Ch. 17— Moonlight Serenade
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Erik wanted her.
He wanted her with every fiber of his being—warming his bed, singing in his ear, being his eyes so that he could focus on his music—his to have completely.
He did, however, give a moment's consideration to the thought that perhaps he didn't have the right.
With his scarring, limp, and blindness—any one of which would be enough to make a female of the species consider him 'damaged goods' and disregard him completely— she might not want to subject herself to a lifetime's servitude at his side. For that's the fate he would be consigning her to, should his blindness, as he was coming to suspect, remain a permanent condition.
But dammit, he wanted her!
It was going to take time… time, patience, and a fair amount of cunning.
He was certain she was attracted to him. Her reactions this afternoon in the kitchen confirmed it.
However, the lady fare was shy and not just shy but virgin too if he wasn't mistaken. And in this day and age, that was practically unheard of for a woman of twenty-three to be… at least, with the women of his known acquaintance.
A frisson of anticipation stole up his spine as he recalled her response to his speaking lowly in her ear. Erik had felt the tremor of desire roll through her little body all the way from her head down to her toes, and he'd quickly had to remove her from his lap lest his ardor for her betray him.
And then she had given him a massage—oh, his naïve little mouse!
He would wait; he would be patient and bide his time until their wedding night to fully seduce her.
But by God, he would fan the flames of her ardor, awaken her to the undercurrent of sexual passion arcing between them, make it so his innocent sleeping beauty responded to the quickening in her blood, the fire of her lover's touch on her skin.
It would take all of his remaining senses to achieve this, he knew—this slow, luring seduction— in order to win over her mind and entrap her heart, to see her bound to him forever.
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That evening after dinner—which had again been sandwichless— they'd worked on Mr.D'Anton's score for a time, and Christine transcribed the beautiful, lilting melody he'd played for her that morning, singing it back to him on an 'Ah'. But once she'd finished, he'd insisted they leave off transcribing for a while so she could work on something besides his music. "After all", he'd stated, "In the words of Plautus, my dear, 'a mouse does not rely on just one hole', and so it is that you need to tend other pursuits besides music in order to feel fulfilled."
She had read to him for a time, but truth to tell, she was not in the mood to read of unhappy Catherine and her wretched Heathcliff. Consequently, after finishing the chapter they were on, Christine made some flimsy excuse about needing to see to her darning, and Mr. D'Anton suggested she turn on the radio.
And so, for once, they were listening to the music portion of the program as it broadcasted the news of the Allies and their certain victory against the Germans in France. Mr. D'Anton sat in the straight-back chair and she in the wingback by the woodstove—at his insistence—darning her much-mended stockings and listening to the brassy, mellow sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra as they performed live from London.
Christine looked over from her basket of mending to see Mr. D'Anton with a quizzical, half-smile formed on his lips. With his eyes closed, he looked to be daydreaming or in a trance. Glenn Miller's "Pennsylvania 6-5000" was playing softly in the background, and with a resounding blast of brass, the audience clapped and the legendary band-leader announced, "Next up is an old favorite of mine. Fellas, grab your favorite gal and hold her tight as we play, 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,'" and the tinny-sounding audience cheered and then quieted as the song began to play.
"Do you dance, Ms. Daae?" Mr. D'Anton suddenly inquired.
"I—" Christine blushed and shook her head, "No, I've never… "
He rose and came to stand next to her chair. Mr. D'Anton bowed slightly from the waist and held out his hand to the left of her in expectation, his eyes focused on the floor at her feet. Biting her lip, Christine put her mending to the side, and taking his hand, rose to stand before him.
She was dressed, as she was practically every day since her move to Le Havre, in her usual winter attire of gray woolen A-line skirt, white stockings, and her ancient blousy sweater. Her shoes were practical, brown and low-heeled. Her hair was in its customary bun at her nape.
But when Mr. D'Anton drew her into his arms, Christine felt like a princess dressed for a ball.
She looked down, concerned with her feet, concentrating on getting the steps just right, perfect, so that she wouldn't embarrass herself or hi— "Little Mouse."
