Page 10 of Reflections of Silence

I spun on my heel, determined not to shriek. He was only a man, after all.

But it wasn’t justaman, buttheman. The coachman from last night. Midnight eyes surveyed me, the barest hint of humor lurking in their shadows.

Was he…laughing at me?

“Good morning,” I croaked, fervently wishing my voice would work as expected when called upon.

I aimed for an imperious look but when my gaze swept over him my intentions crumbled as I gawked at the man, seeing his face in full for the first time.

Deep red lips dominated a swarthy complexion framed with lustrous, thick hair, highlighted by a sheen of rare obsidian. I watched his lips move as he spoke, entranced. Then I realized hehadspoken, and I hadn’t heard a word.

“I’m sorry.” I blinked at him. “What did you say?”

His eyes hooded, he gazed back at me. “I hope that you enjoy your…stay, madame.”

“I’m sure I will.”

While my brain screamed that I would do no such thing, I could do nothing but stare as my hand lifted of its own accord, apparently. He bowed low over my fingers, and I could have sworn he kissed my hand, a flicker of sensation zinging over my skin though there remained a distance between my flesh and his. His eyes lifted to capture mine again.

My body reacted as though I were too close to a blazing bonfire, both drawn to his beauty and alarmed by his intensity. Heat pooled low between my thighs, my breasts aching with the need formore.

I stepped toward him as though he had asked it of me, intent on studying his face further when he straightened. The sharp gesture froze me where I stood. The lightest smile graced the corners of his lips. Inclining his head, he watched me a second longer and strode away. The hall’s incessant darkness swallowed him until he might never have been there at all.

I stood still, life and the household’s manic pace resuming as a sudden onslaught of servants bustled around me. Blinking once more into the darkened end of the hall, I berated myself for the notions that ran about in my head, warding them away, and headed in the opposite direction.

At the top of the stairs, a suited manservant greeted me.

“You would like a tour, madame?”

“I’m not a madame,” I protested, though some part of my brain reminded me I had been married last night, and might, in fact, be madam of this house. I blinked wide eyes at the footman—butler?—no doubt appearing as stupid as he expected me to be.

To my surprise, he placed a kind hand on my arm.

“You are welcome here. Please, allow me to show you your new home.”

His touch lightened, hesitant. I wondered again at the rules of this place, the social etiquette of a mismatched patchwork quilt. Not wishing to be impolite, I gestured with my other hand.

“Lead on…?” I let my sentence hang.

“Charleton, madame.” He bowed low, dropping his hand as though recognizing the impropriety.

Despite the lapse, I smiled. Charleton was the first true connection I’d found in this place, other than with my maid, and I refused to let the small social aspect evade me.

The staircase descended in a broad arc that curved around a central pillar, wide enough for ten men to stand abreast across it. “Down here, you will find the dining room and the library. Though there is a small library on your floor you might prefer,” he added.

“Oh?” I pressed my slipper into the scarlet carpet. The sole sank deeply, but when I turned to look back, there was no trace of our passing.

Heavy, brocade drapes covered every window, removing sunlight from the house’s interior in its entirety. Wall sconces lit the staircase and lower floors in a kaleidoscope of flickering shadows and dancing flames. Had I not looked out my own small balconette, I would never have known what time of day it was— or if it was day, at all.

“I believe his Lordship has stocked the room with as many French books as possible. Some classics, some more…risqué.” His lip curled on the wordFrench, and by the time he had finished, white teeth glistened between pale lips.

I studied the man. Maybe a few years past his prime, his otherwise sallow skin glowed in the house’s unnatural light.

“Could we open the curtains, perhaps?” I smiled at the pasty man, who had a European look. I wondered when he had emigrated.

Charleton jumped as though I had shoved a hot poker up his trouser leg. “The—the light is very bright here, my lady… you must understand, we must save the portraits—the ark—the art!” Managing to enunciate his excuse, he coughed, stumbling over his words. “Yes, the artwork. We must protect it always. From fading,” he added, unconvincingly.

I frowned at bare walls, tracking my eyes along the corridor for anything that would requiresaving.

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