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Paladin20
Sophia could see Karl watching her each time she walked from the kitchen table to the stove. When she glanced at him he smirked, leaning against his right shoulder as he stood in the doorway.
After a while she could no longer tolerate looking at him and sat at the table with her back to him as she proceeded to prepare dinner. The meal was still two hours away, though Sophia wasn't sure she could tolerate having him stare at her until supper was served.
She could hear Philippe and Rene in the parlor talking about the snow storm, both outdoing each other by bragging about how they had spent hours forcing the horses through the snow, and how the brandy was finally relaxing their backs. Poor Gabe, the youngest of the three, was watering the horses in the stables.
Karl sighed and crossed one leg behind the other, which startled Sophia so much that she nearly dropped her knife.
"Staying for dinner, Monsieur?" Citrine asked over her shoulder. "Careful with your answer."
Sophia felt her stomach drop. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Karl's eyes harden.
In the brief time they had courted Sophia was not permitted to speak until he asked her to answer a question or told her to comment on something he had said. Before her parents' deaths she had walked through the grape fields with him and her brother as an escort. Why he asked her to accompany him she didn't know. He never touched her when they were together unless her brother had gone off with one of the naïve grape pickers. When they were alone Karl constantly reached for her breast, groping her roughly until she managed to wriggle away and find one of the workers, which immediately stopped Karl's roving hands. He would glare at her the entire walk back and save his words until the next time they met.
Sophia could still hear him hissing through his teeth, telling her that she could deny him now, but when he had a ring on her finger she would be his to do with as he pleased. Her body, her mind, her every move would belong to him.
Wide-eyed, she turned and watched Karl, her fears confirmed the moment she saw his expression.
He stared at Citrine a moment before raking his hand through his hair. "Eat here? Heavens, no, mademoiselle," he laughed mockingly. "I have my own staff."
Citrine smiled. She turned to Sophia and winked before her attention fell on Monsieur Turro again. "Then if you plan to stay in my kitchen I'll put you to work."
"Quite an Irish tongue, mademoiselle," Karl said smoothly. "A woman with such a mouth would be excused from my household."
Sophia stopped dismembering the goose Citrine had slaughtered for dinner. She rubbed her bloodied hands on her apron and stared at her friend in utter disbelief. No one spoke to Karl in such a tone.
"I'm fortunate to be employed by this household," Citrine said as she opened a drawer and pulled out a chopping knife. "I'd wager we're both fortunate."
Karl stood in silence for a while, and the uncomfortable feeling that had plagued Sophia returned again. She knew if she lifted her eyes that she would find him staring at her again.
"We will leave soon," Karl said suddenly. "I expect you will be dressed properly, Sophia."
He pushed off the wall and turned before Sophia could answer.
"He's a pleasant gentleman," Citrine said under her breath.
"You shouldn't antagonize him," Sophia answered. She swallowed hard and folded her hands beneath the table.
"He shouldn't be in my kitchen," Citrine huffed as she opened the oven, peered inside, and slammed it shut again. "What business does he have here? Monsieur Monteclaire and your brother are in the parlor. Why doesn't he join them?"
Sophia slid her chair away from the table. "He's right. I should wash up and dress."
Citrine glanced at Sophia. "For your piano lessons?"
Sophia felt her stomach drop. If she refused her lessons Monsieur Belmont would never offer to teach her again, but if she denied Karl's demands not only would he be livid but her brother would never forgive her.
She knew her brother was growing more and more concerned each day that passed. He feared no man would marry her now that her eye was failing. If Karl would not have her then Philippe would spend a lifetime looking after her.
"Sophia, you don't look like you're feeling well," Citrine said once Sophia didn't answer. "Do you have a fever?"
"No, I feel…" Sophia shook her head, knowing Citrine was giving her an excuse to cancel her dinner with Karl. Her voice dropped when she spoke next. "If I do not come with him he will remain here."
And she still would not have her lesson. Either way she wasn't going to be able to sit in the parlor beside Monsieur Belmont and watch as his long fingers swept across the ivories. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought of how his shoulder had touched hers while he played.
"I don't believe Monsieur Belmont would allow it," Citrine said with her back turned to Sophia.
It was starting to annoy Sophia that Citrine wouldn't face her when they spoke.
"That is his decision," Sophia said gruffly.
"Yes. Though I have half the mind to request that Monsieur Belmont ask your dearest Monsieur Turro to leave at once," Citrine snapped.
Sophia stood a little straighter. She looked sadly at Citrine and frowned.
"I must wash up."
-o-
He was running out of time. Each minute that passed drew closer to the moment when Karl Turro would take Sophia to dinner in his home.
This man, this complete imbecile, intended to take Sophia from Belmont Manor and entertain her at his estate. There would be a lavish feast, Erik thought to himself. Wine, perhaps, dancing after dinner, even. He tormented himself by picturing Karl sweeping her across a wooden dance floor.
Catching himself before he went into a rage, Erik sat hard at his desk and tapped his fist on the top. "Dinner, not a ball," he said under his breath, though it did nothing to quell his fears.
Dinner would lead to after dinner conversation, more wine, looser tongues, and compromised modesty. If she were alone with him he could gently unlace her gown, recline her on his couch, in his arms, in his bed.
