Page 82 of The Phoenix Bride
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Grey’s townhouse is astonishing. It is a monument to bad taste, all damask and gilt furniture. It has more character than the Edens’—one can feel the presence of the owner, at least, in the haphazard layout, the endless vases of flowers and paintings of court beauties. But still, I have never been fond of these suburban homes, in which so many of my clients shut themselves away like kings in moated castles. Why come to London, to live in such an isolated place? The joys of the city feel so distant here. But the tragedies are distant, too, I suppose. Tonight, that is a blessing.
We are safe, finally. I feel so indebted to Grey that I can’t stop expressing my gratitude, to the point where he eventually claps me on the shoulder and says, “Mendes, I am honored, truly, but you needn’t thank me further.” Still, it feels as if I should. He has a room set up for Jan on the ground floor, so he needn’t ascend the steps on his crutches, and he takes Cecilia’s request for a room of her own without a moment’s confusion nor suspicion. He provides us all with an enormous meal and tells us to stay as long as we need. I have rarely seen such generosity of spirit.
The sun sets, but the fire continues to rage. After supper, Jan, infatuated, manages to draw Grey into a game of whist. I beg leave to sleep, as does Cecilia. We all part ways in the corridor. Then I light a candle and pace around the guest room Grey has offered me, nervous, confused, wondering if I ought to be doing something else, making some decision I haven’t yet made. Should I find her—Lord, no, I shouldn’t—but I can still feel her hand in mine, still hear the way she said,I would want you just the same.
I must mourn the David I once was, who valued caution and temperance above all else, and who—like the David of old, watching Bathsheba from the rooftop—has now been committed to his grave. But I no longer have the strength to refuse. Ithas been an ugly day, full of horrors, and if she comes, I cannot deny her. Not tonight.
Eventually, the door opens. Cecilia hovers at the threshold, hesitant, peering from the side of the doorframe. It reminds me of the day we met, when she watched me from behind the linden tree. Our gazes meet.
“Should I leave?” she asks me.
“No,” I reply.
Neither of us move. We only stand there, actionless, staring at each other. The awkwardness of it makes us both laugh.
“Pardon,” she says. She enters, closing the door behind her, and she comes to stand in front of me.
“Cecilia,” I say, “I—I don’t know if…”
“You needn’t know anything, David, except that you want me.” She takes a step closer. “As I want you. Do you?”
“Yes,” I reply. I put my hands around her waist and draw her close. Her hands fall to my shoulders.
She leans in and brushes her lips across my neck. I shudder. “Since that night at the park, I have thought of this so often,” she says against my skin. “It is shameful how often I’ve imagined it.”
“There is no shame in that.”
“It is a sickness,” she replies. “You are an affliction, David Mendes. I can’t be cured of you.”
I say, “You are in need of a physician.”
“I found one, but he only seems to have made the matter worse.”
I kiss her. She sighs and kisses me back, undoing the buttons of my shirt with stumbling hands. Her cold fingers trail over my collarbone, nails just sharp enough to scratch.
“Are you certain?” I ask her. “We needn’t…”
“Yes,” she replies. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
She gives me a smile that slips beneath my skin like a needle. This is likely the only night we will ever have together. I wish it could be something more than this, an indulgence before an inevitable farewell. I wish I could tell her how much I want her, that I could show it to her without the agony of trying to put it into words. I would remove my heart from my chest and give it to her, if she could somehow find proof through its dissection. I would hand her the scalpel myself.
I can’t make it more than it is, but I can do all I can to make it worth what will come after. I chase her lips as I pull away clothing and hairpins, whispering endearments to her, moving with such slowness she is reduced to begging by the time we are undressed. Then we are skin upon skin and lips against lips, and we fall to the bed entirely entangled.
She lies beneath me, flushed and willing. “What do you want?” I ask her.
“Touch me,” she says. “Please.”
She watches my face until I do so, my hand pressing between her thighs, and then her eyes flutter closed. She sighs in pleasure.
All thought is gone, all fear, all hesitation. I am lost to her. I was from the moment we met. She is a promise I hadn’t known I’d made myself, now fulfilled; an answer to a question I hadn’t known I’d asked; Cecilia, as she is and always has been, whispering my name as she bucks against my fingers. She has discovered me, as I have her, in this unfamiliar bed, in the darkness and the silence of a room we will never return to.
I take my time, and with each passing moment she grows louder, gasping and desperate. I kiss her quiet, letting her breath fill my lungs. Then she is moving my hand away and pulling me closer, aligning our hips. I watch her face as I push into her.
“David,” she sighs.
