Spotted: The Devil coming to claim his prize, and the mistress of his heart gladly accompanying him into the fire.
Father George climbs the steps to stand in front of the alter. His right knee cracks painfully at the movement; his physical ailments attempting to stand in between him and this ordination of a holy act. He turns to view the congregation seated before him, turns to stand majestically before them, and he cannot help but clutch his Bible to his chest and smile just a bit wider. The promise of love and fidelity causes his heart to soar, and performing the rites for a couple so obviously in love will always be the pleasure of his life as a priest and spiritual shepherd.
The music, provided by Mrs. Hector playing a spinet tucked away to one side of the church, pauses to allow the player to move her hands and begin to play the opening chords of the bridal march. The priest turns his head to view the bridegroom, to meet the gaze of the man who came to confession three weeks ago and took up nearly two hours of his time as his intended waited patiently in the pews. He had clearly not wanted to be there, but he confessed that he would gladly divulge his so-called sins if it meant his intended would finally be prepared for the happiness he intends to shower upon them.
When Father George's eyes meet with the bridegroom, he nods his head in quiet support and then lifts his head, looks down the aisle with a face betraying its usually amiable expression. But his expression changes at the sight before him; his eyes widening and then sparkling as he speaks.
"Well," he murmurs, "my word."
Skirts swish across the stone floor as ladies shuffle about in their seats to see, and the expectant hush is shattered by excited whispers. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations carry forward to where the bridegroom and his attendant stand, and the impulse to turn and look is fought with a stiffened back and then lost with a discreet turn of his head.
His eyes land first on the pew reserved for the bride's family, on the middle-aged woman smiling mistily as she watches the bride approach. Move to look at the little boy seated with his arms folded across his chest in a protest over the fact that his sister will be moving away from Rosewood tonight and his new brother-in-law had not been willing to compromise by trading Monkey for his other favorite playmate. And then his eyes roam to the bride making her way down the aisle and he cannot breathe, cannot believe that she will finally be his.
The pristine white associated with a bride has been replaced by a soft blue, by the sign of a second marriage but she is still a vision in her gown, still more than he could have ever imagined. She carries the color with a dramatic flair, but it is not the gown that dominates the vision. Her eyes glow with intensity, with a vibrant mirth of happiness.
Chuck drags in a breath as she steps to her place beside him, and he is dimly aware that to all eyes but his she appears a radiant bride as her lips curve in a smile of joyful happiness. Only for him, though, do her eyes flash in amusement over how she has stunned him, over how she has once again managed to gain the upper hand.
He stares at her openly as she looks at Father George and smiles, as the elderly priest shuffles and reshuffles the pages of his Bible as he tries to find his place. The man he asked to be his attendant in today's proceedings nudges him, and he lifts his head to look towards the alter as Father George, finally ready, clears his throat and begins.
"We are gathered here today…"
He barely registers the words he waited so long to hear, and he repeats the phrases he is told to say in a daze. Then she speaks and instantly captures every remaining shred of his attention and awareness as she vows before the God she holds so dearly to be his wife, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse until death should part them.
And he feels like death might be sneaking up on him because his heart beats widely in his chest as Nate passes the ring to Father George, as the priest blesses the ring and holds out the open Bible with the ring balanced on the page for him to reach out and take. He picks it up, turns to her, and offers her a wife smile, a smile most have never been privy to before as he closes his fingers about her left hand and slides the ring on her finger.
"And now by the grace vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife."
Father George closes his Bible and beams upon them as they turn and clutching each other's hand, make their way down the aisle through the heavy parish doors into the sunshine. The congregation of onlookers rushes to congratulate them, to offer felicitous well wishes before they depart for the wedding breakfast at Rosewood.
Yet for someone who soaks up praise and attention, someone who holds fastidiously to the rules of high society, it falls on her to guide her bridegroom to the carriage and encourage him to hasten their departure. It falls on her to barely wait for the carriage door to close, for the carriage to round the bend before she leans over and presses her lips against his in a reminder of her joy, in a reminder of what they have now become.
"I love you," he whispers against her lips when they break apart. Her eyes flutter close at his words, at his declaration, and she tries to use them to anchor herself against the tide of worry and fear that is has tried to drag her asunder so many times before.
Hands trembling, she moves them off the dressing table and places them in her lap in order to mask the physical manifestation of her anxiety in the folds of her dressing gown. Each hairpin is pulled from her hair, placed on the dressing table in front of her, and she watches in the mirror as her meticulously fashioned hair falls to loose curls around her face. She reaches up, touches one curl gingerly, but drops it immediately when the lady's maid working quietly behind her catches her eye.
"Hush, Dorota," Blair bites out furiously.
"I not say anything, Miss Blair," Dorota protests, but her eyes twinkle with knowledge and Blair blanches at how observant her lady's maid has been come. . "Braid or hair down?"
"Braid," Blair replies immediately, falling into the routine that was once hers for so many months. A long braid running down her back will keep things contained; keep things easier to deal with when the evening is over. If Dorota questions her decision, the lady's maid says nothing as she quickly parts and pleats Blair's hair. When she is done, when not a single hair is out of place, the maid touches Blair's shoulder in that tender affection Blair pretends not to appreciate and slips out of the room.
