Page 6 of The Tyranny of our Longing

His voice broke as another cough followed on the tails of the first, multiplying manifold, and he pushed back in his seat, turning from her into a handkerchief. When he finally turned back, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining with a different kind of light. One that inflamed, rather than brightened.

“Do excuse me,” he said, his words reverberating with a rough timbre. He shot her a feeble smile, but it faded as he beheld her expression. “I apologize for having startled you, Miss Mercer. Rest assured it is no longer contagious. Nor is it anything serious.”

“Oh?” she managed. But it was not the sign of illness that drained the amusement from her face, nor the fear of infection that tightened her lips, but the mortification of her own insensitive folly.

Another blunder, so close on the heels of her first. She knew she was not always adept at pleasant conversation, but this had been absurdly tactless, even for her.

“It is but a nasty remnant of lung fever,” he went on, seemingly unaware of what exactly had caused her discomfort. “I have been unfortunate enough to contract it over the winter. But I have since recovered, even if its unsavory effects continue to linger. It is why I have been delayed in my return, and why everything is still in such… disrepair. The work is continuous, but,” he leaned back, allowing the servant to clear the used plates, “there is still much to do. Thankfully, the rest of the house is still in a livable state. Have you found your accommodations in order?”

Phaedra blinked, the question catching her unawares.

“Yes,” she stammered. “I have.” She moved to allow the second course to be placed before her, appreciating the interruption so that she might gather her crumbling wits. “It is, in fact, more astonishing than I could have expected.”

“Truly?” He cocked a brow. “I must admit, that does surprise me. I imagined this house quite notorious.”

She smiled. “It is. But the rumors do not do it justice. It is simply…” She shook her head, looking about the room. “Magnificent.”

“Hmm,” he said, and it was her turn to raise her brows.

“Do you not think so?” she asked.

“I do not not think so,” he said, then took a bite of his salmon.

Phaedra followed suit, studying him from under her lashes. She wondered if this almost cold detachment was genuine, or if it was something carefully and methodically crafted. A shield, perhaps. But to protect against what, she could only surmise. Even if the evidence had seemed glaring that morning in the drawing room, she could not presume to know this man. Nor this family, for that matter.

They had been private, the Hawthorns—this she knew. Despite their wealth, they had not mixed with high society, shunning the social life they would have undoubtedly been more than welcomed into. Even their home was chosen as far away as possible from the cornucopia of spectacle that was London society.

Phaedra chewed on a slice of cucumber, savoring its rich seasoning before saying, “It must have been a stimulating experience, growing up here. Even if the time had been a short one.”

“I suppose.” He shrugged. “But quite frankly, I do not have many memories of the house from my childhood. At least not of its… objects. I was rather surprised by the extent of my father’s collection when I arrived. I guess there is less of it now.” He peered into his drink, stirring the contents. “I imagine he would be devastated to know how much has been lost.”

He drained his glass, his eyes trained on the wall across from him, as if he did not dare look at her. As if afraid to witness her reaction should she have caught the mockery in his tone. She had. But even if he had looked, he would see no judgment in her face. She could understand the bitterness of an ill-resolved relation more than most. And now, he would never have the chance of resolution—whatever that might have been—even if he wished.

“It is a terrible thing to have happened,” she said.

He worked his jaw, before finally answering, “Yes. It is.”

He glanced at his now empty glass, and a servant stepped to his side to refill it. But he waived him off, reaching for the decanter in the middle of the table. The burgundy liquid poured like fresh blood, radiant against the glittering crystal of the glass. He studied it a moment, and Phaedra could not help but wonder if his mind had filled with such dark associations as hers had. If, perhaps, he was like her. But the hope dissolved even as it formed as she remembered his words about the manor and his very apparent disregard for the beauty within.

“I hope you do not think me terribly callous for speaking of the dead so,” he said at last.

His countenance had returned to the severity that seemed its resting state, and Phaedra could not determine if he would be more appreciative of her protest or her sympathy. But before she could decide, he went on.

“He was my father, I suppose I do owe him some… well, if not gratitude, then at least some modicum of respect. Even if I do not always agree that I should.”

Phaedra looked at him, at the strain hidden within the confines of his body, the storm brewing just below the surface of his emerald eyes, and felt the familiar thrill stir within her mind.

She averted her eyes, and raised her own glass to her lips. “Death does not excuse the deeds committed while alive,” she murmured before taking a sip.

“No,” he agreed. “It does not.”

He pulled in a breath, his eyes clearing with the straightening of his posture.

“I apologize for troubling you with such bleak topics,” he said.

“No, not at all,” she said, placing the glass back onto the table. “I know family can sometimes be…” She shrugged a shoulder. “Complicated. And parents, well… Sometimes they fall short of our expectations. Force us into behaviors we ourselves would not choose. Actions we later regret.”

She felt his eyes affix to her profile, yet it did not feel unpleasant, the way they probed, like needles sliding beneath her skin. But it was unusual to find herself the subject of study, and she wondered what he saw. And how he would judge it.