Ah, annual masquerade ball hosted by one Mister Charles Bass. Fear not, dear readers, recent nuptials have not changed the tone of this event. And those of you who think masks may hide identities and provide a certain amount of anonymity? Well, secrets always have a way of becoming unmasked.
The heart falls against the flushed skin of her chest, cooling and soothing her as his fingers fumble with the clasp. She reaches up to touch the heart, to fondle it between her fingers so as to draw strength from the physical reminder of how much he loves her. His fingers fall to touch her elbow, to hold her steady before his hand slides around her waist and his fingers stroke the soft skin of her belly.
She falls back against him and relishes in the feeling of soft circles being traces into her skin as her eyes flutter to mirror to meet his. She offers him a soft smile as she tilts her neck, affording him better access to the nape of her neck. He chuckles and groans appreciatively against her skin in response, and she offers him a teasing smirk.
"You're incorrigible."
"Me?" He questions as he raises his head and stares at the image of them reflected in the mirror. "I seem to recall that you were the one who pulled me upstairs after breakfast, who refused to let me out of our bed this morning."
"Hush," she admonishes but the smile on her lips gives her away, and he laughs as his lips press another kiss against her neck. As his fingers trail across her skin, slowly stroking before coming to press against the flat plane of her belly, and her eyes fly to meet his in the mirror, to search for any hint of recognition.
The knock against the door reminds them both of how they can no longer fight the start of their day, how Dorota is waiting to dress her mistress for the ball tonight. Chuck groans in his disapproval as Blair spins from his grasp, as she pulls on her dressing gown and bids for Dorota to enter.
The lady's maid bustles into the room, averting her gaze but unable to fight the smile that graces her lips when Chuck kisses his bride and promises to find her tonight. Dorota busies herself with arranging Blair's gown for the evening while she waits for the telltale click of the door signifying Chuck's departure, for Blair to seat herself at her dressing table.
"Mister Chuck look very happy," Dorota comments as she begins plaiting Blair's long hair into a complicated arrangement. Blair hums her agreement at Dorota's words, but she frowns when she catches the pointed look on Dorota's face through the mirror. She shakes her head, unfurling the partially arrange hairstyle and causing Dorota to drop her hands in exasperation.
"Miss Blair, you tell Mister Chuck right now."
But Blair waves away the maid's concern, tells Dorota to focus on fixing her hair rather than fixing her life. Her hand falls to her stomach, falls to press against the flat plane of her belly as Dorota twists and sets her hair with demanding eyes that never waver in admonishment for Blair to comply.
When she is done, when Dorota moves to place the brush back on the dressing table, Blair reaches out and captures Dorota's wrist in the tight grip of her hand. Dorota raises her gaze to meet the eyes of the young woman she had served from seven to seventeen in the mirror, the eyes of the young woman she had sent off to Paris alone and then cried for when she overheard Lord and Lady Rose discussing the death of her baby in hushed whispers one evening and her heart nearly breaks once more when she sees the vulnerable, hesitant look on her face.
"Dorota, promise me that you won't tell him."
"This secret can't be secret much longer. Mister Chuck going to know," Dorota reminds her gently, solemnly. "But I take your secrets to my grave, Miss Blair."
"Good," Blair replies as she lifts her mask off the dressing table and raises it to her eyes. "Or else I might have to inform Chuck about what you and Vanya were doing alone in the butler's office last night."
"Miss Blair, I do no such thing!" Dorota protests.
"No," Blair says as she stands from the dressing table and moves towards the dress Dorota has laid out for her. She fingers the lace, drops it as she looks at Dorota and gives her a knowing smile. "But you want to."
The couples at the center of the room swirl and spin; their movements making the masks hiding their identities redundant. Blair skirts around the perimeter of the room and greets the guests that stop her, that comment on the beauty the Empire's rooms are rumored to have. Their pleasantries are matched by hers, but she knows immediately that they are angling for future invitations to visit Chuck Bass' country estate not to examine the rumored beauty of the Empire but to examine the marriage of Mister and Mrs. Bass for themselves.
Blair has not been immune to hearing their hushed whispers of disbelief over Chuck Bass' recent marriage to the former Mrs. Grimaldi, over his decision to marry a widower rather than one of the fresh-faced debutantes from the last five years. But all she has to do is angle her head so that the light sparkles against the heart-shaped necklace hung around her neck and disbelief gives way to the undeniable reality that Chuck Bass – the notorious rake whose reputation is only salvageable by the extent of his wealth for those desperate to change their fortunes through their daughters – married the wife of the former French ambassador.
She excuses herself from the group of people clustered around her and leaves them to complete her turn about the room. Only a handful of identities are completely obscured by the presence of their masks, and her stepfather's short stature and balding easily casts him outside of that group despite the presence of his cleverly constructed mask. He greets her with a short bow, with a teasing smile as he affectionately refers to her by her new moniker.
"Mrs. Bass, I was just telling your mother how delightful I find this party. Who knew the intrigue of a masked soiree could be so much fun?"
"No one ever doubted Charles' ability to provide entertainment, my Lord," Eleanor replied. Her tierce tone betrayed by the way her eyes scan the room with an appraising look only to settle on her daughter with a smile. "And where is your husband, Blair? Cyrus and I wanted to say hello."
