Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  I glance around nervously. No one is close enough to overhear us but I catch several cutting looks from young women who don’t like the fact that I’m monopolizing the most attractive man in the room.

  “You shouldn’t have sent them. If Edward or Adele had been there when they arrived, I would have been horribly embarrassed.”

  “Edward always leaves early for the office and Adele is a late riser. I knew you’d be alone.”

  I’m relieved he thought of that but I’m not backing down. “Hardly alone. Two dozen people work in the house. The fact that they’re servants only means that they’re likely to be more aware of what’s going on around them, not less.”

  “They know better than to gossip,” he says defensively. “Every worker in the city has signed an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement. It would be worth their jobs--and any future job they ever hoped to have--if they said anything.”

  This is news although it does fit with what I’ve observed about how jealously the elite guard their privacy. Curiosity gets the better of me. “Has Hodgkin signed an NDA?”

  The sudden shift of focus takes him by surprise. “Of course not and I’d never ask him to. He’s an old friend. I owe him a great deal.”

  I can’t help myself, I have to know. “You didn’t get along with your father when you were younger but you did with Hodgkin?”

  At first, I think he is going to refuse to respond but slowly, not taking his eyes from me, Ian nods. “Hodge used to be in the military. When he saw that I wasn’t happy with the plan my father expected me to follow, he made sure that I was aware I had options. He opened my eyes to the possibilities and left the rest to me.”

  A little piece of the Ian puzzle falls into place. Hodgkin--Hodge--enabled him to make a choice that put Ian on the road to becoming the man he is. A man who cares about finding ways to feed less fortunate people and preventing the very kind of strife from which he can personally profit. The steward had done what a good parent, as opposed to one merely interested in control, would do.

  Is that where Ian’s control issues come from, his dealings with his father?

  Before I can get up the nerve to ask him that, he asks softly, “What did you do with the flowers?”

  “They’re in my bedroom.”

  His smile deepens. I get the impression that this is exactly what he intended when he sent them. “Good.”

  He is close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath along the curve of my cheek. A pool of liquid heat gathers between my legs.

  “Clitoria,” he says softly, “emit their scent at night. Think of me when you smell them. Imagine what I would be doing to you if I were there.”

  My knees sag. This is so screamingly unfair. He manipulates my emotions as easily as he does my body. In a room full of people, I’m becoming intensely aroused. Worse, Ian knows it. The look he gives me is more than a little smug.

  I take advantage of his complacency and slip my hand from his. “What a fascinating idea but actually, I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep. I have another session with Sergei tomorrow and I need to rest up.”

  Before he can respond, I step away. To my regret, he doesn’t try to stop me.

  I have no reason to believe that the cello performance is anything other than sublime but I’m hardly aware of it. For the remainder of the evening, all I can think of is Ian. He does not approach me again but I see him chatting with other guests. The men treat him with cautious respect whereas the women--

  Young, beautiful, eager women, far too many of them vie for his attention. As much as I would like to put that down to the rarity of his attendance at such events, I can’t. He would attract their interest under any circumstances. Nor does it matter that he treats them all no more than cordially. I am painfully aware of them all the same.

  By the time the soirée is over, my claim that I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep mocks me. Lying in bed that night, breathing the tantalizing scent of the clitoria, all I can think of is the man who sent them.

  I’m vividly aware that it would be far too easy for me to lose myself in Ian. If I have any sense, I will do everything necessary to avoid that including not being alone anywhere with him in the future and definitely not accepting any more of his gifts.

  That plan makes perfect sense and I know that it’s in my interest to embrace it if I am to do what I must--find my own identity and create my own life. None of which explains why I toss and turn through the long, perfume-scented night, torn between desire and desolation.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Sergei raps the end of his staff down so sharply on the wooden floor that I feel the reverberations under my feet.

  “When you come here to my studio,” he says in a measured tone, “to be instructed by me, I expect you to be at your best.” He paces closer, an irate lion displeased by what he sees. “Not to arrive like this, wilted and with shadows under your eyes. When you neglect to take proper care of yourself, you are wasting both your time and mine.”

  I swallow against what I know is his valid complaint. “I’m sorry, Sergei. I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Why not?” He shoots me an all-too-perceptive look and comes to his own swift conclusions. “Ah, of course, a man. It would have to be.”

  My back stiffens. Surely, I’m not that transparent? “Why do you say that? There could be some other reason.”

  He laughs, a deep, knowing sound. “Don’t be foolish, You are far too strong to be disturbed by anything less. And you are far too lovely not to attract the sort of man who inevitably will disturb you.”

  I sigh, no longer trying to deny what is obvious, at least to Sergei. Still, I say, “It’s complicated.”

  He scoffs. “Complicated? The Rose Adagio in Tchaikovsky’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ is complicated. Rachmaninoff’s last composition, ‘Symphonic Dances’ is even more so. But what happens between a man and a woman is either simple or it is nothing. We give each other what we need. All else is mere distraction.”

  I can’t help but smile at Sergei’s way of seeing the world and relationships. But I suppose his ruthless dedication to dance doesn’t allow for complexity in any other part of his life.

