Page 50 of Darkest at Dusk
His visits were usually brief, punctuated by an exchange of polite words that felt anything but polite. He spoke to her with an intensity that left her heart fluttering and her thoughts clouded. Always, his gaze lingered on her longer than it should, and always, Isabella felt her cheeks flush in response.
Today, the fire in the library hearth crackled, its warmth spreading through the room as Isabella leaned over a crate, carefully lifting out books. The smell of aged tomes rose like a faint, dusty sigh as she removed the first, its leather binding cracked but sturdy.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
“Miss Barrett,” came that familiar, low voice. The sound slid through her, as smooth and dark as velvet.
She straightened and turned, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Rhys standing just inside the doorway. His dark coat fit him impeccably, its cut accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, and a faint shadow darkened his jawline as she had noticed it did when the day aged.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Caradoc,” she replied, hoping her voice did not betray the sudden hitch in her breath. “You find me once again covered in dust.”
“I see you’ve made progress,” he said, stepping closer. His eyes swept over the neatly arranged books on the shelves, then drifted back to her. “You do your father’s collection justice.”
The warmth in his words surprised her, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. He drew something from his pocket, a small oval chemist’s tin, japanned black, with a thin gilt rule circling the rim.
“Do you enjoy sweets, Miss Barrett?” he asked.
She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I… I do.”
She stared at the tin in his hand, a sense of familiarity nagging at her.
The tin… Her gaze snapped to his, understanding dawning. “It was you.”
His head tilted, amusement flickering in his expression. “Me?”
“You left the baskets of food,” she said, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them. “After my father died. The same tin of sweets was in one of the baskets you left on my stoop.”
For a moment, Rhys said nothing, his gaze steady and unreadable. “I have never liked the taste of grief.” He paused. “After meeting you, I found that I disliked the thought of you swallowing your tears, alone in that house.”
The words sent a flush rising to her cheeks, and she looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of his attention. Then the implication of what he said dawned. I have never liked the taste of grief. That suggested he had known grief and loss, more than once. She wanted to ask, to know, to ease his burden by sharing it. And that made no sense. He was practically a stranger to her.
Except…he wasn’t. Not anymore. She saw him every day. They spoke of things that mattered on occasion, but mostly things that did not: whether the chimneys drew properly after the last storm; whether a torn folio binding could be mended with paste or if it required new thread. Once, he told her of his favorite place to walk, a half-wild orchard at the edge of the grounds. Another time, he lingered to ask what she read, his tone mild, his questions pointed, as if he sought not only the title but her thoughts upon it. And in the midst of such small exchanges, the distance between them had thinned, thread by thread, until she thought she might touch the shape of him beneath his mask.
When she finally glanced back at him, his expression had softened, the sharp edges of his face tempered by something gentler.
“Mr. Caradoc?—”
“Call me Rhys,” he said quietly. The words hung in the air, intimate and improper.
Isabella hesitated, her breath catching. In her thoughts, she already called him by his given name. But to do so aloud? “That would be inappropriate.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “And yet, here we are. Isabella.”
She had not invited him to make use of her given name. Yet, the sound of it, uttered in his low, masculine voice?—
The air between them crackled, charged with something unspeakable. Isabella’s pulse thrummed beneath her skin as she struggled to find her footing, to steady herself in the face of his relentless presence.
Her teeth gnawed at her lower lip. And then, she whispered, “Rhys.”
He went very still, his eyes fathomless, sliding to her mouth, focused there. He looked away first, as if catching himself, and opened the tin he held, then offered it to her, revealing pale yellow lozenges dusted with fine sugar. “Would you like one?”
Hesitating only a moment, Isabella plucked a lozenge from the tin. The taste of lemon burst bright, a mingling of citrus and sweet. Her tongue darted out, catching the dusting of sugar that clung to her lower lip.
His eyes darkened as he stared at her mouth; a muscle flexed in his jaw.
Her breath locked. Her pulse raced. The way he looked at her?—
“May I?” he asked, his voice rough.
