Ch 9

The confrontation with Alexandre ate away at me for the remainder of the day. Although I had told Charles to make certain that he stayed indoors and read it was not even an hour later that I heard my son in the yard with Lisette after her classes finished for the day. He had disobeyed. I couldn't blame him. I was keeping him from the woman who had given him life and abandoned him on my doorstep.

When the time came, Alex would be grateful that I allowed him to meet her. At last he would understand why I demanded his patience.

According to Christine's last letter, she was staying in a suite at the Wisteria, which was within walking distance of my home. My heart beat faster as the seconds ticked by and our reunion was eminent. Hearing her sing at the exposition was not nearly enough; I needed to see her up close, to feel the heat of her body next to mine, to gaze into her lovely eyes once more. I had wilted in her absence. She was truly the only one who could revive me.

No one bothered me for the rest of the day as I reacquainted myself with all of Christine's letters. Before I knew it the sun had faded and the lamps in the room needed to be turned up.

To my surprise, the light was on in the second window of the Seuratti house well before the sun set. Every time I glanced out the window of my room I stared at it to be certain I wasn't mistaken. Sure enough, Julia's invitation flickered, kindling my own desire for her company.

There are unspoken rules to our arrangement that we established long ago: If Julia wishes to see me, she lights a candle in her bedroom window. For the past five years, I have walked through the back door of her home and into her kitchen where she takes my hat and cloak and leads me into the parlor. There I indulge in whatever sweets she serves, enjoy a cup of tea, and have the pleasure of her company.

We have settled into a comfortable pattern. Sometimes she invites me over two nights in a row, sometimes it is less frequent. Sometimes I talk incessantly about my music while she politely nods, other times we discuss politics, books, or foreign affairs. And although Julia frequently leads me up the stairs and into her bedroom, I do not expect every evening to result in physical pleasure.

Before I had made Julia a widow, I had the distinct displeasure of hearing her beg Louis Seuratti for mercy. I heard her skirts rip, I heard her tossed against walls and onto their bed, and her pleas of protest become forced submission. I would be damned if I ever laid a hand upon her without permission. One look at me and the world assumed I was a monster. One look at Louis and the world assumed he was a gentleman.

As for my rules when it came to our arrangement? Mine is quite simple and yet I suppose also terribly inconvenient. I do not allow Julia to touch me above the neck.

Of course my boundaries are complicated as I much desire to feel her lips against mine, to taste the sweetness of her flesh. We are intimate, yes, but her hand is not permitted to venture along my face, both good side and bad. Our lips do not touch, and I have made certain that she has never seen me without the mask. Not once has she asked and never would I attempt to be in her company without something over my face.

That, at least, is a lesson I have learned all too well.

On occasion, though she knows I find no joy in it, she touches the back of my neck or my hair. She knows that it is nothing more than an illusion as my hair never grays or changes in length, but she has never said a word, even when irritated with me, and for that I am a grateful man. Julia is a good woman, one I nearly consider a friend. Nearly.

As much as my mind was filled with Christine, I could not help but notice how my blood pulsed hotter and faster through the regions most associated with my masculine desires. I do dare say that thinking of her body tangled in the sheets gave me a taste of dessert before dinner.

Imagine my shock and utter dismay when I ventured down to dinner and discovered there was not a setting for me at the head of the table. The moment I walked in both Meg and Alexandre looked down while Charles moved his napkin from his plate to his lap.

"Where is the food?" I asked, so uncouth in my physical yearning.

"Julia left a note. Didn't Alexandre give it to you?" Madeline asked. She rose from the table and glanced at Alex.

"A note for what? To starve me?"

Madeline placed her hands on her hips. "She asked you to join for her supper." She glanced at the clock on the mantle. "You'll be late, Erik, best go now."

"I never said I agreed."

"I thought you had agreed. I didn't make enough food, I'm afraid."

Inwardly I screamed at all of them sitting in silence at my table in my house eating the food that belonged to me.

"Fine," I sneered.