  “You’re going to tell me to put this ‘simple’ matter out of my mind and concentrate on what I’m doing right now,” I say.

  He touches a hand lightly to my cheek and smiles. “On the contrary, I am telling you to use your emotions instead of trying to deny them. Imagine this man, whoever he is, is here right now watching you. What do you want him to see? This pale, wane creature who barely holds up her head? Or a woman of passion who is his equal in every way?”

  My shoulders straighten. Meeting his gaze, I say, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  An hour later, I spin in Sergei’s arms as he guides me through an intricate series of steps that tax my ability yet also exhilarate me. Coming out of the final pirouette, I can’t help smiling. Imagining Ian watching me has proven to be truly inspirational. I feel energized and focused in a way I definitely didn’t when I crawled out of bed this morning.

  “Bravo,” Sergei says softly. He releases me and takes a few steps back. His expression turns solemn. “Whoever this man is,” he says, “I hope he appreciates his good fortune. Because if he does not--”

  To my relief, he leaves the rest unspoken. More than any of the men I have been introduced to at social events, I can respond to Sergei in a way at once disquieting and reassuring. Objectively, I suspect that we would be good together. Emotionally, I have no desire whatsoever to find out if I am right.

  On the contrary, all I can really think of is Ian throughout the remainder of the day and well into the night. Lying in my bed, the scent of the clitoria once again heavy in the air, I imagine him as I slip my hand down between my thighs. Ian touching me… Ian’s breath against my throat… Ian’s mouth on mine… slipping down my body… finding the core of my heat and need--

  His presence is overpowering in my mind but the orgasm that ripples thr
ough me is once again a pale reflection of what I know I can experience. If anything, it leaves me even more unsatisfied.

  Sighing, I turn over in the bed and confront the truth. My body misses Ian desperately. But so does my heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  Amelia

  Three days pass. Between ballet classes and the endless round of social events, I scarcely have time to think. Although I manage to stay much better focused under Sergei’s tutelage, being with him only serves to keep me constantly aware of my feelings for Ian. Yet the hours spent in the dance studio are a rare respite from all the other times when I have to confront the man himself in the formidable flesh.

  Contrary to his reputation for being socially aloof, Ian is everywhere. Every event I attend--with the season now in high swing there are so many--our paths cross. He is unfailingly courteous, never attempting to get me alone again. We exchange polite chitchat, nothing more. Yet surely I'm not mistaken about the heat in his eyes when our gazes meet?

  Inevitably, the presence at such events of such an eligible and previously elusive man invites speculation. He is, I hear it whispered, interested in someone in particular but no one can agree on who she is. A young debutante, newly graduated from one of the elite universities, is a prime candidate. So is a recently divorced thirty-something with spectacular looks and a rumored predilection for bondage play.

  The graphic nature of some of the gossip surprises me But I realize that it shouldn’t. These are the people who find nude opera singers having at the very least simulated sex on stage to be high cultural entertainment.

  The longer I am in the city, the more aware I become of the heavy layer of sensuality that permeates every aspect of it. Some of that is undeniably appealing--the beauty of the architecture, the ubiquity of music, art, and all the rest, even the exquisite preparation of food paired with the finest wines. But other aspects hint at the indulgence of darker appetites.

  Recreational drugs, legal since the collapse of the war on drugs decades ago, are prevalent. I think back to the charity gala that I attended two nights before with Edward and Adele. The head of the charity’s board of directors received a humanitarian award for his work combating drug use among minors. The irony is that the brilliant and darkly handsome Jorge Cruces owns the world’s largest recreational drug company. His efforts to keep his products out of the hands of those too young to use them legally merely assure that he will be left free to sell them to everyone else.

  Such indulgences are far from Society’s only vice. I hear casual references to clubs where the most beautiful and skilled sex workers--men and women alike--serve every taste. Almost nothing is off-limits or even particularly difficult to obtain.

  At a garden party, I stumble across a couple having sex under the branches of a weeping willow. The woman is on her knees, sucking the man off. His hands are tangled in her hair, holding her head in place. As she looks up at him, he gazes down at her with such raw passion that I suddenly cannot breathe.

  Walking away hastily, wanting nothing so much as to be alone, I run smack into Charles Davos. He catches my arm just in time to stop me from falling. He looks perfectly pleasant, even handsome. Well dressed in pleated wool trousers and a cashmere jacket, he is very fit for his age with the unmistakable patina of wealth and privilege. Yet something about his touch makes my skin crawl.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “Please excuse me.” I start to go around him but Davos’ hand on my arm stops me.

  “Amelia, isn’t it? Amelia McClellan. I’m Charles Davos. We met at the opera. Is something wrong? You look upset.”

  From another person, I might take that as an expression of polite concern. But Davos’ yellow-green eyes, seen at such close range, have an almost reptilian cast. He blinks slowly and a shiver runs through me. I really do not like this man even if I can’t begin to say why.

  “Not at all. I was just distracted. Please excuse me.”

  Davos doesn’t release me. Instead, he says, “You’re a welcome addition to our social set, Amelia. Seeing the same faces over and over can get wearisome.”

