XXVI
A tickling sensation roused him from the depths of sleep. Erik snorted, swiping the offending hair teasing his nose.
"Sorry," Christine murmured.
At the sound of her sweet, sleep-hoarsened voice, Erik was flooded with the most delicious rush of happiness, bubbling in his veins like champagne. He felt blissfully, stupidly happy. Erik opened his eyes to behold the most exquisite being in creation smiling down at him, combing her wild curls behind her ear. Rich golden sunlight poured from the opened curtains, glittering off of snowdrifts. The light seemed to sink into Christine's hair and skin and transform her into a dazzling, ethereal creature. A wounded goddess, he thought, eyes caressing each of her bruises. He wished he could erase the memory of Bruno's fists. The locket's glinting shape soothed him.
"It's all right, love," Erik whispered, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. A sudden shyness toyed with her beloved features.
"I was watching you sleep. I still can't quite believe that you're . . . that you're . . ." Tears gathered in her chocolate brown eyes, clotting her lashes. Erik drew her down for a kiss. Hmm, he loved kissing her. It gave them both a measure of pleasure and comfort, and was wonderfully, powerfully life-affirming when their tongues tangled.
"Hush now, love. It's all right. I'm fine, truly," he purred against her lips. Her soft laugh sounded too close to a sob.
"I hope you're prepared to deal with a fiancée who follows you around like a puppy," she joked. Erik snorted.
"Darling, if you think I'll be offended by spending every waking and sleeping moment with you, then you're sorely mistaken." Mollified, Christine stretched sinuously, loosing a jaw-cracking yawn.
A greedy, half-formed thought told him to press her back into the bed's softness and keep her there until he'd slaked the need she roused simply by being. Erik heaved a sigh. Such selfishness could not be warranted. Elise, Jacqueline and Raoul nestled into his thoughts, bright and clear and so very needy. They needed his guidance, his solace—and the girls needed his decorum. Erik could not dance about the Château blindingly, brilliantly happy when their beloved aunt had died not days ago. While a living wife could be placated with sizable alimony and joint raising of his young sisters, a dead wife would only be deified. She already had been, in Jacqueline's eyes. Erik had seen and guessed at the reason for Christine's brittle smile last night.
"That being said," Erik said slowly, weighing and measuring his words, tautly aware of Christine's sudden, fixed attention, "my sisters, they loved their aunt very much. And I would not wish to cause them pain by-"
"By announcing your engagement to a woman of dubious worth," Christine finished, face set in an expression of such horrible sadness. Inwardly, Erik writhed in agony at tearing the fragile cocoon of happiness hiding them.
"No!" Erik interjected, grief coating the words. Could she not see how radiant and exquisite she was? His poor, wounded lamb, his fragile beloved! Erik cradled her face between his hands.
"You will be my wife, and the world will grovel at your feet. They will worship you as I do." Erik broke off from his passionate declaration to exhale a frustrated breath. How he wished their battles could be over, and their joy complete!
"I just do not wish to belittle my sisters' grief by appearing so happy." Her kiss was a benediction.
"I understand. A secret engagement, then." A weary sort of mischief filled the words, an attempt at levity that hid a well of sadness. Erik peppered her face with kisses, wishing there were words to soothe that sadness, to banish that pain. Cupping her chin, he made a show of admiring her.
"Look, my future bride."
"Just think of it," she said, eyes shining.
A sweet, poignant moment stretched between them.
"What shall we do today?" she asked, reaching for her shift. Erik sat up, scrubbing his naked face with his hands. God, would he ever grow accustomed to removing his mask in her presence?
"First, breakfast." Erik grinned, snatching a kiss, then another. Christine hummed happily, fingertips tracing mysterious patterns on both twisted and whole halves of his face. The force of his love pushed out, deepened the kiss. A fierce and ardent desire to protect her wakened and unfurled in his soul, like a sleeping dragon. Protect her from the hard-eyed glances from his staff, the whispers, from the blind, desperate hate of a grieving child. But how?
"And then?" Christine asked, teasing him with furtive little pecks along his cheekbone, seeming to relish the twisted muscle and tortured skin.
"Then we must begin a Vicomte's training. Equitation, at least will not be a challenge. The rest, however . . ." Christine shared in his dry chuckle, resting her forehead against his. Erik savored the intimate caress of her breath against his face.
