Waiting
She could not understand the power he held over her. This man. This Count. The power to make her forget herself in a room full of people. The power to make her forget that he was married.
When he took her in his arms to dance, every move was graceful sensuality. It was his voice, though, that captivated her, seduced her. Words in Italian; whispered, urgent. Richer in meaning for her being unable to understand them. Their intention was clear. They burnt her skin.
Walter was a fancy she would endure until it became something more, something different, and she would be unable to distinguish how it had started. It would become part of her, absorbed into her skin, into herself, flowing with her blood. The Count was different. The Count marked her with his intention. This night of dancing would leave scars. She would be irrevocably changed because of the way he said her name, the way he looked into her eyes. She, as innocent in these matters as she should be, could not fail to understand what he wanted. She understood all too clearly how Laura's Aunt could become meek and obedient. She just sat there whilst her husband seduced another and this losing of herself was Marian's saviour. She was not to allow herself under the thrall of any man and yet how easily she handed herself to Fosco, letting all of her fire, her spirit, become like water and drip from open fingers.
Up in her room she paced, disgust at herself berating around and around in her mind. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her lips. She felt his breath there, how close they had been. She had wanted to kiss him. The want was overpowering. She had had no idea what it truly felt like until now. Her feelings for Walter had been a sweet, forbidden ache. Pure in their innocence. She had loved his company, his presence. She had loved him with hidden longing and had dealt with the consequences in her heart when he had chosen her sister. No matter that Laura could not be with him, he had chosen. Loving Walter was standing in a mountain stream. Refreshing and sharp. Gentle. Soothing. Her feelings for the Count were a storm. Violent. Terrifying. Electric. They tossed her in winds and drenched her to the skin.
She had wanted to kiss Walter with chaste lips, a brush of skin, sweetly. The Count she wanted to kiss in a way that would make her breathless and burn her from the inside out.
Marian watched the hands on the clock and waited. Minutes turned into the next hour and her pacing slowed. She wished she could be out walking, or riding, or running, something that could bring her peace, but she did not dare leave the lockable confines of her room.
In ones and twos, she heard footsteps retreating to bed chambers. The light tread of Laura halted outside her room.
"Marian?" her voice whispered, and fingers brushed the wood of the door tenderly. Marian held herself motionless until the footsteps faded, and Laura retired to bed. How Marian wished she could join her, but her vigil was not yet over, nor would she trust her dreams tonight.
Still she watched the hands on the clock. Still she waited.
The second set of footsteps was heavier, loaded with her expectation of their arrival. They came after the house had fallen silent and the occupants slept. Marian felt alone in the darkness of the night, alone in the pressing stillness. Her candles fluttered light, casting shadows. The footsteps stopped at her door. She had sat herself in a chair, fully dressed and now she gripped the arms to keep herself from getting to her feet.
"Miss Halcombe?" his voice drifted through the wood, deep and sensual. Her eyes slid shut and she gripped the chair harder. "Marian?" She felt a shudder at the use of her name and swallowed her response. "Allow me to explain."
She could not. She knew what would happen if she opened that door and part of her wanted it so badly it was all she could do to stay in the chair. She wanted him to stalk in, to murmur to her in his language, to kiss her until she couldn't breath and peel every item of clothing from her body. So, she stayed put. She did not answer.
"Very well," he said at last. "I shall speak to you tomorrow."
She heard the footsteps move away and only then allowed herself to move to the door and press one hand flat against it. She felt the small victory of self-control over desire in a relieved rush of warmth to her chest. She felt a little stronger for it, although her mind felt exhausted.
She could fight this, and she would. She would not surrender.
Her solitary vigil now completed, her point to herself proven, Marian's fingers found her fastenings and began to ready for bed.