It was a leisurely diplomatic excursion in the States, but unfortunately, the two guests of honour have both come down with the flu. So enabling the unmarked sedan to decelerate to a halt in front of the Waldorf Astoria, one of the most resplendent, preeminent hotels in Manhattan. The pall of the night held its own against the ministrations of the denizens below.
'Your Majesty, this place?' Tom whispered incredulously. He was about to proffer a piece of cautioning advice, then realising his place, thought better of it, and chose to defer to the exalted personage he was chauffeuring.
'Yes here, thank you.' The demure silhouette of Elizabeth rose out of the dark vehicle, and with the ostensible savoir faire that was so characteristic of her, stepped forwards towards the lobby. The subtle click of her understating heels appeared to complement her chosen look perfectly – a modest elegance whose lascivious secrets lay locked to all but her incredibly providential husband. Her vanity concealed her true state of mind well – no onlooker would have observed the lightly flushed countenance, the sustained, elevated heartrate, her fractionally less coordinated movements, and her nearly unnoticeable erratic gait; her mind inundated with anticipation.
The attendant took her sanguine coat, and Elizabeth made her way to the hotel bar. The facility was just fuller than normal – a dash of patrons here, and a cluster there; ideally innocuous and anonymous. The polished wood bar was also moderately full, a stool or two interposing the occupants. Elizabeth sought a more concealed bunch of empty chairs, and carefully took her seat, circumspect of her lightly clutching rose dress swathing her – not too tight to be uncomfortable, but tight enough to require the occasional correction to prevent indiscretion. Drawing the attention of the young bartender, she ordered a pinot noir, surprising the man behind the bar with her accent.
'Your voice – I must have heard it somewhere before, madam.'
'You must be mistaken – I have never visited here before', the refined voice rejoined.
'My apologies, ma'am; your pinot noir.'
Elizabeth clutched her glass of red with more force than usual, and sipped the liquid as if it were an elixir. Her whole body shuddered and shook – with every moment, her lascivious desire effloresced further and further, and it took all her effort to contain her visceral emotion in the fragile, supple, frame. Elizabeth resided there at the bar, petrified by the deluge of tension and anticipation, for what seemed like an eternity for her – the only ephemeral respite being the insufficient steadying power of her wine.
Glancing across the sea of customers, Elizabeth's gaze attached itself to a staunch gentleman in an evening tuxedo – her heart galloped; the tide of desire surged within her – forcing her to order another drink – a scotch this time – to cover up this salacious pulse. The tall, composed gentleman glided towards the bar, and ordered a highball, while simultaneously taking his seat, a mere two seats away from Elizabeth. Out of her periphery, Elizabeth flittingly observed him slowly consuming his drink, and then glance around the bar. His gaze edged closer to her, and soon landed on her lean visage. There it reposed, accelerating Elizabeth's already strained heart to a new limit.
