When I round off again, I search for him.
This man is staring at me. As I am twirled around, I watch him part through the crowd like some sort of dark angel. I don’t know him, but it feels as if I have seen him before. My head feels light. All I know is that I see him, and he sees me. There is a connection there that I am painfully aware of, and I wonder does he feel it too? Is this the normal womanly desire mother always tells me I should feel?
“Are you well, Giselle?” Alphonse asks me.
It takes me a moment to register his voice in my mind.
“I…yes,” I say, searching for the man.
He is gone.
“My turn.” There is a voice at our backs and I turn around slowly to see him, the one I had been looking for.
He wears a simple waistcoat of royal blue, and he extends a long arm towards me. His young eyes beckon me with innocent admiration. My stomach is in my throat. I have never felt this. Is this attraction?
“I don’t believe we are finished quite yet,” Alphonse muses.
“Father wants you,” the man says.
He winks at me, and I feel my heart flutter, aghast.
“I’ll take care of her for you,” he is prompt, then adds drolly, “You’ll be missed.”
Alphonse steps close to the man who I take to be his brother of sorts, his breath on his ear.
“You touch her, hurt her, or speak inappropriately, it’ll be your end.”
My eyes widen, and I feel the race of my heart begin again. It’s ravaging my insides. He holds himself with such grace and reform, yet in the quick of his eyes I can tell what his soul feels. What he is thinking. His emotions are anything but masked like the rest of them. I don’t feel that I should be fearful of him, though if I should be, I think it would add to my excitement.
“Do not worry so. I’ll keep her as pristine as you found her.”
Claire
It is splendorous, being in this place again. Almost like seeing ghosts who’ve haunted me for years. Giselle, I have longed to see. But everything else feels uncomfortably familiar. The smells of home make me sick. Even the floral sweat of the bodies around us brings back nostalgia of my youth.
“I thought I had seen you before,” Francis Beauchard says to me. “Now I remember.”
“Do you?” I pretend to be impressed, standing before him with a goblet of imported wine in my hand. I swirl the dark liquid and sip, loving the taste with every fiber of my being.
“Comte Devereaux’s a lucky man. So many lovely things just within his reach,” he says, and his eyes glide along my breasts.
“One less now, I’m afraid,” I tell him. My leaving there was my final victory. All of the rebuttals, all the rebellion, and the finalization that I was unfit to marry some wealthy man with stiff pants bequeathed me as victor.
No man will ever rule me.
Not again.
“You were the most dazzling. Here and there,” he almost chokes on his words.
“What a fine gentleman you are,” I snicker. “It is almost as if I haven’t heard it before.”
Francis lets out a tense breath and shifts his stance. He looks perfectly French in his ruffles and waistcoat, and his heeled pointed shoes. Nothing about him screams alternative or different, though he is the son of a man father does business with. One whose residence is permanently at court in Versailles. By this, one can assume him rich, and mother has said that this puts an aura on a man. Only men with auras are fit for marriage.
“You make it hard for a man to compliment you.” He smirks. “I will try harder then.”
“It is funny that you remember me from there, because I do not remember you,” I am blithe, and we begin to walk the length of the hall, through gaggles of dancers and deep discussions.
“Yes, I could not keep my eyes off of you that entire night,” he says. “But you were entertaining another man…what was his name?”
I remember his name, though speaking it would sour everything. I feign ignorance and smile cajolingly. If I could leave the past two years in darkness, I would. I think the wine will help and sip more.
“It doesn’t matter.” He chuckles, and I see him glance off to make eye contact with a group of similarly aged men. His friends. Perhaps they are checking in on him to see how well his advances are being taken.
“I checked into him because I was worried for you. The way he…I wanted to be sure that you were going to be well cared for,” he reveals.
“Oh.” I tilt my head as if he has struck me as kind. “Do you do that for all the young girls you lust after?”
He seems a bit thrown and chuckles nervously.
“The thing of it is,” he begins in a low voice, “that man whose name evades me happens to be a man my father knew at court. My father is not keen on him. He told me, well…he expressed that if I were to marry anyone he’d want it to be you, in order to flummox the old man.”
His face is tilted towards me and honesty is bold on his face. I know that anyone can pretend this, but I can only stare at him for a moment. His curly amber hair springs about his face, lending him a boyishness that will most likely always be there.
“How fortunate for me.” I laugh.
Francis laughs with me, and he lays a hand on the crook of my arm.
“You really are a beautiful woman. Beautiful women should be kept well. I would give you everything and more,” he whispers, eyes flashing like fire.
The place I left was filled with men with large promises and empty purses. I had never really wanted money, that was not the problem I faced. I only want excitement, but it seems that this usually comes at expense. The thought of angering him, the man I continuously will myself to forget, thrills me and gives me a new perspective on this common Francis.
“You should not tempt a woman,” I tell him. “You don’t know how far she will go to get what she desires.”
His brows raise, and he smiles peachily. “I have a good guess.”
I wonder what he wants. He seems the simple kind, the kind that would do something to get what he wants, but these things are only trifles. I can see it in his eyes, he wants sex. The great unbinding for a man at this age. He wants prestige and notoriety. Why does bedding a woman automatically bring that to a man? Is it in his head or those around him?
