“Well, clearly the expectation would be a correct one, since youwerelooking.”
“Only to note how ridiculous you were.”
He laughs, a rare sound, softer than I expected it to be, sending a ripple of warmth through my chest. He pulls away from my shoulder and he looks at me. For a moment he is so close, looking down at me, and I hold my breath, certain he’s about to kiss me. But instead he stands, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Goodnight, Nora,” he says. “I appreciate your company.”
Company? Is that what he calls this? The sudden formality feels like an insult. But I swallow back the bitterness. He’s only giving me what I asked for, after all. A lack of intimacy.
“Goodnight, Claude.”
When he’s gone, I fall asleep remembering the softness of his hair, the press of his face against my neck, the sound of his laugh.
It’s almost enough to make me forget the way my cheek still throbs where Ambrose hit me.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s a relief that Claude doesn’t disappear like he did the last time Ambrose visited. In fact, he is more present than he’s been for weeks now, staying home instead of going out to his endless stream of parties. He is there across the table at breakfast, there watching out the window when I sit on the back porch to read. Like he’s afraid to let me out of his sight.
Yet at the same time he’s uncharacteristically quiet, his brow furrowed whenever I look over at him. And he never asks to paint. I watch him across the table at dinner, while he swirls blood-tinged wine in his glass and frowns into the distance, chin propped up with one hand.
I sigh. “Aren’t you going to paint today?” I ask. “It’s been more than a week.”
Claude shifts his arm aside. His eyes flash toward me, long lashes obscuring an irritated look. “I thought you said it didn’t matter if I painted again.”
I suppress a sigh, and a biting comment. The last thing I want to do is send him into another one of those sulks again. “It doesn’t matter to me, but it sounded like it matters to you. And isn’t that why you hired me? To inspire you?”
He groans, leaning back in his chair and shutting his eyes.
I study him, trying to gauge his mood, but the pale angles of his face are impossible to read. “I thought you wanted to paint.”
“I do,” he says. Then he frowns. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not so simple.”
“I don’t see why it can’t be,” I say. “You don’t have to paint some masterpiece. Just paint… something. Anything.”
He sinks further in his chair, looking half melted and very dramatic. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then help me understand. What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid?” he repeats. His eyes slowly open, fixed on the ceiling. “Indeed, what is there to fear? Aside from proving that I am and forever will be a failure. That I didn’t deserve the immortality they granted me. Disappointing my sire, my court, my valentine, myself…”
I sigh, pushing up to my feet. “Well, I’m honored I made the list,” I say, slowly walking down the length of the table to his side. “But I couldn’t really care less about all that. I like youdespitethe fact you’re an artist.”
His head lolls back as he gazes up at me, a slight smile curving his lips. “You like me?” But then his eyes go distant, his expression pensive. “Perhaps I should run away and become a… a farmer. A simple man living off the land…”
“Claude, you wouldn’t survive a day on a farm.” I touch his chin, guiding his gaze back to me. I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard at this. My contract isn’t dependent on getting him to paint. But… I want to see him happy. My mother was always happiest when she was working. “Why don’t you try painting something fun?”
He makes a face.
“Oh, does that offend the serious artist in you?” I ask, teasing. “Okay, it doesn’t have to befunif that’s so against your principles, but it can just be… I don’t know. Just for you.”
His brow creases in thought. “Just for me…”
“It could even be temporary. You can tear it up afterward, or burn it, I don’t care. You don’t have to show me, or anyone.”
“Temporary,” he repeats. Then his gaze turns sly. “Mm… I have an idea.”
* * *
