It would have been foolish to ask Christine just exactly what she meant- to answer her inquiry: "Erik, are you ready?", with a question of my own. I could imagine the addled Vicomte's response: "Whatever it is, mademoiselle, I assure you, I am prepared for it."
The image made me flinch inwardly, but I was not able to dwell on his arrogance at the time. Christine, my innocent little songbird, had me backed into a corner, literally. Her lithe dancer's-arms pinned me in-between two oak bookshelves, her sweet, but also predatory gaze beseeching me.
"Erik," her tone was indulgent and soft, a soothing caress, devoid of the forceful insinuations I had expected. "I have asked you before. . .at the church. . .remember. . .I gave you my promise. . .I asked you then how I might prove to you the sincerity of my feelings-"
"Yes, "I nodded. I refused to add anything further, as I feared that, perhaps, I had completely misunderstood her overtures. "I remember that night, my dear."
"Then, why must you continue to push me away, as if I were nothing more than a discarded rag every time I try to draw you close to me?"
My mouth went dry, and my fingers shook as those of a besotted schoolboy who does not know what to do with the object of his infatuation once she is within his reach. Actually, the only difference between myself and a schoolboy was that of age, and not experience. Christine offered me an expectant, if not challenging stare, as she finished with the lacings of her thin dressing gown. She rolled each slender shoulder back in turn, causing the silk robe to slide from her body and pool around her bare feet. With every ounce of fortitude within me, I did not allow my eyes to leave her face.
A woman's face, not a young girl's. . .
"Erik," the two short syllables of my chosen name rode on her deft whisper, a delightful quiver shaping the timbre of her voice. Her eyes glistened with what I assumed to be fresh tears, but no sobbing ensued. Indeed, it was the steady flicker of the candlelight reflected in her gaze that had created the vulnerable illusion of brimming eyes.
"Yes, Christine." My voice was solemn and reserved; though it was false. I was anything but composed and controlled, as I gripped the desk behind me with aching palms, palms eager to touch and caress.
"Don't be afraid," Her fingers went to the back of her corset and she blindly worried at its stays. "I'm not. I. . .I've never done something like this, but I am certain I am ready."
It was only then that my eyes traversed the length of her body, my mind absorbing every inch of the angel before me in meticulous detail, for it might very well be the first and also the final time in which a woman would grant me the image of her impossibly delicate beauty. "You are certain of what? I do not want to misinterpret your actions, Christine To do so, may very well bring great pain upon us both."
"My actions have nothing to do with pain, but the soothing of your soul. And my own." It was then that she reached her hands out to me, begging me to accept her offering. She did not falter in her gesture, but stood solid and proud as a statue, aware of the awe it inspires. Fueled by the intensity of desire, I eagerly took her hands in my own, bringing each finger to my lips in feverish, desperate kisses.
A little moan escaped her lips as she drew me closer, bringing our joined hands to press against the stiff fabric of her white corset. I had often imagined how a bride might appear on her wedding night. The sight of Christine before me, clad only in her stockings, pantaloons, and corset, waves of hair caressing the flesh of her shoulders- was the embodiment of an unrealized dream.
"Do you trust me?" She asked.
"You are the only person I have ever trusted." I replied, kissing the back of her palms. "You are the only one." It was no lie to placate the dear girl, she held my soul and my fate in her every choice; a fact that no longer frightened me.