Page 11 of Reflections of Silence

An iron hand pressed in the center of my back propelled me along, and we turned into an enormous space. Black and white square tiles filled the floor more suited to Paris than this strange land I still didn’t understand. Pillars were decorated with silver vines that crept along tall columns to meet the high ceiling. A dark fresco was painted there, a scene of hunting and firelight and death.

In the middle of the painting, a chandelier half the width of the room descended, tiny crystals shattering light across the floor from its great height, giving me the impression I walked across an expanse of stars.

“The ballroom.”

I nodded, turning in a circle with my mouth hanging open. I didn’t care if I drooled; it was the most beautiful room I’d ever seen.

“It’s—it’s—” Apparently, I’d caught Charleton’s stutter. The man was contagious.

“Magnificent.” A soft, deep voice swept across the room, wrapping around me like a chilled wind and warm fire at once.

Charleton’s eyes widened. He bowed, backing from the room, his gaze lowered to the floor.

I turned in circles again, looking over my shoulder in every direction, but I was the sole occupant in the room. Spinning around, my mouth opened to call out for—anyone, really, I came face to face with a man who stood motionless inches from me.

I jerked, stumbling as a whimper left my lips. I hated the moment the sound escaped, but that didn’t appear to deter my stalker. He didn’t move, but opted to watch me with those same midnight dark eyes that filled his perfect, angular face.

Everyone here is too beautiful for their own good.

I huffed inside my head as I righted myself, taking in his pointed collared shirt, bright beneath slim lines of a black coat and breeches. A shadow brushed his chin, as though he hadn’t shaved in a day or more.

The same face that had accosted me earlier; the same face of the coachman from the evening before, now dressed as though he owned the place.

As the penny dropped to an empty purse, I realized that he did.

Surely, this was my husband.

Sebastian.

“My lord, I?—”

“Magnificent,” he murmured again, the words swirling around me, stepping forward. His eyes never left me, and I knew he wasn’t talking about the ballroom anymore. “I am not your lord.”

“Oh.”

Eloquence left me. My mind a total blank, I decided it must have left its residence, too.

“Sebastian.” My own manners deserted me as the butler’s had earlier.

I expected a proffered hand, mine already grasping in response, but there was nothing. I jerked my fingers back, confused. My heart beat faster, thrumming in my ears. A tingleitched at my skin again at his proximity. Should I run and hide from this man? Even at this simple level of engagement, he reminded me of the alligator breathing beneath the water, waiting.

Everything about this place was nothing I’d ever encountered before.

Is all of the new world like this?

If it were, then they were an odd offshoot of the British, having strayed so far from the proverbial tree.

“And you— this is your place?” I asked, my mind still finding its feet.

“This is my home.” The final word came out guttural and twisted.

Why did the owner of a mini-castle drive his own carriage to collect me yesterday but not introduce himself?

Why did I not marry this man, instead of a nun?

He’d been there, on the coach. Watching. Waiting, like now.

None of my questions made it as far as my lips. My brain jammed, attempting to process too many ideas at once.

---