“And what is your guess?” I ask.
“I think you’d give yourself to me fully, right out there in the gardens,” he says confidently. “But that is not only because you want a life of wealth and romance…no. I believe you’re attracted to me.”
We are huddled close and he seems near giddy, joking with me like this. I look up at him, and I cannot help but smile. But not for the same reasons. He is generally handsome, nothing outrageous or heroic, but then, I have not often been the breathless girl waiting on a man to pluck her up. This is why I smile. Because he does not know me, and he thinks he does. He thinks that I will react to him like every other poor girl he’s laid his hands upon.
“A bit pompous for my taste,” I counter, amusement running through me.
“Yet, you are here, letting me charm you,” he questions, mirth at his mouth. “Think of it. We could be the best couple in Paris.”
There’s not much else to say. I feel heat in my stomach. The thrill of the chase, the encounter, it will always lure me. If I lived in Versailles, I would be the best of the concubines. I am more than sensual, and I’ll always be that way. What is life without a bit of philandering? Knowing I could hurt the bastard that hurt me, bring myself a title and wealth along with a stupid husband who could bend to my every whim…it is almost as if the angels have dropped him from above. Shall I say a prayer of thankfulness?
“Shall we?” I give him my best coquettish glance, and he trails after me, his finger nuzzling mine.
We enter into the night, two heathens with pulsing sin. I laugh as he pulls me down the labyrinthian gardens, past wrought iron fencing and topiaries. The night air is fresh and perfumed by the flowers around us. Francis’ hair bounces
like a sheaf of wheat as we stumble through the walkways. We are tucked beyond the layers of greenery that stand as walls between us and my families grand Maison.
“Should we be doing this?” he asks, excitement lighting his eyes.
“What do you think we are doing, exactly, Monsieur?” I eye him critically.
He presses me against a bush that is guarding us and wraps his hands around my waist.
“Being entirely too forward, no?”
I laugh into his neck and do not move for a moment. Am I choosing right? I seem to do this with the men I meet. All men who I deem useful. I wonder, where is Giselle? Is she still standing painfully silent and brooding against the wall?
I snake my arm around his neck and hesitate, pretending as if I am fearful to break that boundary, to lean forth and kiss him. Giselle has changed. She seems to have collapsed in on herself with depression. What is this life but a topsy turvy unknown? One minute you are hating it, the next, you are wrapped in a man’s arms vying for a potential marriage. I think it is better for me to do what I must to control my own future. If I do not, who will care if I am happy? And happiness is something I will not be deprived of. Not again.
“You are brave, touching me without asking permission,” I say. “Not many men would do it.”
“Not many men know what they want when they find it,” he whispers into my ear.
I laugh. Men are fickle. He could choose to leave me a day after he beds me. I know this. So what do I do? Not give in? I want to laugh again. If I never give in, not until the day we marry, his reaction will be the same. Even if we are safe and panting with excitement in the sanctity of marriage when we first do the erotic deed, he will still be the same man. Only then, I will be stuck in a marriage with a man who desires the thrill of the first time and, without a beat, is on the look for the next sexual encounter. Shall I explain this fear to him? Should fears be spoken of? I think the only true way I can be safe is to make men want me. To make him want me. What is the one thing I have that men want? Shall I use it as a weapon? It is the only weapon I have in this harsh world.
“What do you think I want?” I ask him, turning the question.
He leans back a bit, searching my eyes. I confuse him. No doubt he’s only dealt with the fawning sort of girl.
“You want…love,” he says, with a twinge of guess in his tone.
Is it true? Don’t we all want love? What a silly response.
“Of course,” I say. “Love is all we have in this life.”
He smirks and draws me closer, “I can give you that.”
We stare into one another’s eyes, so near. His sparkle with desire. I tilt my head so that our lips are aligned and easily able to meet.
“Please, kiss me,” I whisper.
I know this is what he wants. He devours me, leaning, stroking, enveloping me with his passion, and I play my role. Because I know what I want, and I will get it. If he is not the one to give it to me, I will be on to the next one. I think he needs this, the affirmation that I want him. Men need their egos to be stroked. So, stroke I shall.
Giselle
Alphonse shrinks into the background through the waves of people, leaving us alone. The crowds flurry and grind about us. We should join them. Suddenly, I am madly afraid. I wish Claire would intervene. But, no. There is no one to save me.
“Don’t look so distressed,” he mutters. “I am nothing that he said. Dance with me?”
His eyes are radiant and searching. His hands guide me without my response, and when he takes me close, I do not feel discomfort, rather, the comfort of closeness with a kindred spirit. His touch calms me.
“You are?”
“Benjamin, son of Monsieur Alexandre Chardones,” he speaks with openness, his voice even.
I attempt to maintain the proper footing, but we make our round to the edge of the hall, and I find that we’ve stopped. We cannot focus on the dance. He watches me silently. How did we find ourselves beyond the pillars, away from the sight of others? I stare back. It feels strange, like some unseen force is drawing us together.
“And where are you from, may I ask?” I try for politeness.
