What prompted her choice? I am grateful to her, of course, wildly grateful for the life I have been given. That is the light pushing back the darkness that threatens to smother me. Yet there are times when I feel so overwhelmed, so unprepared that I wonder how I can ever be what she intended. The ultimate makeover, Ian said. Susannah’s own version of the perfect woman.
Is there a more daunting prospect? One that I already know I can never fulfill?
I lie down again eventually but only to skim the surface of sleep. Monsters lurk in the depths--memories I am not supposed to have but cannot escape. They are as much a part of me as anything Susannah intended.
Perhaps even more so for they are uniquely my own. The thought occurs to me that in trying to flee from the monsters, I am really running from myself.
Chapter Sixteen
Amelia
Accompanied by Adele and Edward, I step from the car onto the red carpet laid before the entrance to the Opera House. Ours is one of a steady stream of luxury vehicles dropping off the evening’s audience or at least that portion of it destined for the dress circle and the stalls.
There is a separate entrance to the side of the theatre for those being admitted to the balconies. I catch a glimpse of the people lined up there and notice that they are still wearing the same plain, uniform clothing. Are the worker bees of Manhattan never allowed to appear in anything that could distinguish them as individuals or worse yet, lead to them being mistaken for the privileged ones they serve?
The paparazzi are out in force, clamoring for items to feed the private link that Adele has shown me, where the elite are not at all shy about exchanging news and gossip. Edward waves the videographers and reporters off but most of those on the red carpet are happy to preen and pose.
We are held up momentarily behind a couple chattering on about who “dressed” them, when I happen to glance beyond the barriers that confine the workers to their own allotted space. A young woman is standing there. Although she is wearing a drab brown tunic and slacks, and has her gleaming dark hair scraped into a bun, she is remarkably, even fiercely beautiful. Her high cheekbones hint at an Asian heritage but her large, thick-fringed eyes and warm, olive complexion suggest that she could be a Latina. More even than the loveliness of her features, the pride evident in the tilt of her head and her expression rivets me. For the first time, I’m seeing a member of the worker class who isn’t striving for invisibility.
Our eyes meet. I am openly curious but I’m also worried. If anyone else notices her staring so blatantly, she could be in trouble. That possibility doesn’t seem to concern her. Holding my gaze, she gives me a smile and inclines her head in acknowledgement.
A moment later, she fades back into the crowd. I’m left wondering if I imagined her.
But not for long. As we step into the Opera House, I understand why Adele and Zosimo both insisted that I had to wear something spectacular this evening. The gown that the spiky red-haired wizard created for me is aquamarine silk shot through with strands of gold that together look like bright sunlight falling on crystal clear water. The sleeveless bodice is a stiff embroidered brocade that begins just below the upper swell of my breasts and stops precisely at the top of my thighs, enclosing my torso in an almost rigid sheath. Below, an intricately pleated silk chiffon skirt ripples down the length of my legs like small undulating waves.
The total effect is as elegant as anything in the palazzo dressing room but it is also completely different. The colors and the look itself are more vibrant and daring than Susannah would have worn. In addition, I resisted allowing my hair to be straightened even after being told by the huffy hairdresser that it was absolutely de rigueur if I am to have any hope of being fashionable. Instead, I’ve gone for a look that admittedly is a little wild, a mass of chestnut waves interlaced with small, bejeweled flowers, scooped high on my head and left to tumble below my shoulders. I am confident that my appearance is sufficiently different for me to be accepted as 'Cousin' Amelia.
Looking around at the other women, I know I made the right decision by insisting on my own style. I need to stand out, to appear distinctly myself to assure that no one will ever guess the truth, and I’ve achieved that. In contrast, most of the young women I see and some of the older ones who should know better are decked out in the height of the season’s fashion trends. Those aren’t all bad--transparent bands of lace worn over the eyes create a tantalizing air of mystery. But some of the others…
Of all the excesses--and there are many--the collars stand out. Every slave to fashion is wearing one. They come in a variety of styles but the most extreme extend from the collarbones all the way up to the chin, completely encircling the neck and holding it rigid in splints of leather, lace, or even lacquered metal. The wearers can’t turn their heads without moving their entire upper bodies. I touch my own bare neck and wonder how they can even manage to swallow.
