(a/n) Hey guys sorry it took a few days, my best friend got back from a trip and insisted on monopolizing all my time. A warning, I've been on spring break, I go back to school tomorrow. tear
Thanks to all my reviewers GoldenLyre, erik'sangel527, Crying Wasteland, forever in a bottle, LostSchizophrenic, and Leesainthesky, I love hearing from you.
Leesainthesky: Yes I know Erik was rather harsh, but she wasn't too nice either. Plus, he doesn't know what to think.
Forever in a bottle: Thanks for the comment on more back story. I do need that. I didn't really get to it in this chapter though. . .
erik'sangel527: Yes I love Belle too.
GoldenLyre: Who doesn't have a voice in their head?
Well guys I hope you like this chapter. All from Erik's POV.(a/n)
London, 1890, Erik
As the carriage began the journey to Christine's house, my stomach clenched and I imitated the motion with my hands, nervously flexing them. When I had received Christine's note a myriad of emotions had assaulted me—satisfaction, confusion, disappointment, and expectation. Despite my attempts to convince myself she would accept my offer; in reality I had been very unsure about her response. Her refusal two nights ago had been adamant, so I was at a loss in interpreting her acceptance. The obvious conclusion might be that money was really all she cared about. However, my monstrous visage was the unknown factor. Did her acceptance of my offer and all its implications make her more coldhearted, or more softhearted? Did it mean she cared nothing at all for me, or that she cared a little? I really had no idea. I leaned towards the idea that she cared nothing at all for me, how could she? And yet, if she cared nothing for me, but accepted my offer, did that not indicate that she was more coldhearted? That might be the obvious conclusion, but I found myself unable to reach that conclusion. I scowled, already I was softening towards her, and I had not even seen her again. Don't jump to conclusions, I counseled myself, but remember, she is not the innocent young Christine you used to know.
I sighed; I would try and read her tonight. During our last meeting I had hardly been complimentary, and yet her first words to me had wounded me greatly. She had aroused in me a desire to hurt her as much as she had hurt me—past and present. Confusion reigned in my soul. I hardly knew whether I wished to woo Christine with soft words, or show her how it felt to be treated with disdain.
I had chosen something safe for tonight. We were going to see a play at St. James Theatre. When I had first read the words "I await your convenience" I had found myself somewhat at a loss. Now that I had a mistress, I did not know what to do with her. That is, I didn't know the proper etiquette involved. Was there a proper etiquette for seeing your mistress? I had thought of just visiting her, but that had not seemed right. So instead I settled on going to the theater.
The carriage pulled to a stop, and I took a deep breath. Descending from the carriage, I picked up the bouquet of flowers I had brought for Christine. They were lovely flowers, lilies.
I advanced to the door and knocked—firmly and decisively—as if reassuring myself that I was in control. Brooke opened the door, and let me in.
"Madame will be with you in just a moment Monsieur Legard. Please wait here."
I stood in the hallway, awaiting Christine's appearance, sure that this whole process was deliberately constructed to torment men. I suppressed the urge to pace, and forced myself to calmly take a seat on one of the strategically placed chairs in the hallway. There I had a perfect view of the staircase, and there I sat, gazing unremittingly up at the portal through which Christine would emerge.
Minutes later I had my reward. She appeared at the top of the staircase, a vision in light pink. The top of the dress was sculpted to her torso, before it disappeared into the elegant swaths of fabric that constituted the skirt. Behind her, a magnificent train followed her every step, like a devoted worshiper trailing the footsteps of a goddess. Her gorgeous chestnut hair was piled up on her head, and a few perfectly formed curls were allowed loose to frame her face. But what struck me most was the innocent picture she presented, belying the experience I knew she possessed. She looked like a girl about to embark upon her first outing with a suitor, and I did nothing to destroy that impression.
I had stood at the first sight of her, deliberately schooling my features to an unreadable expression, but I could do nothing to restrain the intensity of my gaze.