“I was the product of my father’s affair with an Island woman. My father treats me as an equal. They can’t prove I’m anything other than French, so they let their suspicions slide. But I will always tell the truth. I cannot lie about my heritage, nor pretend that I am more valuable than I am.”
My jaw is slack. He grins at me when he finishes.
“Well, that is quite the compilation of information.” I grope for the words to respond to his outburst. I burn in my silence, feeling utterly ridiculous.
“Your turn.” He smirks.
“Erm…” I am uneasy, flummoxed by his interrogation.
“Daughter of Monsieur Ferdinand Bonteque, the trading industry mogul of our time…” he starts for me, ripe with mirth.
“Yes.”
I smile wide now. I cannot help but be enamored by his charm.
“My name is Giselle. I am French and English by birth. I love dancing and reading…travel. Though I’ve yet to be anywhere but this cage. Perhaps someday I will travel.”
Did I just say the things I said? I look to the floors. It goes against all teachings to speak like this with him. But I am stuck here, mesmerized. I glance around. I don’t want anyone to ruin this moment. I feel anxious, wanting to secure my time with him. I don’t want anyone to take him away, or for him to suddenly dissipate into a wisp of smoke.
“I have faith. You seem like you are meant for something grander than this.” He motions to the rest of the room. The cacophony about us that we hardly notice. I suppose one might argue how does it get any better than this? In my mind, I know he is right. If this is nothing to me, what else is there? Something about the statement dislodges a fire within me.
“And what about you? Do you, stranger, have dreams of things like that?” I ask.
I quiver in my dress, the pressure of our closeness intoxicates me. He intoxicates me. The strange half-blood who stands before me with a relaxed expression. I feel something I’ve never felt before. It’s entrancing, spellbinding, and I do not understand it. Confusion enters me and seizes me captive. It is the confusion that is so engrossing. It’s the mystery that draws me like a deer to water. I am so light I am afraid I might float.
“Every night I sleep, every morning I wake, I have dreams. Don’t tell me you limit yourself to just one?” His eyes are shining with fervor and excitement.
I wonder if he is toying me. Would I even care if he was? “I suppose I haven’t thought of it that way before.”
“All you have to do is open your mind to the possibilities,” he says and then grabs my hand. “Let’s walk?”
I nod wordlessly. I want him to lead me.
“Are you one of those new age folk all about reformation and science?” I ask blindly.
He mutes another smirk and pulls me onward. “I’m in a branch all on its own.”
“What do you mean?” I press.
“I mean,” he glances back at me with lifted brows, soft in his expression, “I don’t want to be bound by the laws of what is natural.”
“How pleasant,” I react in an awkward way, hoping he does not notice.
He gives me a look that shows that he knows I’m far from understanding him.
“Aren’t you a free spirit, Giselle? You look like it,” he says.
“A free spirit?” I give a wry smile. “I’d hardly say that…”
I muse, and then lose my smile. I am a stiff person, so wrapped up in my own world that I know nothing else. My only dream is to travel. How irrationally boring I sound. I brood darkly for a moment, wondering if I have lost myself to the miasma of this home and the ticking clocks that count the time.
“Maybe someday then,” Benjamin says lightly.
“When I am old. Maybe then I’ll have time for that life.”
“Why wait until you are old? Don’t you want to see ocean
s? Other countries? Cultures? Religions? There’s so much in this world unexplored.”
I moisten my lips, feeling drowned by his enthusiasm.
He makes me want to rework my life. Every damned gray part of it. How is it that no one has spoken to me in this way before? Is this not natural? It should be. I wonder what Claire would think of him, this Benjamin.
“I apologize,” Benjamin says on a wisp of a voice, and we stop, huddled behind the largeness of a pillar.
I can feel the heat of him. I want to touch him, to feel that he is real. His words are like fresh air to me.
“There is nothing to apologize for.” I smile kindly, then look to the ground.
“I had to meet you,” he blurts, eyebrows pulling up.
My gaze snaps upwards to look at him full in the face. His cheeks are tinged with pink beyond the eons of his amber-ness. He looks so innocent, so inviting and yet so rogue. He is a coursing river of complexities.
“I…” I let out a breath. “I am glad to have met you as well.”
My training has me tight, trying to keep the etiquette, but try as I might, it’s already been spent.
“No.” He swallows. “I was drawn to you.”
“You are…very intriguing yourself.” I nod.
I feel it. I want to tell him.
“No, Giselle. There’s something about you. I can’t place it.” He exhales sharp. “I felt like I had to know you. Like somehow our fates were always meant to cross.”
I will not deny it. Denying it would be so far past wrong. The feeling has disturbed me since I first caught sight of him. Even now, it takes everything in me not to abandon all the things I have been taught and know and hook myself to him, to press my lips against his neck and wrap my arms around him. I’ve never known this feeling and with such newness there can only be danger.
“No, I live by different laws than you,” I correct him. “I dream only of one thing. I am boring. I will probably only ever be good for an advantageous marriage and then bearing children that I may die for. My life holds no promise. So, forgive me for being a bit more…practical.”
The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1) Page 2