In one sentence, she summed up years of my life.
“It’s still my cross to bear. What do you want, Celine?”
Behind the door, I heard the gentle rustle of fabric. The candlelight dimmed. I, too, rose to face the rich mahogany. My hand slid along the frame, waiting as I held my breath.
And then, there was a knock.
Twenty-Two
CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 15, 1816
CELINE
A streamof sunlight woke me from the most restful sleep I’d had in years. Probably since the morning I awoke, alone, in hell.
This wasn’t hell. Far from it. Here, I was safe, warm, loved. There was no confusion. I needed no moment to place myself, even though I was in a foreign bed.
It should have felt wrong—wrong room, wrong lighting, wrong scents, wrong arms around me. But it was so right. Everything was perfect. The bicep I rested on, the hand laid high and possessive on my thigh, the soft puffs of air against my neck, synchronized to my own, even in sleep.
Finally, I was free to peruse him without his notice, and without the distraction of his unbearably blue eyes. Instead, I traced knife-point cheeks, a full lower lip, and a chiseled jaw. Unfairly long lashes dusted across pale skin. The shoulder under my fingers was far harder than it ought to have been for a solicitor. His hair was a riot of short curls. The shade was somewhere between blond and brunette and sprinkled with thesuggestion of gray around his temples. He was a man. There was nothing boyish about him.
Even after a night’s rest, he smelled wonderful, some sort of citrus and herb combination. I had the silly notion to see if I could find his soap while he slept. It would be a thoroughly invasive idea but, then again, I had acted on more incredibly inappropriate thoughts where he was concerned.
Yesterday’s clothes lay rumpled and tugged uncomfortably across his shoulder and waist. After an endearingly awkward explanation of his preferred sleeping attire—nothing at all—he had settled into the bed after me in his shirt and breeches. His toes, free of stockings, were tucked between my calves, unconsciously seeking my warmth.
I had been right last night. This man would certainly be the end of me. Far beyond the handsome countenance and alluring scent, underneath the sharp edges, was perhaps the sweetest man to ever live.
I ran from him, followed him, eavesdropped on him, accused him of murder, crawled into his bed in nothing but a silk nightdress, and my troubles had him evacuated from his home. Yet he merely wrapped me in his arms, humming something unfamiliar, until the soothing vibrations of his chest lulled me to sleep.
The fear I expressed last night, that I was no longer capable of love, that it would destroy me—it all seemed so inconsequential in the moment. I knew, once I left this bed, though, they would seem all the more terrifying for their proximity.
A part of me thought to rise, to break my fast downstairs. But that part of me was quickly silenced by his sleepy snuffle, that and the memory of awakening alone that terrible morning.
“’Lo, love,” he mumbled.
A bleary eye flickered open, the other still trapped in the pillow. How was it possible to be shocked by the exact shade every single time? It was cornflower this morning. Or perhaps sky. My rusty heart gave a little pang, something more than affection flowing through my veins. The eyes, they were the last boyish remnant of him. I had forgotten while they were hidden from me.
Nothing in the world could have held back my smile at the sight. I pressed a quick kiss to his forehead and he pulled me tighter with another tired sound. His lips found the hollow of my neck and pressed his answering kiss there.
He settled back into the ray of sunlight that had awoken me. It must have found a home in a puddle or the pond on the terrace because a small band of color landed in the hollow of his cheek. I traced it delicately and it moved to my hand before I settled it back on his shoulder.
“Good morning,mon arc-en-ciel,” I whispered between us.
His answer was a sleepy chuckle, his single eye tracing me with the same intensity I had surveyed him with earlier. I was unused to such perusal, particularly at such an early hour. It was discomfiting, allowing such admiration with no preparations. Surely, I looked as though rats had nested in my hair, and the pillows had likely creased my face. The naked appreciation in his gaze slowed my instinct to fuss and correct. Against every impulse, I forced myself to allow his perusal, focusing on the adoring crinkle at the corner of his eyes that appeared once again.
“Votre français est toujours terrible,” he answered, voice sleep graveled.
“Sois gentil ou je me lève.”
His hold on the place where my hip, thigh, and bottom met tightened, and he dragged me closer. He hauled a leg over mine, trapping me in his embrace.
“I take it back. Your French is impeccable,” he said, the words pressed into my shoulder to hide the laughter. His smile more than gave him away.
“Quite right.”
“Why rainbow?”
“You’re wearing one,” I answered, gesturing to the tiny ray that had migrated to his shoulder with the sun. “Do you object?”