She approached and dropped a brief curtsey, before extending her hand to me. Her little gloved hand lay in the air like a delicate snowflake that might dissolve if touched. Slowly, deliberately, I took her hand and lowered my head to kiss it, pressing my lips to her glove as it were the warm flesh underneath. Twice I had been granted this privilege, twice I had taken full advantage of it. Triumphantly, I felt a quiver run through her, before I relinquished my hold on her.
"Good evening monsieur," she said softly, her eyes unreadable.
Monsieur! Before the night was over I would once again hear the name Erik upon her lips.
"Good evening Christine," I said, carefully pronouncing her name—as if it were a dish to be savored.
Offering her the flowers, I said, "Here, my dear, these are for you."
"Thank you," she replied, "they are lovely."
"Yes," I agreed softly without taking my eyes off of her, "yes they are." I watched her closely, trying to determine if my words affected her or not.
Suddenly, Brooke appeared as if out of nowhere. I held the flowers for her while he helped her into her cloak, and then relinquished them to Brooke.
"Now, my dear," I said, "let us enjoy a night at the theater." She looked up at me briefly, as trying to determine something, before swiftly looking away.
She preceded me out of the door, and I helped her into the carriage, treasuring every pretext to touch her.
Once in the carriage we rode in silence briefly, before she asked, as if forced into speaking, "So, what are we going to see?"
"The Masqueraders by the playwright Henry Jones Arthur," I replied.
She stiffened, before answering in an expressionless tone, "That seems appropriate."
"Indeed? It is supposed to be quite an amusing piece."
"A farce perhaps?" she asked, her eyes carefully regarding mine.
"No," I replied, my voice low, "never that."
She looked away immediately, and was silent for a few minutes before speaking again.
"Well," she said, "I suppose that you have occupied yourself with something in the last decade."
Several biting retorts about the past rose to my tongue, but I suppressed them. I could not bring myself to shatter the delicate truce we had constructed.
"Yes," I replied, "I have been working as an architect for quite a few years now."
"Oh," she said, "What do you design?"
"A few public buildings, but mostly ostentatious homes for the newly rich."
She gave a little laugh, and my heart tightened, "Poor Erik, have you had to prostitute your art to these upstarts?"
Abruptly her smile faded, the word prostitute no doubt bringing unhappy thoughts to her mind. Swiftly I sought to put her at ease.
"Yes," I said, "but a few of them allow themselves to be guided by me. As for the rest, I do my best, but sometimes the monstrosities they insist on are ridiculous. Imagine, if you can my dear, a garden pavilion constructed to resemble a Greek temple. Not so bad you think? But then my ignorant client insisted I ruin the structure with vulgar figures, the worst of which were several obese cherubs—some as angels and one as cupid. Do you think he even realized the blasphemy he was committing by mixing those two creatures?"
She laughed engagingly in response, and at the sight of her rich brown eyes filled with merriment, I felt as if I accomplished a truly remarkable feat. I felt the carriage slowing, and I realized we must have reached the theater. Briefly feeling disappointed, I waited for a footman to open the door, and we emerged in front of the theater.
As we entered the bright lights of the theater's foyer, and made our way through the richly dressed crowd, Christine nodded to several people, but did not stop. I could feel their speculative glances upon us, and no doubt Christine did as well. As I put my hand to the small her back to guide her to our box, I could feel how tense she was.
We had nearly cleared most of the crowd, when a slickly handsome man effectively stopped our progress by stepping in front of Christine. Immediately I felt my muscles tighten up. The man reminded me of a well oiled snake.
The snake spoke. "Elise, my dear, how good it is to see you."
"Reggie, it's been too long," Christine replied, a dazzling smile pasted on her face. Elise? Reggie? How dare she call him Reggie when she had been calling me Monsieur! Although . . . she had called me Erik once in the carriage. Distracted by this thought I almost missed his next words.
"Indeed," he agreed, "we must have dinner sometime." Dinner, I thought, over his dead body. Christine wouldn't agree to dinner though, at least for now, I had my rights. I waited for her to refuse.
"Certainly," she replied, that damn smile still fastened upon her face. Certainly? No, we'll see, sorry, I won't be in town. Any of these responses would have been better than "certainly."
"I'll be in touch Elise," Reggie said with a sickly smile, "Until then my dear."