With that, I left the dining room and returned to my room where I sat at my desk and stared out the window. The candle was still lit, a golden beacon in the night luring me to her room. Her invitation still stood.

But this was not part of our arrangement. We were not dinner partners. True, we did enjoy casual conversation taking place before and after our mating rituals. Somehow I assumed polite conversation was meant to lessen the shame of what we did, of what we still considered a secret despite half of Paris probably being aware that the recluse and the widow met several times a week after sundown.

Supper at Julia's home, I scoffed as I threw my cravat on the floor. I'll be damned if I dress for supper in her house. How dare she assume that I would even attend. The very thought of her gall made me stomp step after step down the stairs, the rage I felt accentuated once by the slamming of the back door and again by the gate.

"I knew you would come," Julia said. She stood outside the threshold of her kitchen door with a smile the moment I entered her garden.

She stood with her hands clasped behind her back and the most repulsive grin on her face, as though she found my presence amusing. Women and their beauty, their soft voices and graceful manner, are only bits and pieces of heartache and deceit. The Bible would have all men believe that women were created for our benefit but there are women such as Julia that make me think that we have been wrong. They are intoxicating, worse than liquor, more troublesome than gambling. Women are traps few men can escape and I, standing at her mercy in a moonlit garden, had been ensnared.

"Well?" I questioned. "What do you want?"

Her grin widened, the little Cheshire cat. Lewis Carroll would have been damned proud of her. "Good evening, Erik."

I looked her over. She was not dressed for our usual encounters. There were far too many buttons and laces, too many skirts and cumbersome clothing covered all but her face. Apparently this would be the second night in a row where she lured me in and denied me all physical pleasures. Damn this woman and her control. If I did not believe in being a gentleman, I would have had her heels-up in the flower patch with her skirt over her head.

"Don't give me that look," Julia scoffed. "Supper first." Her eyes twinkled, lips puckering. "And then we shall see."

"This is not part of…our…agreement." That was as tactful as I could manage given the extent of my anger.

"Then find a woman you may pay one hundred francs to lie beneath you," she retorted as she strolled toward me. "Put an advertisement in the paper and perhaps then you will have your sated your physical demands."

That was not at all what I meant. I felt my breath catch in my throat at her harsh words.

"Are you breaking our arrangement?" I asked, my body stiffening. She mocked me by insinuating that I hire a woman for company. It was utterly ludicrous to even suggest such a thing. I have more sense than to bed a common prostitute, some unrefined tart lurking in shadow.

"I invited you for supper."

"I decline." My stomach growled as if in protest of my words.

Julia crossed her arms and looked me over. "Oh? And why is that?"

"I owe you no explanation."

With a careless shrug, she walked away from me at that moment. Not another word left her mouth as she sauntered up the stone path and disappeared into her home. All she did was glance back once and smile again, which really gave me no choice but to follow her.

The table was set with a single candelabrum in the center. It was simple, just as I would expect from Madame Seuratti as she was not a woman who demanded jewels and furs and extravagant furnishings. She was always a quietly sophisticated woman who had managed her funds well, and though her home was sparsely decorated, I have always found it pleasant and welcoming for more than the reasons I come to see her.

"Sit, please," she said.

I helped her into her own seat and then stared at the opposite end of the table where I was supposed to take my place. Not once had we sat in the dinning room. We always sat side by side in the parlor, our armchairs situated in such a manner that Julia often leaned over and grasped my hand. The first time her fingers had entwined with mine, the gesture was so achingly intimate that I had nearly pulled away, assuming she had touched my hand on accident.

"Why tonight?"

Julia straightened. "To celebrate," she said without looking me in the eye.

Her hand touched mine, the caress once so foreign now something that seemed automatic and expected. I wanted her caress too badly to leave the dining room. Her hand was so soft, so warm, so gentle as she moved it from my fingers to my wrist. Later it would be different. She would dig her fingers into my shoulders, run her hands down my back.

"To celebrate," I agreed as I joined her for supper. I ignored the wariness I felt inside, the hint of a disaster lingering on the horizon.