Adele appears amused by the excesses whereas Edward seems oblivious despite the attention from many of those same young women that keeps coming his way. He and Adele both stay close to me as we proceed through the crowd toward the curving marble staircase framed by golden statues of cherubim that leads up to the dress circle.
The interior of the Opera House is done in over-the-top Rococo, filled with multi-colored marble friezes, sculpted columns, statuary, and murals. Lavish gilding, rich velvet, and gold leaf have been applied to every possible surface. The whole is lit by the radiance of several hundred crystal and gold chandeliers creating an effect that is more than sumptuous. It is an orgy for the senses as well as a showcase for privilege and power,
As we join the crowd ascending the broad marble steps, I put one hand on the smooth banister and with the other lift my skirts so that they won’t catch on the delicate, pointed heels from which my bare, painted toes peek. I’m thinking about everything I’ve seen since coming to the city, the good and the bad, trying to make some sense of it all when I glance up.
In the space of a heartbeat, every coherent thought dissolves. Only sensation and instinct remain.
Ian is standing at the top of the steps, impeccably dressed in evening wear that, in stark contrast with the excesses of fashion all around us, is austerely elegant. He has shaved recently, revealing the chiseled line of his jaw, and his dark hair is freshly trimmed.
But the veneer of civilization does nothing to lessen the sense of power and fierce will that surround him, made all the more startling by his undeniable youth. He truly does look like a prince bred to rule.
When our eyes meet, his gaze is hard, glittering, remorseless. At once, a cascade of memories engulfs me--water sluicing down his big, hard body as we stood together in the shower, the sun playing over his face as I lay beneath him in the pavilion, those final moments in the library… A bolt of pain makes me gasp.
I am suddenly hollow with yearning and trembling with need. My knees threaten to buckle. I am desperately afraid that I will cry or throw myself at him or simply melt, becoming a humiliating spectacle for the titillation of Society and to my own abiding shame.
Hot, cleansing anger comes to my rescue. How dare he send me away, then turn up again just when I’m struggling to put what happened between us behind me? He has no right to look at me as he is, the searing intensity of his gaze leaving me no room to think or breathe. Still on the steps, I quake. My hand slips from the banister as my balance falters.
A low but very audible curse breaks from Ian. His hand thrusts down, grasping mine. At his touch, any hope I might have that I could deny the effect he has on me vanishes. In its absence, I am filled with alarm. I hadn’t thought it possible that I could ever return to the unnaturally compliant state in which I first awoke. I will not return to it. That is not who I am.
Yet my fingers curl around his all the same. I tell myself that I am merely choosing between accepting his touch or tumbling down a flight of marble steps but some part of me knows better. This is what I have been longing for, what I crave above all, what I nee
d as much as air and light.
Steadied by his strength, I climb the last few steps. My breath leaves me in a gasp as he draws me so close that our bodies touch. Distantly, I’m aware of Edward coming quickly to my side. He is scowling but I can’t care. Adele is nearby. I catch a quick glimpse of her smile. I have the sense that she understands all too well what she is seeing.
There are other people around us but they might as well be shadows. Ian commands my attention as effortlessly as he does my will. I don’t know how long we stand like that, so tantalizingly near, the barrier of our clothes unable to mask the heat flaring between us. The look in his eyes…
A long, slow tremor begins in my core and spirals outward. As much as I want to shield myself from the truth, there is no mistaking his desire. He wants nothing less than to devour me. To fill me with pleasure until I am shattered by it, unable to think or move or resist, utterly obedient to his touch and his command. Just as he did that last night in the golden room.
Worse, I want the same.