As soon as he left, I quickly began walking to our box. How dare Christine even think about having dinner with that snake! As of right now she belonged to me.
"Erik," she said, breathless, "you are walking too quickly for me. We are practically running."
I just glared down at her.
Soon I had her in the box, and immediately I pounced upon her. "What do you think you meant by certainly?" I asked in a cold hard voice.
"Erik," she said with a sigh, "he. . ."
But I interrupted her. "I have paid handsomely for exclusive rights, my dear. You will not be having dinner, or anything else for that matter, with him or any other gentleman."
She stiffened, anger entering her eyes, "Monsieur, you may have rights to a certain extent, but you do not control me. If I wish to have dinner with an old friend, that is my concern."
Why was this serpent of a man so important to her that she would risk my anger to see him again? Fury rose up in me, but I controlled my voice, aware of our surroundings. "Do you think that is wise, my dear, a great deal depends upon your cooperation."
Her eyes narrowed, "Are you threatening me sir?" Then abruptly her demeanor changed, and she gave me a contrite look, saying in a suddenly sweet voice, "Oh Erik, you are right, I don't know what came over me." She sank into a chair, and beckoned for me to sit. "Do you forgive me?"
Slowly I sat in the chair, thrown off guard by this swift change in manner.
She turned to me, laid a hand upon my shoulder, and pouting adorably pleaded, "Do say you forgive me Erik."
Warning bells went off in my head, and feeling considerably out of my depth, I cautiously replied, "I forgive you, I am sorry I lost my temper, but please say you will not see the man."
Her hand slid down to rest on my chest, causing me to draw in a breath, and the honeyed words continued, "Of course I don't have to see that silly boy, why would I wish to see him when I have a man?" She then leaned in and pressed a kiss to my jaw line, and I felt a wave of lust surge through me. I looked speculatively at her, under lowered eyes lids. Just what was going on?
Then she leaned forward, still resting that tantalizing hand upon my chest, and exclaimed, "The curtain is rising! Do pay attention Erik."
Throughout the play she continued her confusing behavior, simpering and flirting, batting her eyelashes, touching me, and, in fact, behaving just like the courtesan I had accused her of being. But she was a courtesan. My temper rose. She was being deliberately provocative. My heat rose as well. Bad word choice. The more she laughed, and seemed to enjoy the production, the worse my mood became. As soon as the last curtain fell I practically dragged her out of the theater.
On the ride to her house she filled my ears with inane chatter about the play, London, the universe. Then as the carriage pulled up, her look turned sultry, and she asked, "Are you coming in Erik."
Was I coming in? That had been my intention, wasn't it? Of course it was. Of course I was going in.
"How could I stay away," I purred, and saw a nameless emotion briefly cross her face, before she resumed her role.
Silently we exited the carriage, entered her house, and she led me up the stairs to her room.
The fire was burning low, casting a golden glow over her chamber. Christine's eyes were dark, her figure enticing, her lips beckoned to me. I could feel the passion course through my veins, but something held me back, and I merely stood there gazing at her.
Christine's eyes glittered, and she said in a blatantly affected manner, "Erik, come now, are you going to make me beg? Must I come over there and rouse you?"
She started advancing towards me, "What is your desire sir? There is much I can do to please a man."
This was not Christine, but yet she wore Christine's body.
Abruptly I reached for her, my lips descending on hers. At first my lips caressed hers, feather light, as I explored this territory, not new, but barely remembered. Gradually I deepened the kiss, my mouth slanting hard over hers, and I pressed my tongue against her lips, seeking entrance. With a little gasp, she opened her mouth, and our tongues collided in a desperate mating dance. The need for Christine was so intense, I felt like I would snap, but yet I pulled away. Gasping for breath, I resisted the temptation to pull her to me again. This did not feel right. I had never intended to do more than kiss her.
Christine gaze up at me, her breathing labored, her eyes filled with doubt, confusion, and, to my gratification, passion.
I reached out and took her hand, turning it over, I pressed a hot kiss on her palm.
"Thank you Christine, for a very pleasurable evening, you have truly made my night."
With that I turned and left.
