The Last Killiney
Page 42
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On Monday, he took Ravenna to the opera.
It was The Siege of Belgrade by a composer Ravenna had never heard of, a man named Storace. Although it wasn’t Mozart, with Paul beside her, Ravenna was melancholy from the first note, even though the story was comic. The divine quality of the singers’ voices and the weaving of the melodies had the extreme effect of dousing her mind with romantic thoughts. When Paul whispered close to her ear, explaining to her this part of the story or that, she knew she loved him.
How could she not? With his engaging eyes misted by candlelight, his hair loose from its ribbon and his patient, playful explanations, how could she be unmoved by these things? When he leaned into her shoulder to point out something, a strand of his hair fell against her neck. Feeling it, she found herself clinging to his earlier drunken compliment while at the same time, telling herself she could not, must not, stray too close. As much as her need for him weighed on her soul, it would drive him away if he felt it.
And yet, by the end of the opera, she’d surrendered. She nestled close. She let her hand around his arm, and to her surprise, he didn’t seem to mind. Paul kept whispering, and soon she felt his head next to hers, the sensation sending a quiet shudder throughout her body, making her giddy and reckless with wanting him.
When the opera was finished, she tried so hard to put away these feelings. Paul uncurled himself from her embrace and she let him, pretended to be unaffected by his touch, but she knew she was no good at pretending. For the rest of the night she was lost to staring at him when he wasn’t looking, and did he notice?
If it mattered to him how she pined that night, he kept it to himself.