"He's...somewhere," she replies, trailing off as her eyes scan the room. She finds a man with a striking resemblance to her husband standing across the ballroom conversing with Serena and Lady van der Woodsen. She cannot be sure given the way his mask covers his face, but she mutters her apologies to her mother before excusing herself from their presence just to be sure. He had sworn he would need no clues, no hint about her dress or her mask to find her amongst the crowded ballroom, and she is not about to make their little game easier on him by standing with her mother and Cyrus all night.
The sound of the musicians starting up for another set sends her out of the room in search of a quiet, empty space. The fatigue she has managed to mask so well recently is starting to set in; the swirl of brightly colored gowns causing her nausea to return. Her appearance in the dimly lit hallway sends the maids who had snuck upstairs to watch the festivities and admire the fashions scurrying for safety of the kitchen downstairs, but she pays them little mind as she moves towards the one room where few will dare to enter. Her hand curls around the doorknob, turns it and opens the door just wide enough that a gasp can escape her lips when she spies a figure seated behind the desk.
He stands at her appearance in the doorway, moves around the desk to head towards her. And he reaches out to touch the elbow of the arm folded across her waist before trailing his fingers down her exposed skin to grasp her fingers and lift them to his lips.
"I told you I would not need clues to find you."
"You cheated," she retorts as she pulls her hand from his grasp. "You were supposed to find me. Not wait for me to find you."
He chuckles softly as he brushes aside her words as semantics, leans forward to ghosts his words about not needing clues on how to treat her, how to ravish her against her ear. She betrays no hint of the shiver running down her spine as she turns her head to murmur her own words in his ear.
"No clues today. No clues five years ago."
Something dark flickers across his face, and she barely catches it in the way his mask obscures his features. But his eyes connect with hers, pulling her so deeply into their depths that she cannot bear to look away as she reaches behind her, shuts the door, and clicks the lock to keep what happens here just between them. Blair laces her fingers in his, drags his hands to place them against her hips before reaching up to remove his mask and place one of her hands against his cheek so as to reverently stroking her thumb against his now exposed cheekbone.
"I didn't—I'm sorry," she whispers. He lowers his head towards hers, press his forehead against hers as he lets her words wash over him. "But I'm here now. I'm your wife. I'm your Blair."
"My Blair," he repeats, whispering the words as he closes the last inch between them and presses his lips against her in a tender kiss. He kisses her gently, slowly, deliberately drawing out the simple caress of his lips against hers. An indulgence of warm, simple, and reassuring kisses. An indulgence of a much slower pace than last time, of the affordance of time to pause and savor and enjoy.
His hands slide around her back; his fingers searching out the laces of her dress as their kisses deepen. His tongue slides over hers, tangling and enticing and caressing while her hand cradles his cheek, cupping and stroking and urging him on. His fingers make quick work of her laces and then trail up her spine to push aside the gown's shoulder. She breaks the kiss to meet his eyes then drops her shoulder and allows him to draw the bodice of her gown down to waist.
He returns to undo the bows at the top of her chemise, to repeat the action he took with the bodice of her dress until she is bare to the waist. One hand resting on his shoulder, the other curled about the nape of his neck, she watched he look and survey and appreciate before he raises a hand and gently, reverently cups the underside of her breast.
She pulls away from his touch with a hiss, with a reaction that causes his eyes to flash to hers in confusion. He whispers her name as she tenses beneath the touch, and he releases her almost immediately as emotion flashes between them. She swallows the emotion welling up inside her as she leans into him and presses the softest of kisses against his lips.
To reassure him or herself, to implore him to understand or herself to be brave, she does not know. But her secret becomes a whispered confession as she closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his once more.
"I'm going to have a baby."
"Most likely," he replies with a kiss against the corner of her lips before dipping his head and pressing another against her neck. The words are repeated from their wedding night, from when she stopped him over a possibility that wasn't even a possibility yet.
"No," she corrects when her eyes flutter open to meet his. "I'm going to have a baby now."
"Now?" He repeats, freezing with his head still dipped and his lips still hovering over the pulse point at the base of her neck.
"Well, not for another few months," she replies. "But there will be a baby by your birthday."
He pulls away to search her eyes, to search out some the answer to his question before he can even ask it.
"And you? You are alright?"
"I—I'm alright. A little tired, but –"
"I'll have Arthur and Vanya send all the guests home," he interrupts. His voice is twinges with worry, undermining the definiteness of his decision.
"That's not necessary. Besides, I should enjoy it while I still can. Soon I'll be like Jenny Humphrey and unable to attend parties," Blair says with a smirk in reference to how the Countess of Constance has once again missed a soiree due to her current state. And Chuck smiles at her comment because there once was a time when word of the Archibalds' latest addition would reach his ears and he would mutter about how Nathaniel should leave the poor woman alone, but now he has his own wife and understands that even separate bedrooms are a poor barrier between people so deeply in love.
"But you are healthy?"
"I'm healthy," she replies and then her eyes drop to where his hand is pressed against her, to where her secret will soon no longer be hidden away. "I don't—there's no way to know about—"
He reaches out and tips her chin, forcing her to look him directly in the eye as his thumb runs down the line of her jaw in tender affection.
"I will hold our baby no matter what," he promises softly, solemnly in an unwavering tone. "I will love our baby as much as I love you."