Blair tries to command herself to calm down at the sight of her worry and concern staring back at her in the reflection of the mirror hung high above her new dressing table. The whirlwind excitement of the day has given away to her duty, and she takes a deep sigh as she resigns herself to her fate.
She stands from the table, makes her way across the tastefully decorated room she now calls her own to the large bed at the center of the room, and pulls back the blue coverlet before tossing her dress gown over the foot of the bed. Her nightgown brushes across the top of her feet; it's long hem, waist length sleeves, and high neckline keeping her covered until she can slip under the sheets and pull them to her chin.
And then she waits, waits for the sound of boots hitting against the floor as their wearer stops to knock on the door. But there is no knock; the door flying open without courtesy as to her state of preparation. And Chuck enters the room, freezes when he sees her lying in bed with the covers tucked around her.
The way his face falls causes her own to furrow in confusion, and she is just about to ask him what the trouble is when he begins pulling on his cravat, undoes the fastening of his waistcoat and breeches with expert precision. She buries herself deeper into the covers at the thought, at the reminder of how exactly he became such an expert. She fights between curiosity and decorum when she hears his clothes hit the floor, chooses to continue to stare at the ceiling as the covers beside her are moved aside and he slides into the bed beside her.
He frowns at the style of her nightgown, at the way it completely obscures his view of her, but his fingers make quick work of the tie about her neck – pulling on the string so the bow unfurls and the fabric falls to unveil her neck. He bends over, presses his lips against her neck and then trails them upward to her lips as his fingers slip between the fabric to find what he has seen twice before.
But she remains frozen, stiff against him even as the fire of his touch heats her from within. He tries touching her, tries caressing her rapidly heating skin yet she does not yield, does not mold her body around his, does not respond the way he has become accustomed to her responding. He opens his mouth to ask her what is wrong, asks it when her body stiffens under his touch and he raises his head to find her eyes fixated on the ceiling above their bed.
And her brow furrows deeper as she sweeps her eyes across the room to look at him because she does not understand the question, does not understand why he so incensed by her lack of participation. She wonders if he wants her to move her legs apart just a bit wider, to lift the hem of her nightgown just a bit higher, and she starts to comply when his hand reaches out and his fingers overlay hers to prevent her movements.
"It's just us here, Blair. You and me. There is no room for secrets. Nor should there be. If something is bothering you, please, tell me."
"I – There's nothing wrong," she replies with her head shaking at his worry. "I'm just - I'm your wife and this is how–."
"My wife?" He echoes, interrupting her words. The marvel in his tone is gone, replaced by one of confusion and concern that manages to both confuse and concern her. "Is that why you're acting so cold? You think you're supposed to act this way now that you're my wife?"
This isn't a matter of thinking this is how she's supposed to act for she knows that she is supposed to behave this way. To lift her nightgown and allow her husband to carry out his business until he is spent, until he climbs for her bed and returns to his own room through the adjoining door. A process that will repeat over and over again until he grows tired of her or, possibly the less desired outcome, she becomes with child.
"Good thing you are more than just my wife," he muses tenderly."My Blair."
"Your Blair?" She questions loudly, questions soundly because she doesn't like the way he lays ownership to everything she is.
"Yes, my Blair," he confirms before pressing a kiss against the corner of her lips, before his forehead and his nose press against hers in a quiet transfer of emotion. "My beautiful, scheming, intelligent, dark, and perfect Blair."
He turns her body against the mattress and into his arms. Stunned by his words, she braces her hands against his chest and draws in a huge breath. But before she can question his words, he bends his head and kisses every thought from her head.
He kisses her until she is gasping, until the taste of his lips and tongue against hers overwhelms her, until her arms snake around his neck and leaves him to cling to him. The melding of their mouths, the touch of their tongues is hungry and ravenous, a voracious charge into everything they once participated in and more.
His lips slide from hers to feather along her jaw, and she sinks her fingers into his back, his neck as she closers her eyes and feels his hands gather her more securely, more fully against him. The material of her nightgown had once felt thick and firm against him, but the material becomes flimsy at the contact of his body against hers. And her fingers slide upward to tangle in his hair, to hold him to her even as she speaks.
"I'm going to have a baby."
He lifts his head, hovers only teaches away from hers as he studies her, as his lips quirk into a smile as he considers teasing her for her misunderstanding of the steps required to reach that state. But the way her eyes are shaped and filled with something he cannot describe allows him to see and sense her search for understanding, for resolution. And then his lips firm as he struggles to find a way to answer her.
"Most likely."
"And there is nothing you can do?" She questions, repeating what she had asked him once in a moment of anguish, in a moment of hesitation as she worked through her grief and made her list of all she must accomplish in order to accept his proposal.
"No."
"Why?" She questions once more. She is not blind to the knowledge of his debauchery, to the knowledge that there must be something amongst men that allows them to escape with only a few souvenirs, if you will, of their time spent in another woman's bed. His assurance that he had none, that he took care of his business had only bolstered her insistence that he employ the same methodologies with her.
