their souls and hearts were coming closer and closer together, their breathing meeting as one, until finally, he held her tightly and said, “Are you hungry?”
It seems such a plebeian thing to say, but she laughed. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then, let us go and get a repast.”
It struck her then.
She did not need to run headlong at this. They could take their time. They had this place together, and they could allow it to unfold slowly, beautifully, incredibly.
And so, she stood from his lap and took his hand, and together, they ventured into the kitchen. She’d never done anything like this in her life. So she followed him.
She stood amazed as he found a loaf of dark bread, took up a knife, and began slicing it. It was almost sacred, the way he cut that bread, then picked cheese and sliced apples. Next, he uncorked a bottle of red wine, spilling it into two simple glasses.
They ate in companionable silence, merely looking at each other, enjoying each other. Both of them not entirely sure what to say.
Words did not seem necessary.
“Tell me something about you,” she said at last.
She had to ask; she had to slip further under his skin.
A low rumble of a laugh escaped him. “You do keep asking,” he said.
“I won’t stop,” she teased, though she was serious.
He brushed his hands on a piece of linen. “What do you wish to know?”
Before she popped a piece of apple into her mouth, she said, “Tell me anything you think I should know.”
“I have lived a long time without allowing anyone to be still with me,” he said. He seemed to drift away for a moment, considering. “Perhaps all my life.”
She inhaled slowly, understanding she was the one he was allowing himself to be still with. “Nor have I,” she replied. “It seems that, all this life, I have been running about wildly, desperately seeking something, not understanding what that is.”
He peered at her. “Are you certain you’re a young lady of the ton?”
With dramatic flair, she replied, “Oh, indeed, born and bred, with generations of family behind me, moldering in closets, to prove it.”
Another laugh rumbled from him. “You’re unlike any lady I have ever met.”
“I agree,” she said. “But that’s a bit of a curse, really. I have yet to find a friend. It is a most interesting proposition. Because of my father, because of his darkness, I’m so different from anyone I know. It can be quite difficult.”
He took a sip of wine. “Well, then, we have that in common.”
“Yes, you are different too, aren’t you?”
A sound that was neither a laugh nor derisive escaped his lips. “Well, I’m certainly unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. Most of the children born when I was born, well. . .” He hesitated, a long pause stretching out, and she slowly touched his hand.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Most of them are dead,” he said, as though he was discussing the weekly accounts.
She understood then, that he could not allow himself to feel the truth of his past too deeply. For him, those children. . . That was normal. That had been his normality, and dear Lord, her heart ached for him.
“I see,” she said gently but without pity.
And she did see. She would never understand. She’d been raised in too much privileged to understand, despite her father’s reckless actions. She’d never been hungry, unclothed, on the streets, terrified of death.
But she could see. What must it have been like to have survived so much while so many others fell behind?
“You survived,” she said.
“I did,” he agreed, pushing his food away. “I was stronger than most and more determined.”
“Is that what you wish me to know, that you’re stronger than most and more determined?”
“Yes,” he said with a half smile. “And I think you are too.”
She bit her lower lip. “If you would have asked me that but a few days ago, I would have told you, you were mad. But I think you’re right, now. I think I am determined in a way I never thought possible.”
“What are you determined to do?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, the light of the sun pouring through the old glass panels.
“To not be a prisoner.”
“That is no easy thing,” he warned, locking gazes with her. “Most of us live our lives in cages.”
“I still live in a cage, I suppose,” she said, taking up her wine glass.
“You are breaking it apart,” he said.
She lifted her glass in salute. “It is a frightening