Page 17 of Scent of Desire
“Well, he’ll just have to wait for me.” I arched an eyebrow, keeping my composure. I was probably just five minutes late; it wouldn’t be the end of him.
She hesitated, observing me as if I was a specimen straight out of a mental asylum. She then readjusted some strands of my hair, making it fall over my breasts. She tried to smooth my dress by hiding the folds of it. She probably feared my lack of “style” would displease Radcliff. A smile lightened my face at the thought.
Mrs. Walton finally let me go, and I crossed the empty, cold hallway to step toward the light with my chin lifting proudly. But my heart and pride sank to my feet at the view of Radcliff.
He sat in his usual regality at the end of the grand oval table, the flames of the fireplace rising behind him like the hellfire in him. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning mine. He tapped his card on the wood table.
We couldn’t be more opposite. He smelled of elegance and of all the richness in the universe while I smelled of spring blossom and potting soil. He was proper in a pitch-black suit that left no place for imperfections while I was a mess.
I shot a glance at the watch around Radcliff’s wrist.Fuck.I was late. Half an hour late. I swallowed the bad feeling creeping up my spine.
“Take a seat, Lily.” He spoke calmly, probably to keep the torrent of anger lashing through him in check.
The gastronomic dishes were untouched.
The gothic chandeliers were lit up on the table, their wax already dripping down.
Radcliff had waited for me.
“I shouldn’t have been late.” I took place in my seat, my heart blooming at the intention.
“You’ve made your point.” His eyes closed on mine, dark with chaos and haunted with starved demons, before his lips pressed into a thin line.
“No, I didn’t do it on purpose. I was—”
The words from my mouth escaped into a soundless gasp. A vase, or more likely a very expensive and historical antique, was placed at the center of the table.
It carried inside of it my bouquet.
Or rather an assembly of crushed flowers.
My nostrils flared, my eyes widening and my mouth slamming shut. I shifted my gaze to Radcliff, a horde of chills scouring my skin. He held mine, hiding his discomfort as much as he could by maintaining an impenetrable expression, confronting the shock in mine.
Our eyes locking into something that intense and intimate could only meanthatwas his doing. He had put water inside the vase that was meant to never be touched, trying to repair the damage he had caused. Our souls spoke the words we were too proud to admit.
Most flowers looked down, halfway caught between life and death. A wooden stick was in the center, trying to hold them together.
It was awkward.
A light smile curved my lips. I could tell he had no idea what he was doing, but this showed the Devil I knew cared.
“Why did you fix them?” I whispered, my emotions lowering the timbre of my voice.
“Because they make me think of you.”
That was it. Just a statement that sent my cells dancing, and the butterflies in my belly flew widely. Just a statement that resurrected my core and made my heart pump all the blood it could. Just a statement that set me aflame, heat coursing down my center. He had said the words I wanted to hear, giving me the reassurance I needed.
I displayed a smile and put my napkin on my lap as we were about to start our dinner. My gaze fell on the food served—in particular, the desserts—placed on a silver tray to my left.
Macarons of all colors. There was the champagne-flavored one, which was my uncle’s favorite. I used to get a box of them every year for his birthday. A cloud of sadness washed over my face at the memory, the words of Adonis haunting me with regret.
“Something is on your mind.” Radcliff’s voice made me snap back to reality.
“It’s nothing. Just the macarons. I—” I sunk my eyes inside his obsidian ones. I couldn’t hide anything from him, even if the moment was misplaced. “Can I ask you something?”
He roamed my face, probably trying to read my mind. “Of course.”
“Can I…” I played with my fork, a feeling of unease traveling through my veins. “Can I invite my uncle to the manor?”
