“Of course I’m referring to him. It’s rather difficult to confuse him with another.”
He bristled and broadened his already considerable shoulders. “I have not been acquainted with him.”
“If you were not acquainted, how did you know he was not invited?”
“I did not see my uncle greet him at the door,” he said, his voice strung tight and low. “It was obvious he snuck inside.”
No. The rage in his face had been deeper than that. I knew in my bones that he wasn’t telling me everything.
“I apologize if you mistakenly received the wrong impression,” he said curtly, moving away from the stone church wall. “But that was our first meeting.”
Liar.
“Is he an acquaintance of your sister?” Mr. Braddock asked, attempting a guileless innocence and failing. “Is she here today?”
I ignored his question and latched onto his mention of my sister. “What is your interest in Rose? Why were you so intent on speaking to her with all that nonsense about her gift?”
Frowning, he spoke slowly to me as though I were a child. “I wished to thank her for helping save my uncle’s life last week.”
Ha! “You could have easily given her all the thanks and gratitude in one sentence. But you demanded a private word with her. You, sir, wanted to talk to her about her ‘powers.’ What could you mean by that?”
His eyes narrowed in annoyance, and his lips twisted into a sardonic smile, a lazy, roguish attitude altering his features in a way intended to make a girl swoon. “Miss Wyndham, I think your problem is one that is common amongst bored country dwellers—you’re scrutinizing meaningless details when there’s nothing to be found. I simply wished to speak to your lovely, demure sister. Now, I’m sorry, but if there’s no other problem, I believe a higher power is calling.”
I gaped at the sweeping generalizations and mouthed inarticulately as he passed me with a smirk and a tip of his hat.
Finally, I found my tongue and my feet to follow him to the church steps. “My problem, Oh Lord Byron, is this secretive, mercurial behavior! First you make all sorts of strange, veiled suggestions, then you hide information and lie to me! I know you know Mr. Cheval, and you will tell me where he is!”
Confronting him directly on the issue was remarkably refreshing, like puncturing the skin of an orange. Still, he simply ignored me and stormed up the steps, taut as a bent bow. I flew after him like an arrow.
“Why can’t you answer a straight question with the truth? Do you believe this brooding masquerade is somehow attractive? Just tell me what you know and stop wasting my time.” His back tensed visibly under his jacket as he spoke without turning to me.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure. Except, of course, if you stopped wasting mine.”
I felt all shreds of rationality flee my head. “Mr. Braddock!” I half yelled. “Stop at once!” He gave no sign of acknowledgment.
How dare he! Fuming, I flew up the steps behind him, hissing his name to no avail. As his hand closed on the church door, I reached and grabbed his wrist, catching the bare skin between his glove and shirt. At once, a rush of hot blood and some unfamiliar, sublime essence worked itself into my veins. Frissons of stimulation swirled up my arms—peaks and depths, vacuums and floods, compressions and explosions, endless contradictions fitting together like jigsaw-puzzle pieces. I was aware of every distinct, tiny part of my body. A gasp climbed out of my throat as I glowed brighter than the sun had ever shone. And then he wrested his wrist away, our connection severed. I was again normal and alive and existing here on earth, and he was gazing at me with horrified concern, his own breath coming in shallow pants.
“What on earth did you do?” The words left my still-trembling lips without permission.
His expression changed to wonder as he took me in, and his eyes darted to our hands, as though they had suddenly appeared at the ends of our wrists. Indecipherable emotions swam in the depths of those eyes, and his hand hovered up to my face, but with a snap, he pulled it back, afraid to cross some unspoken boundary.
“You . . . you’re well?” The words fell softly, reverently from lips that curled into a soft smile. I stood transfixed for a moment before pulling away from him, away from the confusing sensations that warmed my skin.
“Wh-what?” I stuttered, stumbling away.
He followed eagerly, face utterly transformed by a strange zeal. “It must be something—my God!” He cut himself off with a deep, relieved laugh. “Miss Wyndham, you needn’t hide it from me. It must have to do with your power.”
Just then, the church door opened, and for the first time in my life, I thanked God for the unexpected appearance of my vexed mother.
“Darling,” she said, “I am sure you and Mr. Braddock would like to attend church today, yes?”