Page 13 of Firethorne
Lysander tilted his head, moving it closer to mine as we walked, and whispered, “Didn’t they tell you?” He paused, his eyes narrowing, questioning, waiting to see if I’d take the bait.
I didn’t.
I just stared back at him and waited.
“They hired you to come to the main house and look pretty.” He winked, and his eyes moved subtly up and down my body, but not so subtle that I didn’t notice.
“Nice to see misogyny is still thriving in this county,” I shot back without a second thought, as Lysander hung his head and laughed quietly.
“Maya!” my father snapped, but Lysander butted in.
“It’s okay, Arthur. If telling a lady she’s beautiful is misogyny, then yes”—he held his hands up—“I’m guilty. But I am sorry if I’ve caused any offence. I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot. I speak before I think sometimes. It’s my greatest downfall. I will try harder and do better, though. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.”
I began to feel guilty for biting back, but before I could speak, my father spoke first.
“I apologise for my daughter,” he said, sounding ashamed, but Lysander cut him off.
“Not at all. A woman needs to stand up for herself in this world. Never criticise her for that. It’s a good thing.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
I liked that he was defending me.
I was warming to Lysander with every minute I spent in his company.
“All joking aside,” Lysander went on sincerely. “If you do happen to find yourself in the main house at any time, come and find me. I’d love to paint you.”
Instantly, he had my attention.
“You paint?” I asked, curiosity brimming as I pictured him standing in a bohemian artist’s studio, probably in an attic or a conservatory with the perfect lighting, painting whatever his current muse was. Passion rolling off him as he created a masterpiece.
I peered at him out of the corner of my eye as he walked beside me, a Greek God with hidden depths. First impressions could be misleading sometimes. He was beautiful, but he was so much more than that. And then I realised, my first impressions were no better than the misogynistic comments he’d made earlier, and I bit my lip, inwardly cursing. I had to learn to do better, too.
He had a candid yet proud smile on his face as he lowered his head. His hair fell in soft waves, covering his eyes, and he reached up to push it behind his ear.
“Painting is what I live for.” He lifted his head then, and glanced up at the starry night sky as he added, “I specialise in landscapes, but I’m trying to improve my portrait skills. Dad wants me to paint something he can feel proud to hang in his study.” He tilted his head towards me, and with a smirk, he added, “A portrait of himself.”
I gave a low chuckle and felt myself warming to him even more. He was easy to talk to and easy to be around. I could tell it’d be effortless to be friends with Lysander because he was so laid back and amiable.
He started to talk about the landscapes he’d painted on the estate and in the area. We nodded, responding with impressive sounds, even though we didn’t know what those landscapes looked like. But Lysander was drawing us in, lulling us, casting his spell as we headed closer to the cabin.
“I’m not sure I could do you justice in a painting,” he declared. “The ebony of your hair. The way the light catches the different shades of darkness, almost inky blue and black. Pure perfection,” he said, swirling his hands in front of him like he was trying to capture the night sky.
“I’m sure you have some black paint stored away somewhere,” I replied, then snapped my mouth shut at how rude that sounded. My mouth seemed to have a habit of running away before my brain could engage. I guess Lysander and I were alike in that respect.
“And your eyes,” he went on, not reacting to what I’d said. “The hazel with delicate flecks of gold.” He sighed. “I could paint them a thousand times and they would never be right. Never be... perfectly stunning... like the real thing.”
“My eyes are blue,” I stated plainly, and my father hissed, “Maya,” chiding me for my rudeness once again.
“Are you sure?” Lysander spoke with a hint of humour, and he narrowed his eyes as he peered down at me, even though he couldn’t see the colour in the dimness of the grounds we were walking through. “I could’ve sworn they were hazel when I looked into them back at the house.”
“They’re definitely blue,” I replied, bowing my head. My cheeks were bright red, but I wouldn’t disclose that fact any time soon.
He’d looked into my eyes.
“Blue eyes, black hair. The perfect combination,” he stated. “And that smile.” He pointed at me, at the smile that seemed to appear of its own accord whenever he was speaking. “The way it tilts up at the corner, and the shine in your eyes. That would be the crowning glory for my portrait.”
Some might say he could be a little cringey, but I had to admit, I liked it. I’d never met anyone like Lysander Firethorne before. I found him to be refreshing.
