“I do.”
Winston looked at her, eyes sharp and unrelenting.
“Your mother knows all of this. My parents died within weeks of each other. Influenza. My fiancé then left me at the altar.”
“A parade of ill-fortune. What are the chances?” Winston said, dryly.
Adeline shot him a look of daggers.
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. You are oversensitive.”
“Your mother gave sympathy when I told her,” Adeline said, accusingly.
“I am not my mother.”
“No, she has a heart.”
They faced each other now. Adeline was on her knees. Winston had risen to one knee. A foot of space separated them, and they laced it with their barbs. Winston wondered why he felt the urge to needle her, to draw out such emotion. It was a perverse pleasure. Ordinarily, he would do such a thing to someone he intensely disliked. But he did not dislike Adeline. Not intensely anyway.
Perhaps it is the way her eyes shine when she is angry. Or the way her cheeks turn so very red, making the green of her eyes sparkle like emeralds.
Or perhaps he just enjoyed the contest.
“I have a heart. My daughter will vouch for that. But none other is trusted enough to see it,” Winston countered.
“That sounds like a lonely existence,” Adeline said, sadly. “I cannot blame you for your attitude. I had considered adopting it myself.”
“It is pragmatic. The world is too full of knives. One must be hard to survive its blades.”
“Or welcoming of others so that they do not wish to stab you. You appreciate John Keats. You cannot be all that hard.”
Winston thought for a moment, looking away from her because he found it difficult to keep his mind focused when his eyes rested on her loveliness. But the scent of her intruded. It was fresh and open, the smell of meadow and roses. Clean and deliciously feminine but not in the manner of the vulgar French perfumiers.
“How did you come to read Keats?” he asked her, allowing his eyes to stray back to her, feeling like a man lost in the desert and stumbling upon an oasis.
“I bought a volume of his poems while out shopping with my mother. I was struck by the lush, almost tactile nature of his words. It was love from the very first reading.”
She looked unutterably sad, even as she smiled at the memory. Winston found himself consumed with the desire to know more. Keats had died just a few years ago. He was not widely read or recognized. That meant her bereavement was relatively recent. Still raw and bleeding. He took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. That kind of grief was something he knew well.
Oh, how well I know it. We are old adversaries.
“And you?” Adeline said softly.
They had contrived to move closer. Winston did not remember shifting his position or seeing Adeline deliberately closing the gap between them. It was as if they were drawn together like magnets.
“I sought comfort during a…period of coldness. I looked for warmth and found it in this unknown poet. I even considered becoming his patron, but fate intervened.”
Adeline’s smile shone. “Oh, that would have been wonderful! And how sad that the poor man never knew how close he had come to fame and fortune.”
“Possibly. It might have frightened him away. I do not relish the fame my rank brings me.”
Too much. Too much. My armor softens, and I am exposed. This sorceress has me bewitched. I should be rid of her for good.
“Your grandmother warned me that you drive people away with your rudeness. With your coldness. I disagree with both.”
Winston had never wanted to kiss her more. It would be so easy. The merest inclination of his head and their lips would come into blessed contact.
