Ugh – I know – this one took really long again. My internet connection is unstable at the best of times (one of the many perks of living in the country) so I wasn't able to get online for several days. So finally, I have the next chapter up, and I really hope you enjoy it. I must say that I really had trouble with the tenses here, because I'm also working on a Twilight fic that is written in past-tense. So if the tenses jump around a lot, I apologize. I checked it twice, but I always seem to miss stuff. Also, this one is very short, but I promise I will put up Chapter 10 on Monday, even if I have to drive to a friend's house and use their internet connection. AND, as an extra special treat, if I get fifteen reviews tonight (which I sincerely doubt, but a girl can dream) I will put up Chapter 10 TOMORROW. (Yes, I have absolutely no shame.) Tee hee. Love you all.
Oh, and big, chewy, fudgy cookies for all of you who reviewed, and thanks soooo much for all the praise and whatnot. You guys rock.
A note for understanding – "the ton" was a term used back in the day to refer to the elite of London society. Basically the wealthy and aristocratic.
"What?" I am taken aback by Simon's statement. It is probably the last thing I ever expected.
Simon smiles ruefully. "She's able to cross into our realm –"
"Yes, I know that," I interrupt impatiently. Simon gives me a silencing look.
"Last night she paid me a visit, and she brought several knives with her."
I am torn between shock and amusement. While I rather enjoy the idea of Simon dodging an armed ghost, I can't believe that Pippa has come to such great power. While it seems she may be momentarily on my side if she's attacking my enemy, her true nature has been twisted by the dark creatures of the Realms, and so I cannot rely on her sudden fealty.
"You seem surprised," Simon says, breaking the silence and interrupting my thoughts. "I take it that you did not put her up to this?"
I scowl at him. "I would never attack somebody to serve my own agenda," I snap, reminding him of his own treachery.
Simon only smiles languidly. "But would you kiss him?"
"What?"
Simon rises from his seat, eyeing me predatorily. I know where this is going, and I feel myself being pulled into his gaze again. I fight the dizzy hypnotism that comes over me, looking sharply away.
"Mind your tongue in the presence of a lady," I say shrilly.
"That is exactly what I intend," Simon says silkily, his tone husky as he draws up to me. I look away determinedly, but I can feel myself weakening. Simon's lips are at the curve of my ear, his fingers trailing over the exposed skin between my sleeve and my glove. "Why fight, Gemma? I know you feel it, just as I do. You and I together… we could be very powerful." He hooks his finger at the top of my glove, sliding it off delicately.
I close my eyes as a shiver runs sinuously down my spine. His proposal is like a heady liquor – the idea of power appeals to me… far more than it should. Simon senses my weakening. His free hand slides up my other arm, teasing the sensitive skin of my neck with the tips of his fingers. He catches my chin and turns my head to face him. "Simon… I –"
Simon cuts off my feeble objection with a kiss. It is soft, sweet, gentle. It is not what I expected from him. He draws away slowly. When I open my eyes again, my gaze meets his. The passion in his eyes is enough to consume me, and a thrilled tremor rushes through me. Simon discards my glove and raises his hand, gently tracing the contours of my jaw, my neck, my lips…
"Simon," I whisper, spurred by some distant recollection of modesty. "We cannot do this."
Simon kisses me again, stealing my breath in the lightest of touches, his lips barely grazing mine. "Yes, we can," he whispers huskily, my face cupped in his hands. "You and I are not ordinary, Gemma. We belong to something bigger and grander than this mediocre world – we are gods among men," his passion grows as he speaks, his voice rising. "We know the secrets of the world, and you – you control those secrets!"
I feel myself being swept away by Simon's fervor, caught up in the heady rush of power and carelessness. Simon's voice dips low again, rough with conviction. "Take what belongs to you Gemma – don't be frightened by the lies of old men – for they are afraid of you."
"What are you talking about?" I ask breathlessly, still caught in his hands.
"I'm talking about power, about life, about you and I."
"I don't understand." I shake my head slowly. Simon lets his hands fall to my shoulders.