"Because you're mine. Because I'm going to love and support you through anything."
The words should have sounded dramatic, but his tone makes them much more. His flat implacability makes them a statement of fact, a statement of certainty about life as he sees it. Her breath catches in her throat; her eyes searching for his as she struggles to label what she sees in the dark depths.
"This is madness."
He pauses then closes the last few inches; his lips brushing against hers as he murmurs his answer.
"And more."
Chuck takes her mouth again, muses about how right she is as she meets every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. He craves her, needs her to fill that addictive ache inside him, and she is here ready and willing and, when he asks to just to assure any questions, affirms that she is sure.
They are both heated, the engagement of lips and tongues no longer sufficient to meet the desire coiling within them. He spreads his hands, lets them rover over the fabric hiding her from him until he finds the hem and begins to inch it slowly over her lips. He feels her responsive shudder against his skin, feels her body press instinctively against his as she shifts closer to him.
He rolls them both so that her back is pressed against the mattress, so that he can hover above her and tug the nightgown above her hips and her breasts and her head until she lies naked before him. She watches him watch her, watches his chest tighten as the sight robs him of breath. Her long braid lies coiled on the pillow beside her, and he reaches out to undo the tie holding it together.
It takes her a moment to understand what he wants, to connect the dots back to the fantasy he once shared with her in the middle of a crowded ballroom. And she wonders if he is going to send her to fetch the necklace from her dressing table to complete the image, but his lips press against hers once more, his fingers become entangled in her locks, and the silkiness of her hair brushes against her breasts in an overwhelming amount of sensation that she forgets the thoughts she had been chasing.
He bites back a groan as her thighs slides against him and concentrates on her, concentrates on the slide of his hands across her stomach to the underside and then to the whole of her breasts. The contact makes her gasp, makes her lift and press her body against him.
Blair keeps her eyes closed, battles to quell the shivers coursing down her spine. She is not cold, is not in need of slipping her nightgown back over her, but rather is in need of less, in need of reaching a state that is not physically possible. He touches and caresses all the while feathering kisses across her jaw, her neck, her chest. Yet there is no desperation in his touch, only a confidence that screams of how well he knows how each evocative caress captures her senses and leaves her wanton for more.
The only thoughts that enter her mind are the repetitive chant for more, the repetitive reminder that her first marriage bed was never so pleasurable when his hands slide down her body to touch the soft skin of her inner thighs, the wet folds between them. The touch catches her off guard, sends her eyes fluttering open as she tries to find the words to ask him what—
The feeling of him slipping inside her, of his blunt head resting inside her feels so vastly different from the rough fumble of action occurring beneath her nightgown, beneath the sheets as she lays there and waits for her husband to finish. But her new husband seems concerned with her, concerned with the way she sinks her fingers into his back and involuntarily tenses around him. He slips out, stops the ministration of his lips to her breast to ask her if she is alright.
And rather than answer, rather than verbally assure him, she shows a surprising amount of force as she rolls him onto his back, rolls on top of him, and rolls her hips against him. He groans and throws his head back against the pillow in amazement over her and the feeling of her desire against his. His fingers dig into her hips, hold her in place as she hesitates and second guesses.
"Is this okay?"
But her whispered question turns into a self-satisfied smirk as she wants him lose control, wants him fall apart in the way he has always managed to affect her. She shrieks when he rolls them back over, when he presses her body into the mattress with the weight of his, when he slips back inside her. He moves slowly at first, moves in that languish way that matches the pressing of his lips against her and spurs her to hook her legs around his back and cross her ankles to hold him in place.
He moves just a tiny bit faster, edges her just a tiny bit closer to her breaking point as he gently strokes her cheek and kisses her over and over again. And then just before he breaks, before he loses himself to the flames, he reaches down and touches the wet, heated part of her body, presses and caresses until she steps into the flames and shatters alongside him.
"What was that?"
"You," he replies against her neck. "You experiencing pleasure and happiness in our marriage."
His hot breathe brushes across her sensitive skin for a long moment before he slips out and rolls away from her. His head hits the pillow beside hers as she waits for to find her breath, waits for him to pull on his clothes and leave her room for his. When he does not, she turns her head to look at him curiously.
"Aren't you going to go?"
The harshness behind her words is perceived in a way she does not intend, but he jerks his head in surprise over how quickly she is to banish him from her bed. He rolls on his side, holds her gaze as his fingers twitch towards the naked plane of her belly.
"Is that what you want?" He questions softly, hesitantly.
"Men do not stay in their wife's bed," she replies simply.
"Societal etiquette says they should not. No one said anything about cannot," he reminds her. "And, besides, when have I ever done what society says I should?"
"In that case, do that again," she commands, punctuating each of their final three words as their own sentences. He turns his head, looks at her with a smile and a shrug.
"What's the rush? We've got all the time in the world."
But she is already climbing over him, pressing her body against his and her lips against his as she tries to encourage him to participate in what she hopes will become a repetitive part of their marriage.