PART IV
LOVE AND REASONABLE ACTS OF VIOLENCE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAPHNE
There’s one thing I hate more than raw broccoli, and that is salad. Whoever thought drizzling oily sauces over cold leaves was a good idea should be arrested. I push the soggy leaves across my plate with my fork, eyes downcast while I try to act more demure than disgusted. Thank the All of All dainty bites are considered polite. And that there’s bread.
My date and I sit across from each other at a small table in a dimly lit restaurant called The Golden Stone. The walls are dark slate interspersed with trickling water features that evoke the feeling you’re inside a cave. The occasional lightbulb hangs from climbing ivy while green fire sprites flutter overhead. The restaurant is in the fashionable part of town, a portion of the city that serves very little interest to me. For fashionable places mean crowds, and this restaurant is no exception. Each table is occupied by a well-dressed party, most of whom wear evening dresses or suits with frock coats. No one is outfitted in workday attire like me.
I came directly after work, choosing a leisurely walk over hurrying back to my apartment to change. At least I wore my nicest waistcoat, one of mauve brocade, and my slacks are wide-legged and flowing, almost giving the impression of a skirt. Then there’s my date. Patrick Wright is outfitted in a gray suit, though upon seeing my attire, he removed his jacket. I expected him to question my choice of clothing, but he merely greeted me and thanked me for meeting him after work.
All in all, he’s a kind, polite human male.
Nothing to complain about.
Aside from him ordering me salad.
“How is your latest illustration, Miss Hartford?” he asks, taking a sip of wine. His salad plate is empty, and our entrées should arrive soon.
I take the opportunity to set down my fork and feign interest. “It went well,” I say, modulating my voice the way I know I should, pitching it slightly higher, softer. I’m reminded of what Monty said to me when we practiced formal introductions.
…you don’t have to pretend to be anyone you’re not. You deserve to be loved for exactly who you are.
I force the memory away and continue. “My first two covers are officially finished, and I turned the latest one in for the art director’s approval today. She loved it.”
He gives me a warm smile. “Congratulations. I’m truly impressed by you.”
I wish my heart fluttered at his words. Or his face. Aesthetically speaking, he’s perfect. Too perfect. His hair is styled so neatly it looks like a painting, not a strand falling out of place when he moves. His brown eyes are kind, his nose is straight, and his jaw and cheekbones are sharp enough to cut the metaphorical corset strings on any blushing heroine’s undergarments. It’s like he stepped straight off the pages of one of Edwina’s books. And that makes him the ideal specimen to serve as my model.
My heart grows heavy as I reflect on what my supervisor said when she approved my painting today. “There’s so much emotion here. So much tension. I feel like I’m looking at a true moment in time, witnessing something meant to stay behind closed doors. Perfectly provocative.”
She was right. My latest painting—the one I based on my mirror activities with Monty—was a true moment in time. I finished it quicker than any other, not even needing a reference for the hues, tints, and shadows. Everything remains clear in my mind. Not just about what we did in my hotel room, but every moment from that weekend.
Including what Monty said on the ride home from the train station.
Be a good girl and give Patrick a chance, all right?
That’s exactly what I’m doing. I pull myself out of my head and turn my attention over to my date. To his gentle gaze, his strong hands, his handsome visage. Try as I might, I can’t stir an ounce of sexual attraction, but I can’t let that sway me. I simply need to get to know him better, and that takes time. And I do still have some time before I need to secure a husband?—
The wordhusbandconjures images of a laughing face, of shoes skidding across muddy grass, of leaping onto tables, of my own expression glowering at bad jokes, of fingers that wind through mine when my panic rises, of my hand running through pale wet curls, of thoughtful gestures and keen attention that sees deeper into me than anyone ever has.
“Are you all right?” Patrick has leaned forward, his head tilted to the side. His expression is kind—soannoyinglykind. Why does it irritate me so? Why does his perfection grate so aggressively on my nerves?
Before I can answer, a waiter comes to take our salad plates and replace them with our next course. It’s a hearty stew, which thankfully has meat in it this time. Even so, my appetite is weak as I stare down at my bowl.
A palm falls over the back of my hand, and it takes all my self-control not to flinch away. “Miss Hartford, are you?—”
“Why did you ask me out to dinner?” The words leave my lips, devoid of my prior efforts to sound ladylike.
His brow creases and he slowly pulls his hand from mine. He drums his fingertips on the table as if giving my question ample thought. “As you may have surmised, I’m seeking a wife. I enjoyed meeting you at Mr. Blackwood’s wedding and wanted to get to know you better.”
“Yes, but why me? Was it merely convenient proximity? Is there something about me that makes you think I’d pair well with you?”
He gives an easy chuckle. “I’m not going to insult you by pretending we had some dazzling connection or that I fell for you during our conversation and subsequent dance. I simply found myself attracted to you and wanted to see if there was compatibility between us.”
“You were intrigued by my looks? That’s all? You’re attempting to secure a wife based on visual appeal?”