He exhaled through his mouth and scratched his head. He needed to control his feelings. He was merely fighting to keep his student and nothing more. What Karl Turro wanted with Sophia was none of his concern. It couldn't be his concern. Music was his concern.
But he needed to see her. He needed to have someone willing to learn music, someone who came without false pretenses and decided for herself that this was what she wanted.
Erik's stomach growled. His temples throbbed with a hunger-induced headache that was starting to make him feel dizzy. With a groan he rummaged through his desk drawers in search of something edible and found hard candy. He frowned and shut the drawers, his mouth watering for something salty.
"To hell with starving," he muttered to himself as he rose to his feet. This was his house. If he wanted food he would demand it.
It was time to cease hiding in his bed chamber. He had ruled a small empire, a living, breathing, working opera house in the middle of Paris. One man masquerading as a ghost watching over hundreds of set makers, seamstresses, singers, and dancers could walked down the stairs of the house he owned and demand that two women prepare a meal for him before he starved to death.
Erik glanced in the mirror and caught sight of his mask, of the one thing that made him a ghost. His light eyes settled on the curve of his jaw and he tilted his head up. He would command them from afar. If he stood at the top of the stair they could not see his face. Rather than notes he would use his deep voice and his size to intimidate. No one would question a man whose face they couldn't see. As a mystery he would rule again.
He scoffed at his foolishness. They had seen far too much of him for his plan to work. If he had arrived at the Manor first he stood a chance of haunting the premises and creating an air of fear and respect, but already Sophia was too familiar with him. And Citrine? Erik rolled her eyes. Citrine was as unruly as her red hair. She was the living, breathing embodiment of an Irish temper. As much as he didn't want to admit it he felt intimidated by her and knew that if he walked into the kitchen she would either hand him a pairing knife and send him to work or request that he leave her be.
His fears started to return, but he was still too hungry to remain in hiding. It was amazing what an empty belly would do, he thought as he opened his bedroom door and walked into the hall.
Almost immediately he heard Sophia's voice at the bottom of the stairs.
"Mademoiselle," he said, commanding his voice to boom deeper.
Someone sighed. Erik squinted in the darkness and caught sight of a man at her side. It instantly angered him, as he wanted to find her alone. He wasn't quite prepared for an audience.
"Monsieur Belmont?" Sophia questioned.
"Sophia," Philippe groaned. "Dress yourself. I will attend to our master."
Courage returned at once, and Erik allowed his arms to relax at his sides as he paced back and forth. He felt a little curl of arrogance return, the same feelings he had mustered when he approached the new managers of the Opera Populaire and presented Don Juan Triumphant.
"I am speaking to Sophia, Monsieur Dupree. Return to the parlor at once."
"Monsieur—"
"Return to the parlor at once," Erik commanded, pausing at the top of the stairs with his toes at the very edge.
Philippe hesitated. He whispered something to Sophia before storming down the hall and muttering curses at his employer.
"Mademoiselle," Erik continued once he was certain that she was alone. His breathing had increased, composure fading.
He could see her though she couldn't see him. He watched her a moment as she stood with her fist wrapped around her necklace and a bewildered expression on her face. He noticed that her lips looked a little fuller when they were parted. Her face looked more oval than round when her hair was down. And her dress? There were no words to describe how she looked in her burgundy dress.
"Sophia," he whispered before he realized his voice was abandoning him.
"May I help you?" she asked, her voice low as well. She stepped forward until she was standing on the bottom stair.
His throat had become dry the moment he said her name. Erik swallowed hard, cleared his voice, and shook his head. He turned away from the stairs and faced his door again, uncertain of what he should do. There was no trap door to escape down, no hidden entrance where he could disappear. If he left now it had to be through the bedroom door, and that was not the way he wanted to leave.
Erik's head felt lighter than before, though he knew it wasn't from hunger. She was doing something to him again, something strange and terrible and exactly what he wanted to feel.
"Erik, are you there?" she asked, her voice stronger, more desperate than before. She was looking for him.
She was hoping he was still there.
"Yes," he answered. He attempted to summon his voice again and found it at last, though it came out weaker than he intended. "I am here."
The stairs creaked and he counted her steps. She had moved up three stairs. If he turned he could see her face.
And she could see his.
"I have obligations," she said softly.
"Is dinner finished?" he asked.
"No, Monsieur."
Slowly he turned and met her eye. He gripped his mind around the last shred of assertiveness he could find.
"Your obligations are to my household," he said gruffly. "Tell Citrine to bring something into the parlor before dinner. Bread and cheese, salted meats, and a carafe of wine as well."
"Monsieur, I—"
"The storm has passed. Monsieur Turro may return home now that your brother has returned. Is that understood?"
"Yes, but—"
"Do you question me, girl?" he boomed, taking one step toward her.
"No, Monsieur," Sophia answered quickly. "It's just that…"
"Speak," he ordered.
"Would you prefer something lighter before dinner?" she blurted out. "Soup, perhaps?"
A grim smile caught hold of his lips as he met her eye. "Not around my piano," he said before he turned and disappeared into his room again.