Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 43
“I promise, no one but I shall enjoy your blushes. I am quite jealous of them, after all.”
Her lips twitched. What was wrong with her? He was playing with her and she was letting him; no, it was more than that—she was enjoying the game. “I shall guard myself whatever you say.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to shock you with words. At least, not for the next act.”
Whatever smugness had crept into Emma’s smile was suddenly and completely expunged by his grin, his teeth white and wolfish and positively eager. She licked her lips. “A gentleman might give warning ere taking the offensive.”
“If it amuses him to do so…”
It took her a moment to realize that the dance had ended and the couples were already disbanding. Winterly’s gaze drifted languidly over her features as he lead her away.
“You are staring, Lord Winterly. Do I have an ink smudge on my face?” Thankfully, the bruise on her neck was long gone.
“No.”
She blushed. “Then why do you look at me so intently?”
“Because you are the most beautiful creature in the room and it pleases me to look at you.”
She wasn’t beautiful at all and she certainly wasn’t sophisticated enough to handle flummery, especially not from him. “It is merely the dress.”
“An ass is still an ass even in a ballgown, Miss Rose.”
“I hope you are not implying I am an ass.”
He shot her a look of impatience. “A rose is no less beautiful for keeping her petals tucked behind her thorns. There is beauty and mystery in restraint.” He stopped mid stride. “I assure you, if you were dressed in nothing at all—”
“Lord Winterly!” She all but choked on his name. “I am quite sure I do not need to hear the rest of that remark. Besides, there are many who would disagree with your notion of beauty.”
He glanced down at her, one brow winging. “What do I care for the opinions of troglodytes, they do not understand what beauty is.”
“And how, pray, do you define beauty?”
“It is experienced, not defined, Miss Rose. Beauty reveals herself by degrees and one must remain patient and use more than the eyes if one is to become truly aware of beauty.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and lead her out of the ballroom. The hallway was, for the most part, largely empty now, save for the odd footman or steward rushing about.
She was beginning to relax now that he appeared inclined to behave himself. “I confess, I have always understood it as merely a sort of harmony or symmetry of form and feature.”
“You speak of cold beauty—seasonal at best; in the end, the maiden becomes the crone.” He stopped and turned to her suddenly. “The devil himself is said to be beautiful.”
“Yes, I know.” She followed him into the drawing room. It never occurred to her that, in a suite of rooms wherein there were over a hundred people at any given moment, she would find herself there alone with him. But that was exactly how she suddenly found herself—alone with him yet again.
“Evil,” he was saying, “likes best to conceal itself behind a mask of beauty, Miss Rose.”
“Evil and beauty are not synonymous, Lord Winterly. Not all that is beautiful is evil.” She ran her teeth over her lip and said, “You are not evil.”
“So,” he said with a chuckle, “you think me beautiful?”
With heat high in her cheeks, she wandered over to the harp sitting beside the pianoforte and plucked delicately at the strings.
“You play.” He sounded surprised.
“Not beautifully.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips quirking with humor. “Is music allowed to be beautiful?”
“Not if it only touches the ear—it must affect the heart as well.” He came up behind her and she stilled as his wake, peppered with salt and wind and earth, brushed her nape. He seated himself at the piano, his fingers flying deftly over the ivories, lending his harmony to the harp’s wispy notes.
The music kindled a powerful thrill in her breast as they locked eyes, their fingers easily stroking the notes to life and fueling the rhythm that seemed to rush in her veins. Was it the same for him? She laughed as he increased the tempo, her fingers beginning to ache. At last the music crescendoed and rushed over her, into her, and she all but collapsed onto her harp, euphoric. The last notes hung in the air like aftershocks, and it was a long moment before they disappeared altogether.
“That,” he said, “is beauty; infinite beauty.” His breathing was strangely unaffected by the effort. “Beauty is that which transcends mortal flesh, Miss Rose. Never forget that.”
She was beginning to understand his notion of beauty. Now that their instruments were still and their music had faded from her blood, she felt shy of a sudden. Some heartfelt ineffability had passed between them and in its wake had left her trembling as though a part of him had glimpsed the indwelling shadows that even she dared not plumb.
He left the piano and held his arm out to her. “Shall we find you some sustenance? I could hear your stomach growling all through your performance.”
She hadn’t even realized she was hungry. As if to support his remark, her stomach suddenly gave a lusty cry. All that philosophizing had doubtless aroused her appetite.
The refreshments, she was to find, were rather a let down. It seemed her choices were limited to dry biscuits, plain bread, and stale cakes. She screwed her nose at the fare and noticed that Winterly was watching her again. Indeed, when was he not?
“These fashionable haunts,” he said, “are not known for their appetizing comestibles. I’m afraid if you’ve come here for the food, such as it is, you shall be sorely displeased.” He then plucked a glass of orgeat from a nearby salver and handed it to her.
She thanked him, sipped it, and set it down