The soft clearing of a throat recalls me to the moment. Belatedly, I notice the two women standing just behind Ian. One is about my age, the other looks as though she could be her mother. Both are lovely--slim, blond, elegantly dressed in a manner that suggests they are far too confident and sensible to succumb to the vagaries of fashion.
The older one gives me a quizzical look. “Won’t you introduce us, Ian?” she asks.
For a moment, he appears startled, as though he has forgotten that anyone else is present. But he recovers quickly.
Calmly, as though we are no more than mere acquaintances, he says, “By all means, mother. I’d like you to meet Amelia McClellan. Amelia, this is my mother, Helene and my sister, Marianne.” Remembering his manners, he says to them, “And of course, you both know Edward and Adele.”
“Of course we do,” Helene Slade says. She has a quick smile for both but her focus is clearly on me. “Amelia…?” The warmth of her manner does not conceal her unmistakable curiosity.
“My cousin,” Edward says. Very deliberately, he draws me away from Ian. For a moment, I fear that I’m about to become the object of a tug of war between them.
“We’re delighted that Amelia has come to stay with us,” my brother adds as Ian, with obvious reluctance, releases me.
“How wonderful,” Marianne says. She seems friendly but she’s wide-eyed with surprise. I wonder why that is. Surely, Ian has introduced them to other women he knows?
“We must do lunch,” Helene says brightly.
I quail at the thought. How can I possibly be with Ian’s mother and sister for more than a few minutes without revealing my feelings for him? Even though I’m not entirely sure what those are? Passion, certainly, and fascination and desire and yearning and…
“What an excellent idea,” Adele says, sealing my fate. I dare a quick glance at Ian. Not surprisingly, he is frowning.
If we were alone, I’d be tempted to ask him what he would have me do to discourage this unwanted interest from the women in his family. But not only are we surrounded by relatives, we are in the midst of a large crowd and people are watching us. That comes as a shock. I’ve been so caught up in seeing Ian again that I didn’t realize we were attracting attention. We--or more correctly I--am the target of glances ranging from icy to speculative.
As much as I wanted to distinguish myself from Susannah, I never imagined becoming the focus of such widespread attention. It makes me acutely uncomfortable. When three chimes sound, the signal to be seated, I all but sag with relief.
With a last, long glance at me, Ian escorts his mother and sister to their box. Adele and I go in the opposite direction with Edward.
Amid the murmur of voices and the rustling of clothes, the audience takes it places beneath the immense bronze and crystal chandelier hanging from the cupola above the stalls. The light it casts, flecked with hues of gold and silver, dims as the maestro walks out and takes his position before the orchestra. He taps his baton on the podium, the sound ringing clearly in the sudden hush that falls over the audience.
The music begins.
The opening notes from the cellos are a paean to passion and longing, so intense, so blatant as to be all but unbearable. Hard upon them comes the aching dissonance of the woodwinds with their cry of yearning drawn from the depths of the human soul. Without warning, a hymn to unbridled sensuality fills the opulent space of the Opera House.
I lean forward, so instantly entranced by the music that I can only think my reaction must be extreme. A quick glance confirms that. The audience, at least as much of it as I can see, appears no more than politely attentive.
Except for…
Ian is seated with Helene and Marianne in a box nearby. His head is turned in my direction. I cannot see his eyes but I feel them nonetheless. The instant connection between us is unbearable. Seeking relief, I focus on the stage only to realize my folly.
As the curtain rises, much of the cast is revealed to be partially or entirely nude. Moreover, some combination of nature and modern day enhancements has resulted in people who have both extraordinary voices and bodies to match. The women are all slim and lush breasted, the men superbly muscled and otherwise equally well endowed.
I’m shocked but no one else seems to be. Edward is leaning back in his seat, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He looks mildly bored. Adele appears entirely unfazed although she at least seems to be enjoying the music.
