Paladin118
He waited in the parlor, pocket watch in one gloved hand, eyes trained on a tired oak tree visible through a window weeping rivulets of moisture. He hadn't yet decided how he wanted his mother to see him as she returned to her home, to his home. Next to his favorite armchair—which he'd rarely used—he had a stack of leather bound novels. On the piano he had a new composition he'd recently finished, and by the fire he had a glass of wine, a newly opened bottle, and an empty glass to offer the woman he had loved most in the world, so long ago.
Nothing felt right to him, however. He'd staged their first meeting in his home, and the awkwardness of props bothered him. He wanted to shelve the books, return the composition to a neat pile or cast them into a folder, and he wanted to toss the glass of wine into the fire and just sit and wait for her. But he needed a way to occupy himself until she arrived, thus the props of what he thought was his everyday life at Belmont Manor.
"Is something wrong?"
He glanced up, one hand in his pocket, the other still clenched tight around the watch, and saw Sophia.
"I'm impatient," he replied.
She smiled, her hand feeling along the doorway as she entered the room and came to him. "She'll be here soon. Why don't you have Citrine make you something to eat? It will calm your nerves."
"If she arrives hungry I won't be able to eat with her."
"True. It sounds like you've thought it over quite thoroughly."
"To the point of madness," he mumbled.
She placed her hands gently on his shoulders and took a step closer, until the heat of her body radiated against his. The smell and feel of her quickened his heart rate, and in the back of his mind he knew this wasn't how he wanted to welcome his mother, with lust on his mind and the evidence in his trousers.
"Shall I sit with you?" she asked innocently, completely unaware of what she did to him.
He took her hands in his, pressed warm leather to her flesh and wished he could feel the softness of her small fingers. "If you'd like," he answered, his voice deeper to his own ears. He wondered if she noticed, but when he met her eye she only smiled as she normally did, no hint of recognition on her face.
"If you'd like," he repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.
With a smile, she started to pull away and seat herself but he stopped her and continued to clutch her hands in his. When she gave him a questioning look, he drew her closer and pressed his lips to hers in a tight, greedy kiss. He didn't just want her, he needed her more than he'd ever expected to need anyone. And he had to have as much of her as possible.
She gave a squeak of surprise and pressed her hand to his chest for only a moment before she sank into him, her fingers digging into his back, her knees weakening to the point of surrender. He supported the weight of her body against his, cradled her as he kissed her hard, blocking out all panic and anticipation. All he knew for one, tender moment was Sophia's smell and taste, and the warmth and softness of the woman he adored.
"My goodness," she breathed once he gave her back her mouth. "What was that all about?"
"I don't know," he murmured, breathing heavily, his lips brushing hers. "I honestly don't know."
"And I thought you merely wanted me to sit with you." She appeared flushed, embarrassed by their brief encounter.
"I didn't mean—"
"It's not a complaint," she said with a wide, blissful grin. "Unexpected, yes, but a complaint? Never."
She'd wanted him to kiss her, which furthered his exhilaration and made him want her even more. The distraction was completely inappropriate but too damned good to regret. His blood pumped faster, pulsed noticeably through regions of his body that he didn't want noticed for the moment.
He heard the bridles on approaching horses jingle, the clip-clop of two dapple gray horses signaling his mother's arrival.
And there he stood in the parlor, Sophia in his arms, her belly pressed to his painfully hard erection. At once he kissed her again and released her, watching as she regained her balance.
"I'll be downstairs in a moment," he said before he left her breathless in the parlor.
-o-
Sophia could barely speak when Citrine opened the door and allowed Madame Turro into Belmont Manor. The older woman, still beautiful and elegant, swept her gaze through the foyer and inhaled as though memories lingered in the air. She smiled to herself, a wry expression that didn't seem befitting for a meeting with her son.
For a woman with graying hair and lines around her eyes, she still had the glint of girlish charm in her eyes and in her demeanor. Sophia always imagined her as a flirtatious youth hiding beneath her parasol, smiling coyly at the young men who wanted to court her. She couldn't help but think that Angelina Turro had been surrounded by boys in her youth. She was still an attractive and intelligent woman who could captivate the people she met.
"May I take your hat and coat, Madame?" Sophia offered, pretending that she hadn't wanted to be ravished by this woman's son only moments earlier.
"Thank you, Sophia," she answered without looking at her. She absently handed over her gloves, hat, and coat, which Sophia juggled in her arms as she walked down the hall. Citrine offered Madame Turro tea and asked her to sit in the parlor, which was where she had last seen Monsieur Belmont.
"He's waiting for you," Citrine said, gushing over the new arrival to the Manor. "He's very pleased that you've decided to join us today. He's--" She paused, which made Sophia stop dead in her tracks at the end of the hall. "He must have stepped out for a moment. I swear to you, Madame, he was here a moment ago."