"You'll make a gentleman of him yet, I have faith in you," Christine said, eyes soft with adoration. She was rain to the parched soil of his soul. Erik combed her hair from her forehead.
"I will speak with Jacqueline, darling. She will not disrespect you again." The joy dimmed and Erik cursed himself for crushing that fragile spark in an inelegant attempt at comfort. Claire had never been receptive to his words or affections; he was out of practice.
"No, Erik. It wasn't disrespect. It was grief, and the truth. I am at fault for you being hurt . . ." her face crumpled.
"No, no love. It was the fault of Méchant and his thugs, the fault of the Commune men who vented their hate on the innocent. Not you. Not you." Erik could see the doubt congeal in her eyes, and every fiber of him wanted to leap inside her mind and root out the lie that hurt her.
"Claire's death was an accident. A horrible, tragic accident. Jacqueline will realize this. She must." A forlorn look filled her eyes, the dark, knowing eyes of an orphan who knew a promise would not be kept.
"I hope you're right."
Discomfited, Erik rose from bed and crept over frigid floorboards to pull trousers from the chest of drawers near the wall. Madame Villon would probably burn the clothes he'd arrived in. His shoulder rasped a warning as bent to don his trousers. The warning became a scream when he tried to thread his arm through the sleeve of his shirt. The pain made his curse a gasped whisper.
"Let me help you," Christine said.
"Thank you, darling," he replied, the shooting pain down his arm quieting to a dull ache as Christine helped him into his shirt, warm busy fingers marching down his chest. There was a sort of hushed intimacy in the gesture, almost as powerful as when she removed his clothing. He stilled her hands on his now-clothed chest. Erik felt a stab of remorse. He didn't have a ring for her. She deserved something as beautiful and unique as she. Words of reassurance flew to his tongue and died there. Instead, Erik said the only thing that would forever be true: "I love you." Christine replied with a soft kiss.
XXX
Christine quickened her step toward the sound of Raoul's voice and laughter. Both of Erik's sisters, after their initial wariness, quickly warmed to their brother. This was probably sweetened by Raoul's surprising repertoire of silly jokes. Erik chuckled, weaving his fingers through hers.
"I'm glad they're getting along," he said. Christine squeezed his captive hand, anchoring herself to his presence. Her other hand smoothed the skirt of her gown nervously. It was a fine thing belonging to Erik's mother, a rich royal purple. They were of a similar size, though there was a certain embarrassing looseness around her bust, hastily pinned.
"Raoul can be quite charming when he wants to be. It must be a family trait," Christine said.
"Maybe." Erik winked and Christine felt a warm glow in her chest. God, she loved him! This beautiful man who had lost so much, who was so bravely resilient, who held her and loved her and cherished her even when the rest of the world would name her filth. And beyond his love for her lived the breadth and scope of his love for his family. So much so he would hide his own joy to save them pain.
They entered the dining room together and the table's five occupants swiveled to look.
"Good morning," Erik said.
"Erik! Christine! It's about time you're up!" Elise said, happily slurping her porridge. The Persian snickered into his steaming teacup, the slender woman beside him—presumably Elaine—blushing at her empty bowl. Raoul's smirk spoke volumes. And Jacqueline, Christine's gaze skittered over the middle de Chagny child, but not before she saw the venomous glare that sat so ill on such sweet, unspoiled features.
"Yes, you must have been very weary from your journey," the Persian said, dark eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Quite, Daroga." Erik's voice was clipped and brisk, each syllable tinged with amusement and warning. He pulled out a chair for her and Christine sat, squeezing his wrist in silent thanks as he she did so. A maid bustled into the room with a tray laden with tea, porridge and toast.
"Here you are, Monsieur le Comte," she murmured, serving Erik first, then her.
"Thank you, Marie," Erik said.
To Christine's dismay, the conversation and laughter quieted with their presence. She studiously tucked into her porridge, grateful for something to occupy her eyes and hands. Erik could be counted upon, though. His teasing and cajoling loosened the tension thrumming at the table.
"Christine, after your stunning performance last night, I must ask: where did you learn to sing?" the Persian said, fingers steepled in a pose of quiet attentiveness. Christine stifled the urge to fidget under the concentrated focus of the table.
"My father taught me. He was a violinist."
"The voice of an angel," Erik crooned, squeezing her hand. Christine basked under his attention, offering a shy smile.
"Oh yes! Your voice is so pretty, Christine!" Elise said, a smudge of honey decorating her chin.
