wished. His icy-blue gaze was steady, intense, and when it landed on her, it was like a touch itself—commanding and disarming all at once.
“I see a great deal of resemblance,” she managed to croak, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a kindness in her eyes. I think you have it too. Was she... a kind person?”
Too late she remembered what Julian had already told her about his mother passing away in childbirth and she wished for the words back. Julian’s face went blank, a mask to hide his emotions. Ester called herself every kind of fool for not thinking before she spoke.
“I do not know. I have always imagined so. I never knew her… and how she came to marry my father, I cannot imagine. He wasmuch older than her, and… a force for darkness. A learned man with a depth of esoteric knowledge and mystic apothecary. There can have been few men in England with his depth of knowledge in such a range of subjects. He was also afraid of the light, kept it out of the house and himself locked away in the shadows of his library and study. But perhaps that was only after she passed. I don’t know.”
“She is beautiful,” Ester said softly, feeling the weight of his words. “I can see why you keep her portrait here.”
Julian didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the painting as though he were trying to see something in it he’d never quite been able to. Then, with a movement so subtle she almost missed it, his hand rose to his chest. His fingers brushed against something small and silver. Her eyes followed the gesture to a delicate cameo pendant hanging just beneath his collar, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“The cameo you wear…” she murmured, her eyes tracing the slight piece. She glanced back at the portrait. “It is the same as the...”
He looked down at the pendant, his jaw tensing. “Yes,” he said quietly, then met her gaze. “It belonged to my mother. Passed down to my brother. I usually keep it in my study, hidden away. My father…” His eyes darkened. “He never let me have anything of hers. But I took this when I was a boy. Stole it, really, after my brother passed. I hid it for years, afraid he’d take it back. I felt I should wear it today.”
Ester’s hand moved before her mind could command it to stop. She reached out, her fingertips grazing his arm with a feather-light touch, feeling the heat of his skin radiate through the thin barrier of his tight shirt. It was like touching fire—intense, forbidden. She felt the strength beneath the fabric, the hard muscle that spoke of power and control.
His eyes snapped down to her hand, and for a moment, just the briefest of heartbeats, she thought she saw his resolve flicker. But then his expression hardened, the desire in his eyes turning to a stormy darkness, and he stepped back, severing the contact.
The abrupt distance sent a pulse of disappointment through her, and she realized with a sharp ache how much she had enjoyed being so close to him. His scent lingered in the air around her—rich and heady, a mixture of woodsmoke and leather, with a musky undertone that made her mouth go dry. Being near him brought every one of her senses to life. Made her want to bury her face against his chest and inhale him.
He towered over her, all strength and restraint, the kind of man who looked like he could break mountains if he chose. And yet, when he spoke, his voice had a quiet vulnerability that pierced the facade, making him all the more irresistible.
“You shouldn’t touch things that can kill,” he said, his voice a low rasp, as though he was speaking more to himself than to her. His eyes flicked briefly to her hand, still hovering mid-air, then back to her face, hard and unreadable. “It is not safe.”
Ester let out a small, humorless laugh, though her pulse still hadn’t quite returned to normal. “I do not think anyone here is under any illusions about your... volatility.” She tilted her head, her eyes catching his with a glint of dark amusement. “But truthfully, Julian—you are not exactly a raging inferno. More like...a slow burn. Dangerous, perhaps. But only to those—”
“—foolish enough to linger,” Julian finished, the corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile. “Shadows Beneath the Serpent Star, chapter four, page seventy-nine, was it?”
Ester blinked, caught off guard. “You have read it?”
“I am quite the scholar of tragic, esoteric, romantic nonsense. My father was a collector of several thousand tomes of the ilk,” he reminded. “But you… Are you that foolish?”
“I have not decided yet,” Ester said with a soft smirk, lowering her hand but keeping her gaze locked on his. “But I shall let you know when I do.”
He smiled mirthlessly, tugging his sleeves lower before casting his gaze back to the portraits on the walls. On the surface, it seemed a casual gesture, but now she understood there was something deeper at play.
