Disclaimer: I obviously don't own any of these characters, except for Adele, Tavington, however is not my property. There is no intent to harm or offend with the following text.
Please Read and Review this, it's my first time posting a work and I'd love to hear back. I'm not certain if I'm going to continue this story, but hopefully if there's a positive response I will. This chapter is not too terribly adult, but I just wanted to make certain that no one was reading it that shouldn't.
She stood alone in the vastly open room, uncertainty pressing in from every side. There was regret in her very stance, the way her spine curved inward slightly instead of holding her up proudly. There was heat in her immediate vicinity, body warmth from her heavy cloak and thick lamb's wool shawl, but the air within the master bedroom was chill and oppressive. She turned slowly in a circle, violet eyes wide, taking in what little she could see in the heady darkness.
The crackle of a door being open, and the click that followed forced her spine back into its upright position. She shuddered without any real emotion, a reaction to the nervous feeling spreading throughout her middle. But revenge, an emotion stronger than fear, was just behind the bitterness. Her family would know of this outrage and nothing but her calm cooperation could hasten her homecoming. This was just an unpleasantry, an amateur kidnapping executed undoubtedly for sport and nothing more, maybe a paltry ransom, but nothing serious.
The thickness of gray shadows persisted around her, making the boots rumbling across the floor come from every direction. She dared not move anymore, perhaps her silent stalker would miss or even forget about her presence. But what she did not know was that malice never wavered in sight; jealousy is ever hawkish.
"So kind of you to join me, Miss Anjoy."
"Who are you? I demand to know your name."
"In good time," the voice was steely, British.
"S'il vous plaît, let me go, you know this is madness."
"Miss Anjoy will please be quiet."
"I will not," but her statement lacked strength of defiance.
The laugh that followed floated around her as the sound of whispers, liquid and devoid of any real sound. A hand snaked from around her neck and caught the clasp of her cloak, unhooking the silver device expertly. The heavy garment fell to the floor without pretense, abandoning her to the will of the cold.
"Clelia, such a beautiful name...like music."
"Who are you?"
"Does it really matter?"
She knew his voice sounded vaguely familiar, but that was not enough to satisfy the dread that was clouding her reason. Clelia would not panic, panicking gave him the advantage. Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she gazed straight ahead, not allowing him the satisfaction of her genuine curiosity.
A hand, warm to the touch but with a frigid despair just beneath the skin, ghosted over her right collarbone. Clelia felt the space between her eyes zap in response. That unearthly, melodious laughter filled the space again, ringing around her head before settling into the dusty corners. She wanted more than anything to see his face, to know the eyes behind the advances and to feel level with this obstacle. He was the obstacle.
"I hope at least you know why you are here," he told her softly.
"Not the smallest idea."
"Can you be so ignorant? So naive?"
"Then I have come to the conclusion that I am here to be insulted."
"You're getting closer."
His answer brewed a variety of uncertainty she couldn't swallow or ignore. Insulted? Well, he'd already succeeded in making her feel stupid and childish, there were precious few things left to remark on.
"Coward, show me your face."
There was nothing but his steady exhalation of air.
"Fool, do you know what my family will do to you? Fool."
"Such charming pet names, Miss Anjoy, I wonder you have not enchanted a gentleman into marriage."
But conversation was not his main intent, apparently, as Clelia felt her shawl being pulled back from her shoulders. Hot breath fountained down her neck and the back of her dress, curling around the contours of her vertebrae. Her palms pressed against her abdomen instinctively, as though he had found some deeply secret chord within her.
Now the desire to see his face persisted in her mind unerringly. A throb had developed within her brain, a message to her body that this lack of identity made him supremely powerful. But his power did not end at anonymity. Clelia could sense his hands moving again, prowling her body without contact, agitating her to gasping breaths. A strained pause, the dust flickering in the moonlight that had escaped into the room, and then the back of his hand glancing over the delicate skin of her breasts. Clelia felt the bodice constrict her lungs to the point of choking her.
His hand glided to the hollow of her neck. His thumb explored the gentle dip at the base of her throat as he located the corresponding spot on the other side of her body. She was caught between the tenuous pressures, surprised by the precision of the sensation. It waxed her head with narcotic bliss and any trace of struggle disappeared. The sensuous touch of his lips, lighter and softer than a man's ought to be, propelled her body into his other hand, her breast swelling into his grasp.
Clelia had abandoned her mantra, her one tactic, her apathy, and she realized that the panting breaths she heard were her own. She knew now that his seduction was complete, and any attempts to regain her footing would be useless. It was frustration, the agitation of having no control that made her eyes clench. Her mouth was dry with lust. Her palms slicked the soft damask of her bodice. She knew his hold on her senses could only last so long and hoped that with recognition his ploy would fall apart. Unhappily, Cleclia also realized that the chance of his faculty diminishing was most likely nil.