Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 64

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 64
The moment they returned to Inn Room 204, what greeted them both was a penetrating damp and a bone-deep chill.
“It’s cold.”
Beatrice shuddered, breathing heavily. It wasn’t as bad as the Peat Bog Region’s weather, but once the rain and wind had started here, the temperature had plummeted steadily.
“The Northern Region grows cold faster than other places.”
Patrick secured the inner shutters firmly and lit the stove. The north wind that rattled the window frame grew increasingly fierce, and both of them, drenched in rainwater and mud, found themselves at a loss.
“We’ll need to wash again, won’t we? I’ll go down and ask for bathwater. We can do it like yesterday.”
Patrick stripped off his jacket, quickly dried himself with a towel, and hastened downstairs.
Soon the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from below the staircase. The same elderly Inn Worker from yesterday trudged up and down the creaking stairs, filling the bathtub with water.
“Even if you are newlyweds, you’re quite something. Did you two roll around in the mud outside in weather like this?”
The worker chuckled at the sight of Patrick and Beatrice, both looking like drowned rats caked in mud. He seemed to think they’d been up to something outside.
The worker didn’t press the teasing further, but made several trips back and forth pouring hot water, then added that he’d be off to drink and would clear the bathwater in a couple of hours.
“Wait, please!”
Patrick caught the worker’s arm just as he was about to leave, and hastily pressed an extra silver coin into his hand.
“Come back in a bit. You’ll need to change the water once more, like yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Well… because I need to wash too.”
“Ha, if you’re husband and wife, you can wash together and save the trouble. Always so formal, aren’t you? What, are you nobility or something?”
The worker clicked his tongue as though Patrick were being needlessly fussy and descended the stairs.
The door closed with a click. The room filled with steam. Patrick, watching the white wisps of heat rising above the bath, quickly drew the screen shut and called to Beatrice with careful politeness.
“Take your time. I’ll step out for a moment.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick fled the room like a coward, shut the door behind him, and gripped the corridor railing, hunching his body tight.
God, I’m losing my mind.
From the moment the bathwater had begun filling before the stove, he’d been in torment. Impure thoughts kept invading his mind.
Less than an hour ago, holding Beatrice in his arms in that cold, decrepit mill kept surfacing in his thoughts until he felt he might go mad.
When he’d held her close to endure the damp cold, the sensation had been intoxicating—her breath, her warmth, every nerve in his body had stood on edge, allowing him to feel her in their entirety.
The soft exhalation of breath as she relaxed against him, the dewy skin made even more supple by the rain. Even beneath the briny smell of earth, a faint fragrance had reached his nostrils—jasmine, surely.
Patrick leaned against the railing as if about to collapse, clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled to cool his dangerously heated body. But the memory of that moment, so tightly pressed together, only grew more vivid and raw, tormenting him further.
Those eyes.
When he’d stepped forward to embrace her and removed her coat, he’d seen the wet shirt clinging to her. The fabric stretched across her chest had been far too stimulating, and as she’d breathed heavily, fixing those green eyes on his face, it had been more than enough to strip away his reason.
Had he not, in that moment holding her, recalled the declaration made the night the Unmarried Alliance was sealed, Patrick would have impulsively kissed her.
At least for that instant when their eyes had met, he’d fallen into the delusion that Beatrice felt the same.
Golden lashes fluttering slowly, cheeks flushed, lips parted slightly as she looked up at him with those eyes. The way she’d wrapped her arms around him the moment he’d pulled her close.
Patrick closed his eyes. As his body, exhausted by profound fatigue and cold, grew drowsy, sweet imaginings rolled in like fog.
He imagined confessing that he seemed to like her, that he could no longer control this feeling, and then pulling her close, kissing her. Feeling her warmth, drawing her waist toward him, their bodies….
Splash.
The sound of water dripping from beyond the closed door jolted Patrick suddenly awake.
I’m insane.
Patrick bit his lip, shame washing over him. No one had witnessed his state, but to his own mind, Patrick Bennett seemed like a despicable pervert.
In that dim, musty corridor of the inn, propped against the railing, hunched awkwardly—standing upright with effort—lost in impure fantasies about the woman bathing beyond the door….
This was nothing but disgusting depravity.
He scrubbed his flushed face repeatedly with dry palms.
Another splash of water sounded. Beyond the quiet door, it would be Beatrice gently lowering herself into the hot water.
This was unbearable. His body felt as though it might rupture.
If he lingered in this dark corridor listening to the sound of her bathing, he might do something shameful and desperate, so Patrick struck his lower abdomen several times hard, then descended the staircase to the floor below.
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Unlike the deserted corridor above, the pub with its separate entrance was packed shoulder to shoulder. The raucous chatter of villagers enjoying Festival Week, the sour smell of beer, and the crude squealing of someone fumbling through an Accordion assailed the ears.
Patrick avoided the noisy tables and claimed a seat alone in the darkest corner. As he approached the counter, the Innkeeper regarded him with curious eyes.
“Why have you come down alone? I thought we sent up bathwater for your wife.”
“Ah, yes. My wife is… washing herself.”
So why is the husband alone downstairs while his wife bathes? The Innkeeper’s look suggested as much, but Patrick ignored it and stubbornly ordered a glass of Whiskey.
The hot alcohol burned down his throat, warming his stomach. With a long sigh, he nursed the glass, propped his elbows on the table, and cradled his head in his hands.
What am I going to do? Starting with just tonight….
At this point, Patrick found himself recalling the Unmarried Alliance once more. When he’d declared he would never propose “even if heaven split in two,” Beatrice had countered that it was “the most thrilling thing she’d ever heard from a man.”
When she’d asked him to be her partner at the ball, he’d said it was merely to avoid “tiresome attention.” Even when they’d returned home in quite an intimate atmosphere that evening, hadn’t she said in the carriage that she was “pleased to have enjoyed the benefits of the Unmarried Alliance”?
She’d felt him to be a safe person, and she’d come to trust the comfort of their promise, drawing closer to him step by step. There was no room for their relationship to develop beyond this.
Not the slightest.
If he were to tell her now that he felt attraction toward her, Beatrice would surely be disappointed, realizing that Patrick Bennett was no different from any other man.
And more than that—it was Patrick himself who felt this way. He didn’t want to lose Beatrice. If he let himself be swept up in a moment of feeling, of desire, and revealed his heart only to grow distant from her forever….
That life would be far more agonizing. He couldn’t bear the thought of enduring a world without her. Beatrice Somerset had already become far too precious to him.
Patrick, who had been lost in torment and forgotten the passage of time, suddenly realized he’d been there far too long and rushed up the Staircase.
He crossed the Corridor in a few quick strides and reached the door to Inn Room 204, where he drew a deep breath and knocked gently on the closed door.
“Beatrice, may I come in?”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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