“I cannot.”
“You’re young—how young are you?” Now he wore a scandalized tilt to his brow.
I leaned back, chuckling a little. “Younger than you.”
“Rude,” he said with a pinched mouth but with no force behind it. “And I was trying to be reassuring.”
“That is not the reason.”
“What is?”
I considered for a moment. I didn’tknow. Not truly. But Ifeltit. Something about Xander called to me—to the place deep inside my chest, the one that ached when I lied to my family andtheton. The nagging tangle in my chest that tightened painfully every time I half-heartedly agreed when Hugh made a jest about the evenings I spent at the theater. That part of me sensed a kindred spirit in Xander.
My gaze caught his as I finally settled on, “You know.”
His eyes widened and he practically fell back in his seat. “I assure you, I do not.”
A knot began to form in my throat, twisting, tightening. “Right then. I suppose it’s just me.” My voice was a pathetic croak.
Xander’s lips parted, almost as if he wanted to take it back. But that was likely wishful thinking, desperation brought on by a dream rapidly fading to nothingness.
Floundering for a way out, my gaze fell on the black mask resting on his knee. “Whatisyour favorite color then?” I tossed out. I wouldn’t be able to appreciate it, but it wasn’t likely to add to my heartache.
He glanced away, to the mantel clock. My gaze followed. Thirteen minutes.
“Prussian blue.”
“That is… oddly specific.”
“It’s a deep shade of blue with hints of green.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re wearing it,” he explained.
My eyes dropped down, searching for something I wouldn’t be able to see.
“Your mask,” he interrupted my futile search.
My hand found my cheek and made to pull the domino away before I remembered myself. I had a secret to maintain—more necessary than ever with his rejection—and I wouldn’t be able to see his world anyway.
“You’re really not going to take it off?”
“I’m not that easily fooled. And it wouldn’t matter anyway,” I retorted with a teasing grin.
“Why is that?”
“I don’t… I can’t see colors—not the way everyone else does anyway. The best I can tell, they look to me the way browns look to you.”
“Really? All colors?”
“No. Reds and greens are the worst. I cannot tell them apart at all. But a blue with hints of green—I probably wouldn’t see it the way you do.”
“That is… quite sad, really,” he murmured.
“It’s not. Not truly. I do not know any different. Though I do find your clothing a refreshing change—even your waistcoats. I always know what color they are.”
He dragged a hand over the aforementioned waistcoat, drawing my attention to the angle of his waist. “I’m glad to be of assistance. Most find them dull. Or intimidating.”