She looked back up at him uncertainly.
Mr. D'Anton was grinning at her. "The first rule of dancing is there are no rules." And Christine gasped to feel him draw her even closer to him so that there was hardly any space left between them, her free hand automatically went to his shoulder to steady herself as he still held her other hand in his clutched between the two of them.
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Erik began to shuffle them about the floor; his steps slow but deliberate and steady.
His injured leg prevented him from attaining the absolute grace that had once been his to command. But whether they were moving with perfection or standing still, it hardly seemed to matter. The fact remained Ms. Daae was in his arms and his hand clutching hers between them, his other hand at her back encouraging her to move still closer to him, to follow in the rhythm he set.
She was divine.
Her scent encompassed him. Her lithe, quaking form enchanted him; the way she followed where he led made him want to lead them dancing forever.
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The song ended and Christine pulled away expecting him to let her go now that it was over. He just shook his head holding tightly to the hand of hers he still held and waited in expectation for another song to play. The bandleader —Glenn Miller himself— spoke, addressing the crowd, "Tonight, I'd like to dedicate this next song 'Moonlight Serenade' to all the lovebirds out there, the 'johnnies' and 'janes' separated because of the fighting."
Christine stiffened.
Mr. D'Anton and she were not 'love birds', nothing could ever come between them; she would be foolish to ever think it could. She needed to remember that!
"Relax, my girl" he intoned, once more putting his hand at her back and stepping close to her as the music began to play. "Just listen to the music and follow my lead." He encouraged her to move still closer and rest her head on his chest.
Closing her eyes, Christine did, surrendering to the music and the spell it cast while this man held her in his arms. This was a bad idea; it had disaster for her poor heart written all over it, but she couldn't see a way to stop it. She didn't want to stop it.
He danced them in a tight circle, twirling them slowly about, and scarcely an inch now separated her body from his.
His hand was on the center of her back, his fingers splayed wide, and where he touched, Christine burned.
His palm soothed up and down her back in rhythm to their dancing, encouraging her to go with his movements, to match the pace he set, and his chest was so firm and sure beneath her cheek, his shoulder so strong where she held him about the neck.
"You're a natural, my dear," he muttered lowly in her ear.
She shivered.
"Yes, you have an inborn grace about you that many a dancer in my company would love to attain."
Christine shook her head, burrowing still deeper into his embrace, thinking it impossible he spoke the truth.
"Don't believe me, hmm?" There was a wry note in his voice, and Christine had no warning at all before she was being spun and dipped as the song reached its sweeping finale.
Her heart in her throat, Christine looked up wide-eyed from her position almost horizontal to the floor to find Mr. D'Anton above her. He held her with a hand wrapped around her lower back, his fingers clutching securely at her waist. When he had dipped her, both Christine's hands had instinctively clutched around his neck to support herself, and so she held tightly to him. One of her legs was hoisted in the air and nearly wrapped around his trousered thigh, and his other hand was there as well, upon her stocking-clad thigh as he held her supported.
He was smiling, his grin reminiscent of a painting of Mephistopheles she had seen once. His honey-eyed gaze centered on her face, specifically her lips as he spoke, "I could not have done that with just anyone, my dear. Not at all."
Gulping, Christine held her breath. The final chord of the song played to resounding applause, and seamlessly, he raised her back up until she was standing upright on her two feet next to him once more.
He again took her hand, and bringing it to his lips, pressed the back of her knuckles with the lightest of kisses. 'Thank you, Ms. Daae. That was lovely." With seemingly inherent knowledge, he escorted her to her seat by the woodstove. He also returned to sit in the straight-backed chair and resumed his contemplative air.
Christine looked at the darning beside her as if it were something foreign—alien. It looked strange lying as it was in the basket on the floor, and it took a moment for her to remember what it was and how she was supposed to work the needle and thread.
When it was obvious she wasn't going to be able to concentrate, Christine rested it in her lap and lost herself to her whirling thoughts. She had just danced her first dance!
She had danced her first dance with Mr. D'Anton.
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A/N: For full illustration of above dancing scene please see the cover-art of this fic ;D
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PFP