Page 12 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
Moses’ proximity was both comforting and provocative, which was silly after all they’d shared on the chaise. But with the passion of the moment faded, she was left with the knowledge of what she’d done. If Lady Peasemore ever discovered her scandalous behavior, she’d send her packing. Joy certainly wouldn’t speak of this with anyone, and she couldn’t even write it in her diary. She’d keep the memories, savor them on cold, lonely nights in the years to come, but they were hers alone.
Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that felt oddly synchronized with Moses’, their breaths mingling with the sounds of the night, the crackling fire, the rustle of sheets.
Moses’ hair bristled against his pillow when he turned his face to her. “Where do you travel?”
“To Sheffield. I’ve been offered a position as a governess.” She turned her head slightly to meet Moses’ gaze. “The children are... spirited is how their mother describes them.”
Moses’ expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. It was a subtle gesture, yet it spoke volumes of his attentiveness. “Spirited. A challenge, but one you are undoubtedly equipped to handle.”
Joy felt a bloom of warmth spread through her chest at his words. They were more than mere politeness, there was a genuine note of faith in his encouragement. “Perhaps. But it is a delicate balance. One must be both gentle and firm, kind and strict. It’s rather like trying to hold onto a butterfly without crushing its wings.”
“Indeed. It requires finesse and understanding—qualities you appear to possess.” His words were a balm, smoothing over the jagged edges of her self-doubt.
“Your faith in me is... most comforting.” She wouldn’t admit to the moments of uncertainty that struck on occasion since she’d accepted the offer. She had no children of her own, and had no siblings. Her skills in the little endeavors a young lady must perfect, drawing, singing, reading, were all she had to recommend her. She was lucky to have the recommendation of her vicar, who might expire on the spot if he heard how she’d spent her day.
“Joy, I’ve observed your ways. You have a natural grace, an ease with which you turn challenge into opportunity. The children will thrive under your guidance.”
“Thank you.” She could feel the invisible thread that connected them pulling taut with his words, binding them closer in this shared moment of honesty. His belief in her abilities was a gift, a precious offering from a man who gained nothing from the giving.
Here lay a man—a solitary figure who crafted beauty from the solitude of his own world—honoring her intellect. A man who saw beyond the mourning gowns and the quiet demeanor of a widow. “Tell me,” Joy ventured, her curiosity piqued by the enigma beside her. “What compels you to draw and paint?”
Moses leaned back against the pillows, looking up to the ceiling as though he were peering into another realm where colors swirled and danced at his command.
“Solitude affords me the companionship of my thoughts. In the silence, I find the symphony of my art—the strokes, the shades, the very soul of my work.”
“Is it not lonely?” she prodded gently, folding her hands atop the quilt, resisting the urge to reach out and bridge the gap with a touch.
“Immensely,” he confessed, turning his head to meet her gaze squarely. “But in that loneliness, I discover truths. Truths about the world, about people,” he paused, his gaze intensifying, “and about myself.”
“Truths that you share with the world through every canvas.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it’s a challenge, too. To bare one’s soul without assurance of acceptance or understanding.”
“Yet here you are, sharing your soul with me.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a fleeting smile. “Perhaps solitude has met its match this evening.”
“Your honesty is refreshing,” she said. Her gaze lingered on the subtle motion of his chest as he breathed, the way his thick hair fell just so over his forehead, how every movement seemed deliberate and full of purpose.
Moses chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. “Refreshing or not, it is all I have to offer. Art demands integrity, even if it means exposing one’s vulnerabilities.”
Joy’s heart swelled at his words, realizing the courage it took for a man such as Moses to lay bare his soul not only upon the canvas but also before her. This realization tethered a thread of deep admiration within her, binding her to him with an emotion more profound than she could name.
“Vulnerability can be quite frightening. I think of my late husband, God rest his soul, and how distant he often seemed.” She hesitated, feeling the weight of memories long buried. “In our most private moments, I often felt alone, as though he was never truly present with me.”
“Presence,” Moses echoed, the word hanging between them in the dark. “It’s the essence of true connection, isn’t it? To be wholly there with another, without pretense or distraction. It’s a rare gift.”
“Truly, one I fear I have scarcely known,” Joy admitted, allowing the truth of her yearning to surface. Her late husband’s aloofness had left a hollow space within her, a chamber untouched and unexplored, yearning for genuine intimacy.
“Joy, should life grant us the chance for such presence, for that rare gift... I would endeavor to offer it wholeheartedly.” His hand reached across the expanse of quilted coverlet to find Joy’s. His touch, a whisper of solidarity and solace, pressed gently against her fingers, barely there yet undeniably present.
Her heart fluttered, and she was astonished by the unexpected flight of emotions. The gratitude she felt was as palpable as the warmth radiating from the hearth.
His eyes met hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. In them, she glimpsed not just the depth of his understanding, but also the strength of his own concealed yearnings. It was as if he, too, had wandered through the wilderness of isolation, only to stumble upon this unforeseen oasis of companionship.
“Everyone deserves to be truly seen, Joy. Not just gazed upon, but beheld in their entirety. It’s what I try to capture in my portraits.”
Joy’s breath caught at the deliberate use of her name, the way it cascaded from his lips like a sacred incantation. She decided then that their connection was a rarity. With Moses, she was not the reserved widow nor the adventurous spirit baring herself to his artful eye, she was simply Joy, seen and appreciated for all she was.