"You are the new Eve – don't let them take the Garden from you."
"What?"
He answers me with another kiss, this one hungry and demanding and angry, driven by his thirst for whatever power he thinks we have together. Though I know it's wrong – I can't think why, and whatever vestige of my conscious remains is soon defeated by the need that courses through my veins. Suddenly Simon's words make sense in my delirium. All along, I have obeyed. But now, I will taste the fruit of life and languish in the Garden, and none shall take it from me – because I hold the key.
Simon trails hungry kisses down my neck, nipping the skin there and setting it aflame. He traces the line of my collarbone, and I cling to him, willing his choice to be mine, letting myself fall away into worriless oblivion. His hands are at the back of my gown, fumbling with the buttons there. In turn, my fingers are at his chest, unfastening his evening jacket and nimbly undoing the row of clean, white buttons.
His breathing is like the beating of my heart, rapid, shallow, erratic. I feel my blood in my veins, singing a song that only the two of us understand. In my mind's eye, I see the Caves of Sighs, and I suddenly long to feel the length of him, pressed against me, holding me tight. I breathe his name, and he answers with a soft groan.
With a resounding crash, the door of the study breaks open. Astonished, we leap apart from each other, but there is no mistaking the intent in our eyes. Standing at the door are our families, their faces reflecting even more shock than our own.
Simon bows gallantly. "Good evening to you all. To what do I owe the pleasure?" I want to kick him for it, but I've managed to land myself in enough trouble for one evening.
Finally, Simon's mother says, "There's been a fire in the ballroom – it's been put out, but we worried when we couldn't find the two of you."
"What in the devil's name is going on here?" Father growls suddenly, having just regained his breath, no doubt.
"This is not what it appears," I stammer fearfully, dreading my father's disappointment and inevitable depression. I am his little girl, and I've let him down.
"Oh, dear," Grandmama mutters, not sure how to react. "Perhaps we should all sit down, for a private discussion?"
Tom presses the others in, closing the door quickly, lest anybody walk by and see what needs be kept private. Tom and Grandmama's complete calm in the face of such a scandal is rather disconcerting – I expected Father to laugh it off, while Tom and Grandmama made the fuss. Not so.
"It seems," Grandmama begins hesitantly, after everyone has found a seat, "that young Mr. Middleton may have – compromised… our Gemma." Her cheeks color slightly, but she surveys the others calmly.
"Nothing of the sort happened!" I burst out from my seat beside Tom. Tom gives me a look that suggests silence is the wisest course, and I subside.
"Well, then," Father growls. "What has 'young Mr. Middleton' got to say for himself?" He looks as though he'd gladly kill Simon.
Seated between his parents, Simon is completely unruffled. "I'd have to say that, yes, I fear Gemma's reputation has rather been compromised. Several people, no doubt, saw us leave the ballroom together. And when we were found missing during the fire, and later turn up together, well… that will only make things worse for her, I would think."
Tom and Grandmama glance at each other. Simon's parents have the decency to look properly ashamed. Father's fists are clenched tightly in his lap, and there is a vein protruding from his neck.
"Then there's no question – the two must be wed," Grandmama declares resolutely. Lord and Lady Denby glance at each other. Lady Denby looks as if she'd like to say something, but in the face of her son's poor manners, she can't quite pull off the righteousness that she would like.
Simon speaks up, "Of course. There's no question. I would gladly wed you, Gemma." He slides from his chair, and kneels at my feet. I feel myself growing faint. This can't possibly be happening. It can't be that, one year after I first rejected him, I am being involuntarily wed to him! A glance at Father assures me there is no room for argument. He has lost his infuriated demeanor – Simon's affection for me has won him over. He doesn't realize what a skilled actor Simon is.
Simon smiles and takes my hands in his. "Gemma Doyle, would you be my wife?"
With horror, I hear my answer as if another person is speaking for me: "Yes. Yes, of course."
Dum, dum, DUMMMM!! Tune in next week (or maybe tomorrow – 15 reviews, that's all I'm asking!) for the continuation. This has been Old Secrets, an inksmudged production.