"Thank you." Christine stifled the urge to hide her discomfiture behind the curtain of her hair. She would soon be Erik's wife, and Comtesses did not cringe in embarrassment.
"What happened to your father?" Elise asked. Christine's smile shattered into something brittle, pained.
"He died." Dismay puckered Elise's brow.
"Oh I'm sorry. And your mama?" Christine's throat clogged with years-old, formless grief.
"She died giving birth to me." Her grip on Erik's hand reminded her of the love and beauty she still held, and saved her from yawning despair.
Christine looked up and found Jacqueline's blue eyes, glittering with unshed tears. Were they tears of remembered pain or . . . or maybe the beginnings of understanding, forgiveness? Christine ached for it. She wished for peace between them. Erik loved them so much, and she refused to be the wedge that divided them.
"I am sorry for your loss, Christine," Elaine murmured, dark eyes wide and compassionate. Erik had told her of Elaine's role in his escape from Paris and was grateful for the older woman's generous nature.
"We've all lost loved ones, mine are no more remarkable than yours," Christine said quietly. Erik raised his teacup.
"A toast: to love lost, and love found." Christine drank, and saw the two younger de Chagnys sipping their milk in solemn accord with the adults. Madame Villon broke the moment by bustling in and clucking that both de Chagny girls hurry off to their lessons. Elise started to protest, but was quelled by Erik's stern look.
"Jacqueline," Erik murmured, catching her wrist as she passed, "I must speak with you in the study. Now." Christine's heart inched up to her throat as she watched Erik rise and guide his sister into the Comte's study.
"Don't worry, Christine," Raoul soothed, "Erik will set her aright." Christine mustered a wry grin.
"Thank you, Raoul. Erik tells me we are going to make a Vicomte of you. Starting today." The expression of alarmed trepidation that graced his handsome features was almost comical.
"What . . . what does that mean?" His voice was small, boy-like.
"It means you'll have a tutor, a fencing master, a dancing instructor, a tailor for your suits, all of the culture your fine family can muster," the Persian explained, looking dryly amused at Raoul's unease. Startled blue eyes glanced from the closed door of Erik's study to the Persian, to Christine. Something like relief softened his features.
"Well, I guess that is all right. As long as the future Comtesse learns with me." The Persian and Elaine murmured in surprise.
"Comtesse, my dear?" the Persian said, thick dark brows doing their level best to reach his hairline. Christine ducked her head, winding the fine napkin around fidgeting fingers.
"Erik asked me this morning. He . . . he wishes to be sensitive. The girls . . . they just lost their aunt. It would be cruel to flaunt our engagement so soon after the former Comtesse's passing."
"I think that is wise," the Persian said, nodding his silvered head. The smirk Raoul cast her way could only be described as smug.
"I knew he'd ask you, if he stopped fucking you long enough to catch his breath."
"Raoul!" Christine protested, face aflame.
"Mon Dieu." Elaine whispered, crossing herself.
"Language, Monsieur le Vicomte," the Persian said severely. Raoul's shoulders slumped forward, wings of golden hair falling forward to hide his face.
"I suppose vocabulary lessons are on the top of the list, hmm little brother?" Erik's dry voice broke in. Raoul offered a tight little shrug, grinning sheepishly. Christine met Erik's gaze, pleading for a verdict on Jacqueline's reaction. Green eyes softened, warm rough hands kneaded her shoulders in tender reassurance. As always, his presence eased her tension, filling her soul with purring contentment. Christine nuzzled his hand with her chin.
"Yes," Erik continued, "Christine has consented to be my wife. And both of you will be educated on your future responsibilities." Rich, masculine laughter filled the air and Christine swiveled to behold the beauty of Erik.
"Don't look so glum, Raoul. It will be enjoyable. Well, some of it. I promise."
"When do we start?" Christine asked, something like hope stirring in her breast. She wasn't worthy of him, or the life of a Comtesse, but she could learn to be useful. She could learn her place here. If he was here, then everything would be all right. Erik's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"This very minute, love. We'll start with music lessons." Raoul's nose wrinkled.
"Music lessons?" he repeated. Erik grinned.
"Of course. Every gentleman must be well-versed in the fine arts." His wink was for Christine alone.
A/N: Just a heads up everyone, Regret has only two chappies left, plus an epilogue. Thank you so much for all the reviews and favorites!