Sophia's cheeks burned with shame and she hung her head as she tiptoed toward the parlor, knowing that if she glanced up, Madame Turro would know that she'd seduced her son.
"Sophia," Citrine said. "Do you know where Monsieur Belmont disappeared to?"
"He's upstairs," she mumbled.
"I beg your pardon?"
She looked up and found both Madame Turro and Citrine staring at her. Guilt had never sat as heavily on her shoulders as it did in that moment. "He's upstairs."
"Nothing is the matter, is it? He looked fine a moment ago." Citrine wrung her hands.
"He's fine. I think."
Both women gaped at her, their eyes filled with concern. "You think?" Citrine asked. "Why, what happened to him?"
I happened to him, she thought. "Oh, nothing. I'm sure he'll return in a moment." She attempted a laugh, which came out as forced and flat as she'd expected. "Or maybe several moments."
Citrine turned her head to the side. "Do you know what he's doing?"
"Why would I know that?" she asked defensively.
"I know what he's doing," Madame Turro said. She looked at Sophia and smiled. In the same heartbeat, Sophia lowered her gaze, feeling like the most evil woman in the world for doing this to another woman's son on the day of their grand reunion.
"He's probably writing down a few notes. I know how much he adores music. It was the first love in his life," she answered.
Oh, sweet Lord, Sophia thought to herself. Perhaps that was it after all. Yes, of course that was it. He'd left her in a moment of consuming passion to jot down a song that was lodged in his head.
The three of them stood in silence for a moment with Citrine's eyes fixed on Sophia, who stared at her shoes and attempted to avoid her best friend's scrutinizing gaze. Above their heads the floor creaked, which was followed by the unmistakable groan of bedsprings. His actions couldn't have been more evident.
Lips pursed, Sophia leaned back against the wall for support, afraid that she'd pass out.
"I'll make certain he's well," Citrine offered. "You know how people come down ill when the weather changes. Madame, I'm certain Sophia will make you quite comfortable in the parlor during your brief wait."
Before Sophia could form words, Citrine was gone. Panic gripped her and she stared down the hall, paralyzed by her fear.
"Are you all right, dear?" Madame Turro questioned. "You look ill yourself."
The older woman's words broke Sophia free from her stupor. "I…I apologize. Allow me to show you to the parlor," she said, her mind and mouth still numb.
"That would be lovely, dear," she said, pleasant and oblivious to the dire situation at hand.
Out of all of the people Sophia had known, Madame Turro was always one to treat her like a human being and not a servant. She enjoyed Madame Turro's company and the way in which she treated everyone.
"How does he like it here?" Madame Turro asked once she was seated comfortably in the parlor. She was perched on the edge of her chair for only a moment before she rose, straightened the books piled up beside Erik's chair, and sat again. "Does it suit him?"
"I believe he's comfortable," Sophia answered. Several moments had passed and she wondered what was keeping Citrine from returning with Erik.
"He hasn't changed much of the house, I see."
"No, he hasn't." Sophia wrung her hands. How could he possibly be doing that at a time like this?
"Is something troubling you, darling?"
Sophia frowned, realizing that she'd been staring off into the distance for several moments. "I do apologize, Madame. I'm merely…thinking."
Madame Turro smiled, her eyes warm and gentle, a reminder of her son's all too rare expression. "You don't have to be shy with me, Sophia. I…I think I know what's going on."
Her throat went dry. "You…you do?"
"Of course I do. I know your brother was quite insistent that you marry my husband's…I mean, of course, our son Karl."
Her heart thudded to the bottom of her belly. "Oh."
"But now that he's away and we don't know when he'll return…perhaps your dear brother would have a change of heart? I know it would be unconventional and that perhaps Monsieur Dupree doesn't see my son as the most suitable of husbands, but I assure you that he's…he's a good man. It wasn't his fault, the way he was born, I mean. It was mine…mine as a woman and mother."
Unexpectedly her voice broke and she nearly choked on her words. She pulled a handkerchief from a tightly clutched reticule and dabbed at her eyes. It was obvious that she cared a great deal for him and blamed herself for their long absence in each other's lives. Sophia felt a stab of pain for Madame Turro.
"Oh, Madame," she whispered.
"He was a very good son. In my heart I know he's become a good man, despite what has happened over the years, his life…his suffering."
Sophia sank into the chair opposite Madame Turro. "Yes, you're right. He is a very good man." She started to say something more but paused, swallowed, and sat up straighter. "The work of a diligent and caring mother, I have no doubt."
Madame Turro smiled pleasantly, her eyes dried of tears. "You're too kind, Sophia."
"It's true, Madame. Good children are the result of good parents."
Madame Turro looked away. "And sometimes bad children are the result of bad circumstances," she answered softly.
Sophia couldn't help but think she'd somehow misspoken. She offered a nod and pursed her lips, deciding it was best not to speak again until Madame Turro offered conversation.