Georgia's POV
Carlisle doesn't fear silence the way most men do.
He lets it breathe between us, as if quiet belongs to him as much as words.
"Tell me, Mrs. Mason."
His voice comes low beneath the party's din.
"You seem to enjoy art. Do you have a favorite artist?"
The question startles me. Not for lack of answer, but because no one ever bothers to ask what I think about anything more substantial than table settings.
When was the last time someone asked you a real question?
I rotate my glass, watching bubbles rise like tiny rebellions against gravity.
"I admire many."
He makes a sound like velvet against bare skin.
"That's a polite way of avoiding the question."
A genuine smile escapes me.
"Very well. If forced to choose... Degas."
His gaze turns thoughtful.
"Interesting. Most would say Monet or Renoir. Something pretty and digestible. But Degas... his dancers weren't just graceful. They were exhausted. Stained with sweat beneath the beauty."
I study him then, really look at him, and realize with a jolt that he understands.
"I've always admired how he painted what others ignored. The truth beneath the performance."
He tilts his head, eyes brightening like a predator scenting blood.
"So you prefer art that tells the truth?"
"Isn't that what it's meant to do?"
"Not always."
He lifts his glass.
"Some art exists to deceive. To sanitize reality."
"And do you prefer that kind?"
"I prefer honesty. Even when it's uncomfortable."
I laugh quietly.
"That's not common among men of your standing."
"Perhaps that's why I find them so terribly dull."
I glance across the room where Josiah holds court, candlelight catching the silver in his waistcoat.
A beautiful antique with edges that cut deep when you get too close.
Look at your husband. Look at the deal you made. Was it worth it?
"And you, Lord Brocandale? What art speaks to you?"
"Turner."
He answers without hesitation.
"The master of storm and shadow?"
His smile unfurls slowly, heat radiating off it like a furnace.
"Indeed. His skies are untamed, his oceans violent. No softness, no deception. Only chaos and inevitability."
A shiver traces my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I look at him, really look, and see it. That same restlessness, that same feeling of being trapped in a world that doesn't fit quite right.
Or perhaps, that he refuses to fit into.
It's disorienting, being seen.
Not merely observed like a painting on auction, but understood down to the marrow.
I've spent years as decoration. A trained daughter, a polished wife, a figure to be presented but never known.
Josiah has never asked what I think of art or literature or anything that matters.
To him, my mind is an inconvenient accessory, like a purse that doesn't quite match his plans.
But Carlisle Brocandale looks at me like I'm a puzzle box hiding something precious.
A story worth hearing to its bloody end.
Don't be a fool. He doesn't see you. He sees a challenge.
"You speak as though art and truth are interchangeable."
I manage to keep my voice steady.
"Perhaps they are. Or at least, they should be."
I exhale unsteadily.
"Not everyone prefers truth."
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, something more intimate, like a secret pressed against my ear.
"No. But I suspect you do."
I have no answer.
Because for the first time in years, I admit what we both know to be true.
I'm starving for honesty in a world built on beautiful lies.
The evening progresses, conversation flowing around us like dark water.
Yet I remain trapped in his orbit, unable, unwilling, to break free.
We discuss books, then music, each exchange revealing another layer, another glimpse of souls too similar for comfort.
This is how affairs begin. This is how lives end.
Then a hand grips my elbow with calculated precision.
"My dear."
Josiah's voice slices between us, smooth as marble and twice as cold.
"I've been looking for you. Lord Hatfield wishes to speak with us before we leave."
I turn to find my husband's face a perfect mask, though his fingers dig into my arm with enough force to leave five perfect bruises by morning.
His eyes never acknowledge Carlisle. A calculated insult that speaks volumes.
"Of course," I murmur, sliding back into my familiar role like a corpse into a drawer.
I turn to Carlisle with a practiced smile.
"It was a pleasure, Lord Brocandale."
Something like regret flashes in his eyes before he bows slightly.
"The pleasure was entirely mine, Mrs. Mason."
The way he says my name, my married name, feels like an accusation.
A reminder of the chains I willingly locked around my own wrists.
I let Josiah lead me away, feeling Carlisle's gaze burning into my back long after we've disappeared into the crowd.