Daring greatly, I glance at Ian only to discover that far from being interested in what is happening on the stage, he is still watching me. My reaction clearly amuses him. Even in the dim light of the theatre, his smile is blatantly provocative. As I stare back at him, the tip of his tongue slides across his teeth in a motion that sends a spear of pleasure straight to my groin.
Belatedly, I remember that Wagner’s ‘Tristan und Isolde’ is a long opera, more than four hours long. I heard Edward muttering about that to Adele before we left. Four hours of intensely erotic music and naked people on stage? And what exactly are those people going to be doing that they need to be naked?
I glance again at Ian. His smile is gone. In its place is a look of such fierce, almost brutal desire that once more I am transported back to the golden room and that last night when, helpless in the grip of remorseless pleasure, I submitted to him again and again.
On stage, the bold warrior Tristan is escorting the fiery princess Isolde to the court of the king whose bride she is to be. The sexual tension between the two is electric. Faced with a fate neither wants, Tristan accepts Isolde’s demand that they drink a potion she believes will kill them both. But instead of death, they are poisoned by love, a deadly passion that at once threatens to consume them. Torn from a passionate embrace, they conspire to be reunited.
The erotic drama unfolding before me only heightens my own arousal as Tristan comes through the darkness to claim his beloved in a castle garden. What few garments they wear fall away. How two people writhing in passionate embrace can still find the breath to sing so gloriously is beyond me but they manage it. Isolde’s back arches beneath Tristan as he cups her breast and…
As I look away hastily, my gaze collides again with Ian’s. At once my nipples, already hard, begin to ache. Too vividly I remember the touch of his mouth there, the quick, sharp nip of his teeth bringing a sweet, sweet pain.
I squirm in my seat, all too aware of how aroused I am becoming. On the stage, the lovers are entwined, their bodies moving as one. As the music rises to an erotic crescendo, I surrender all pretense of calm and stagger to my feet. After a murmur to Adele about needing the ladies’ room, I am about to leave the box when I notice that Ian’s seat is empty.
In the corridor, I hesitate, unsure what to do. I could find the ladies’ room and in the privacy of one of the stalls give myself another of those mild little orgasms but--
“Amelia.”
Without hesitation, I turn toward the sound of his voice. At the sight of him standing deep in t
he shadows of a nearby alcove, I am too relieved to be surprised. The cacophony of my thoughts--all my doubts and regrets, my fears and yearnings made even more acute by the recent nightmare--dies away. The music soars around us, only slightly muted by the walls that shield us. On the stage, a timeless drama is playing out as it has for centuries and will for centuries to come. But here, with us, there is only the moment.
We are alone together in a shimmering bubble of time where the world cannot reach us. I watch as Ian's lips shape my name, hear the question in it, and do not hesitate to answer in the only way that matters.
One step, two, I close the distance between us until I rest against his rock hard chest. Without warning, he shifts so that my back is pressed against the wall and a steely thigh thrust between my own. He groans as his hand curls around the nape of my neck, holding me in place. Wordlessly, his hot, rapacious mouth claims mine.
I don’t hesitate, I don’t think. I just wrap my arms around his neck and meet his raging need with my own.
His teeth scrape my lower lip, biting just enough to be painful. I gasp and open for him. He sucks on the tip of my tongue before plunging his own into my mouth, taking, demanding, possessing with a rhythm I remember only too well elsewhere in my body.
When he finally lifts his head, his voice is low and rasping, filled with desperation that matches my own.
“I told myself this wouldn’t happen," he says. "I could handle seeing you, keep my distance. But damn it, Amelia, you undo me!”
He is grinding against me, his erection massive against my belly. For my own part, I can’t get close enough to him. All the pent-up longing of the past days and nights bursts loose within me. This is what I know, what I need above all.
The realization that I am not alone in my yearning releases a knot of self-doubt within me. I don’t think to question why he sent me away if he feels as he does. Right then, I don’t even care. Instead, I feel insanely, recklessly free.
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 17