Read Online Shades of Neverland by Carey Corp - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carey Corp
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Peter most deliberately crossed the floor toward her. His intense eyes devoured her from the inside out. The closer he came, the more disoriented she felt. Sure she was about to swoon, Wendy looked away.
Peter came to a stop directly in front of her but she dared not look at him, fixing her eyes, instead, to a spot on the marble floor. He quietly cleared his throat to gain her attention, but still she could not look up.
“Miss Darling.” His deep voice caused her heart to rise to her mouth. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter Neverland.” Bending forward, he took her hand from her side, his touch fire to her clammy skin.
Raising her ungloved hand reverently to his lips, Peter kissed her.
To kiss a lady’s hand was perfectly acceptable and chaste, and yet Wendy’s blood raced with the intimacy of the action. Her skin radiated with warmth and remembrance, as if this was not its first meeting with Peter’s touch. Her eyes flashed to his. “I know who you are, Sir,” she replied more harshly than intended.
Undeterred, Peter beamed at her. His smile conveyed the radiance of a thousand suns. “A waltz,” he uttered in delight. “May I have this dance, Miss Darling?”
Without waiting for her response—for he had no doubt her answer would be anything other than yes —Peter pulled her to him. His free hand encircled her waist finding precise purchase against the swell of her hip. His rough jaw rasped against her cheek as he nuzzled her temple. In this way, Peter began to lead Wendy, waltzing in bold, carefree steps. They were the first to dance, but other couples soon filled the space around them until the floor swirled with graceful motion. Peter, however, was really the best dancer among them.
As Peter and Wendy danced, their senses became occupied with one another. One dance led to another and then another. Their ignorance of anything but each other gave them one glad hour, and as it was to be their last happy hour for some time, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.
As Wendy twirled in the young actor’s arms, something buried and long-forgotten stirred in her soul. It worked itself around in her brain, a feeling or recollection of a similar experience from her childhood. Innocent and heartless, it wanted to skip around the room for joy.
She almost knew him in that moment. In fact, if the very grown-up acting Wendy hadn’t deliberately rejected her instincts as childish, she and Peter both might have been rescued from the resulting folly and we might have been spared a story. But she did not heed her lost child, and the events that consequently transpired were set into unalterable motion.
In the way a loose thread can unravel an entire jumper, sometimes the most inconsequential of events set into motion the beginning of the end. Wendy’s thread was this: after several dances, the musicians took a well-earned break. Wendy, drunk with dancing, emerged from the golden sway of Peter’s arms one sense at a time.
First, cool air on her cheek replaced the warm scrape of Peter’s jaw. Then Peter released her form, which had so perfectly melded to his that the action created the sensation of one being cleaved in half. The scent of Peter—one of spicy, masculine possibility—was replaced with the pungency of food and instead of gentle melodies, speculative babble assaulted her ears. Her eyes blinked open to discover Peter staring in rapture which caused her mouth to go dry. His gaze was so penetrating that she looked away and, in doing so, exchanged unfortunate glances with the iron scrutiny of Aunt Mildred.
The old woman, who had insisted on attending as Wendy’s personal chaperone, had a distasteful look on her shrewd face as if she saw some unwelcome pest scurrying about the room. And understandably so, as the look on Wendy’s face confirmed the old matriarch’s suspicions about her niece’s ulterior motives. In that moment, Wendy knew Aunt Mildred had guessed the
Peter came to a stop directly in front of her but she dared not look at him, fixing her eyes, instead, to a spot on the marble floor. He quietly cleared his throat to gain her attention, but still she could not look up.
“Miss Darling.” His deep voice caused her heart to rise to her mouth. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter Neverland.” Bending forward, he took her hand from her side, his touch fire to her clammy skin.
Raising her ungloved hand reverently to his lips, Peter kissed her.
To kiss a lady’s hand was perfectly acceptable and chaste, and yet Wendy’s blood raced with the intimacy of the action. Her skin radiated with warmth and remembrance, as if this was not its first meeting with Peter’s touch. Her eyes flashed to his. “I know who you are, Sir,” she replied more harshly than intended.
Undeterred, Peter beamed at her. His smile conveyed the radiance of a thousand suns. “A waltz,” he uttered in delight. “May I have this dance, Miss Darling?”
Without waiting for her response—for he had no doubt her answer would be anything other than yes —Peter pulled her to him. His free hand encircled her waist finding precise purchase against the swell of her hip. His rough jaw rasped against her cheek as he nuzzled her temple. In this way, Peter began to lead Wendy, waltzing in bold, carefree steps. They were the first to dance, but other couples soon filled the space around them until the floor swirled with graceful motion. Peter, however, was really the best dancer among them.
As Peter and Wendy danced, their senses became occupied with one another. One dance led to another and then another. Their ignorance of anything but each other gave them one glad hour, and as it was to be their last happy hour for some time, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.
As Wendy twirled in the young actor’s arms, something buried and long-forgotten stirred in her soul. It worked itself around in her brain, a feeling or recollection of a similar experience from her childhood. Innocent and heartless, it wanted to skip around the room for joy.
She almost knew him in that moment. In fact, if the very grown-up acting Wendy hadn’t deliberately rejected her instincts as childish, she and Peter both might have been rescued from the resulting folly and we might have been spared a story. But she did not heed her lost child, and the events that consequently transpired were set into unalterable motion.
In the way a loose thread can unravel an entire jumper, sometimes the most inconsequential of events set into motion the beginning of the end. Wendy’s thread was this: after several dances, the musicians took a well-earned break. Wendy, drunk with dancing, emerged from the golden sway of Peter’s arms one sense at a time.
First, cool air on her cheek replaced the warm scrape of Peter’s jaw. Then Peter released her form, which had so perfectly melded to his that the action created the sensation of one being cleaved in half. The scent of Peter—one of spicy, masculine possibility—was replaced with the pungency of food and instead of gentle melodies, speculative babble assaulted her ears. Her eyes blinked open to discover Peter staring in rapture which caused her mouth to go dry. His gaze was so penetrating that she looked away and, in doing so, exchanged unfortunate glances with the iron scrutiny of Aunt Mildred.
The old woman, who had insisted on attending as Wendy’s personal chaperone, had a distasteful look on her shrewd face as if she saw some unwelcome pest scurrying about the room. And understandably so, as the look on Wendy’s face confirmed the old matriarch’s suspicions about her niece’s ulterior motives. In that moment, Wendy knew Aunt Mildred had guessed the
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