  His skin emits a musky, oily scent that makes me recoil. “If you say so. I really must be going--”

  He chuckles. “So impetuous. I like that.” He leans a little closer. “A pity about Susannah. She was a lovely woman. I quite admired her.”

  I can’t help myself. “You knew Susannah?”

  “Why, yes, of course. Everyone knows everyone here, or at least everyone who matters. But in Susannah’s case, I have to admit that I had a particular interest. She was so…refined, so cool, so contained. Very refreshing in a world that I’m sure you’ve already discovered can be quite hedonistic.”

  “I’m sorry not to have known her,” I say. Again, I try to extricate myself from his hold. This time he lets me go but he still blocks my path.

  “No doubt you are. You remind me of her. Your eyes, most particularly. People say they are windows into the soul. Do you believe that, Amelia?”

  I’m too busy staring at Davos to answer. He is the first person to mention my resemblance to Susannah. That’s disturbing enough but his remark about seeing into the soul… What does that mean? Is he hinting that he suspects the secret I’m hiding?

  A chill slips down my spine. I can’t get away from him fast enough but at the same time I don’t want to do anything to arouse his curiosity further. Fortunately, I’m saved from trying to figure out what to do by Edward’s sudden appearance.

  He takes one look at me standing with Davos and comes to my side, putting his arm around me in a display of affection I know is not commonplace for him.

  “Charles,” he says in a hard voice that mocks his seeming courteousness. “You’ll have to forgive us. There’s someone I want Amelia to meet.”

  Without waiting for a response, my brother leads me away. When we’ve gone a short distance, he sets me on a bench and sits down beside me. Holding my hands, he says, “You’re shaking. What did Davos do?”

  Quickly, I say, “Nothing. He just said that I remind him of Susannah.”

  Edward frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense. He scarcely knew her.”

  “He claims otherwise. In fact, he says she interested him because she was so cool and refined.”

  I take a breath, grappling with a thought I would prefer not to have in my head. “He was attracted to her.”

  My brother’s disgust couldn’t be clearer. “He’s old enough to have been her grandfather as well as yours.”

  “I don’t think that makes any difference to him. You don’t like him and neither does Ian. Why?”

  “Davos has a certain reputation,” Edward says. His eyes are grim. “I’m not going into it. Suffice to say that I’m certain Susannah never spent any time with him. And no matter what he claims, you are very different from her. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  I want to believe him but my doubts linger. Before I can press the matter any further, Ian comes around a curve of the path quickly, as though seeking someone. At once, he is at my side. Ignoring Edward, he bends down so that he can look directly into my eyes.

  “Amelia, what’s wrong?” His tone is fierce but gentle in a way that I have heard from him only once before, in the studio when I was injured. “What happened?” he demands.

  His presence, the sound of his voice, above all the overwhelming sense of safety that suddenly sweeps over me is too much. My throat tightens as the hard knot of confusion and sadness present in me since those moments in the library becomes unbearable.

  “Amelia?” He touches my face with exquisite tenderness and catches a tear as it slips down my cheek. “For God’s sake, baby, tell me what’s wrong!”

  “She had a run in with Davos,” Edward says.

  Ian curses under his breath. “Goddamn it, what did he do to you?”

  “He said that I remind him of Susannah.” I take a quick, shuddering breath and try to get control of myself. “That’s all. I’m over-reacting.”<
br />
  But even as I say that, I wonder if it’s true. Davos turning up when he did, at a moment when I was upset and distracted, seems too convenient, as though he wanted to catch me with my defenses down. He has an agenda. I just can’t figure out what it is yet.

  “I’ve told Amelia that she has nothing to worry about,” my brother says. His voice carries an undertone of warning, as though he is cautioning Ian not to upset me further.

  “You’re right, of course,” Ian says, too quickly. He rises. A look passes between the two men that I can’t help but think doesn’t bode well for Davos.

  “We should get back to the party,” Ian says.

  I rise as well but before I go anywhere, I decide to seize the opportunity to bring up a topic that has been on my mind for several days. My encounter with Davos has only made it more urgent.

  Looking at my brother, I say, “Adele tells me that you’re knowledgeable about martial arts training. Can you recommend a beginner’s class?”

  Edward looks taken aback. Clearly stalling while he tries to figure out why I would ask such a thing, he says, “You’re already taking ballet classes.”

  “One hardly precludes the other," I tell him. "Besides, I think it would be a good idea for me to learn how to defend myself.”

  The two men exchange another glance. They’re communicating again in some way I can’t grasp. I entertain the fanciful notion that testosterone can be used to send messages, like flares or signal flags but perceptible only to other males.

  Finally, Ian shrugs. “I’ll teach you.”

  I can’t conceal my shock. This is definitely not what I want. “You?”

  “Why not? I have multiple black belts and I’ve trained Special Forces soldiers in hand-to-hand combat.”

  In desperation, I say, “Surely, you’re too busy.”

  “I’ll make time.”

  I turn to Edward for help but he’s standing a little apart, watching the two of us speculatively.

  “I think I’d be better off with someone more attuned to beginners,” I say.