Page 13 of The Lord's Icy Temptress
“Then this game is perfect for us, as I presumed.” Tristan wanted to laugh. Of all the things that she could have said, he was glad that was what she offered. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he regarded her, appreciating the challenge Seraphina presented. “You have a talent for concealing your true self, Lady Seraphina,” he remarked with a knowing smile. “But I feel there is much more beneath the surface.”
“And what makes you think that?” Seraphina retorted, determined to keep her emotions guarded.
Tristan reached forward and grabbed the arm of her chair, pulling her closer to him. A bold move, he was sure, but she did not fight him on it. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Call it a hunch,” he said. “Or perhaps it is the way your eyes light up when you talk about books or the spark of curiosity in your gaze when something intrigues you. There is a fire within you, Lady Seraphina, waiting to be unleashed.”
A pink flush overtook her cheeks as he spoke. “You seem quite adept at unravelling people’s mysteries, Lord Ashford,” she observed, a soft hitch in her voice. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her parted lips only momentarily.
He chuckled softly. “Perhaps it is a result of years spent navigating the complex social circles of London,” he mused. “But I feel you are not one to be easily deciphered.” He leaned forward with a smirk. “Those are my favourite sort of puzzles.”
“And perhaps I do not wish to be solved?” Seraphina laughed easily and leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps I am perfectly content with things like they are?”
“Another truth?” Tristan’s gaze lingered on her, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “You know, Lady Seraphina,” he began, his voice softer than before, “I have spent most of my life hiding behind the façade of a carefree rogue. But lately, I find myself yearning for something more. Something real.”
She seemed to be drawn to the sincerity in his words, an unexpected understanding blossoming between them. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Tristan shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps it is because I sense a kindred spirit in you,” he said, his eyes locked with hers. “You hide your true self from the world, but I see glimpses of the real Seraphina beneath the mask. And I find myself wanting to know more.”
“But, I should leave before I wholly wear out my welcome.” Tristan grinned and reached for her hand. Seraphina hesitantly accepted his touch as he bent to press her knuckles to his forehead reverently and then brushed his lips over her knuckles before righting himself. “I look forward to continuing our game of truths another time, dear Lady Seraphina.”
After Tristan’s departure, Seraphina found herself lost in conflicting emotions. A part of her believed she had succeeded in being distant enough to deter him, but the memory of his handsome features lingered in her mind, unsettling her composure. His enigmatic charm had managed to crack through her icy exterior, and she could not deny the intrigue he stirred within her.
Chapter 9
In her private sketching room, tucked away from the world and its relentless demands, Seraphina found solace amidst the fragrant aroma of graphite and parchment. The delicate strokes of her pencil danced across the pristine paper, capturing the exquisite details of a blooming rose with remarkable precision.
The soft morning light filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow upon her work. She had always found that in moments of unrest, art was one of the only things that could truly soothe her soul. So few things could settle her from the inside out, but expressing herself on paper was her primary go-to.
As she immersed herself in the art of sketching, the outside world faded away, and the deafening cacophony of societal expectations was replaced by the comforting silence of her sanctuary. With each delicate line and shading, Seraphina felt a sense of tranquility settle upon her.
The act of creating art allowed her to pour her innermost thoughts onto paper, a release she craved amidst the stifling constraints of her privileged life. The rose she was sketching seemed to come alive under her fingertips, its petals unfolding in intricate detail, a testament to the beauty that could be found in nature’s creations.
As she worked, her mind wandered back to the encounter with Tristan. The memory of his disarming charm and enigmatic allure played like a vivid tapestry in her mind. She wondered if he also sought refuge in art or any other pursuit to escape the weight of his reputation.
Everything about the interaction that she had had with Lord Ashford had confused her. Seraphina had prided herself on becoming something of an expert on people over the last few years. At least in so far as figuring out what they wanted from her. Usually, when a man asked her to dance, it was only to speak about himself for the entire dance duration. Those sorts of men were only interested in her because they wished to have someone pretty on their arm. They did not care about her heart or mind so long as she was beautiful and would give them many sons.
However, those sorts of men were far preferable to the sort who only wished to try to touch her in ways she did not wish to be touched. Those with the wandering hands and the oily smiles that she had to spend the entire duration of dancing with her adjusting their grip and pointedly stepping on their toes so that they would behave themselves.
Tristan was the first man in a long time who seemed not only to wish to get to know her for who she truly was but also to be confident enough not to be discouraged by her coldness.
Time seemed to lose meaning as Seraphina continued pouring her soul into the sketch. The rose before her was no longer just a flower; it had become an embodiment of her feelings, a symbol of the delicate balance between vulnerability and strength she found herself navigating. She drew the flower with thorns, but the petals slowly fell from where they belonged. She drew them more vibrant and fresh on the ground than those still attached to the bloom. She knew that once she was finished with the sketching portion, those petals on the ground would be the only ones she added red pastels to. She would leave the rest in shades of gray. She could not explain it, but it felt right to do so.
As Seraphina sat in her peaceful haven, her mind fully immersed in the world of art, the sound of the door creaking open brought her back to reality. Her concentration was gently disrupted, and she looked up to find her best friend, Elizabeth, entering the room with a warm smile.
“Seraphina, my dear, I hope I am not disturbing you,” Elizabeth said softly as she closed the door behind her.
“Not at all, Elizabeth,” Seraphina replied with a content smile, setting her sketchbook aside and motioning for her friend to join her. This was her private space, where even her parents did not often come without an invitation. In truth, Elizabeth was the only person that was permitted to come and go as she pleased. “Please, come in. I always welcome your company.”
Elizabeth took a seat beside Seraphina, her eyes bright with excitement and curiosity. “I just had to find you,” she confessed. “I overheard Lady Windermere and her daughter, Lady Alice, discussing Lord Ashford’s interest in you at the Windermere soirée.”
Seraphina’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “They were talking about Lord Ashford and me?”
“Yes, and they seem convinced that he was quite taken with you,” Elizabeth replied, leaning in with an encouraging grin. “I believe that the dance you shared might have been the most talked about pairing of the whole evening!”
A faint blush crept onto Seraphina’s cheeks, though she quickly masked her emotions with a composed demeanour. “It was merely a dance, nothing more, just as I told you,” she stated, trying to downplay the significance of the encounter.
“Oh, come now, Seraphina,” Elizabeth teased, her voice playful. “I saw the way he looked at you during the dance. I daresay there was something more than ‘merely a dance’ in his eyes.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of Seraphina’s lips. “Well, if there was, he did a splendid job of concealing it,” she remarked, recalling how enigmatic Tristan had appeared during their conversation. “He’s a puzzle, that one. I cannot quite decipher him.” Seraphina hummed to herself softly as she cleaned the charcoal off her fingers. “I suppose it should be no surprise to you that he came to call on me this very afternoon, then.”
