Fair Maiden

by Cheri Schmidt

  Gently, without releasing her hand, he turned her so he could see the veil fastened in her hair. The heat of his touch burned right through the silk of her gown and scalded her skin. The pressure of his fingers sinking into her flesh was an unfamiliar sensation, though deliciously welcome. No, she thought, it was familiar, just forgotten. He removed the lace adornment and with a deeply fascinated expression resurrecting his dimple he rubbed the intricate material between his fingers. Then his gaze shifted to their interlocked hands. His dark eyes brightened when he said, “I think you’re lovely. However, I do see your point. Gloveless at a ball could be frowned upon.” His eyes had remained fixed on their hands whilst his thumb moved along the length of hers, as though he loved feeling the texture of her skin, yet also knew it was not proper for him to do so.

  She recalled what he’d said about this modern society and how judgmental he’d said they were.

  He went on, “I’ll go and fetch Emma. She’ll help.”

  “Emma?”

  “She’s my younger sister.”

  “And here at the ball?”

  “Well, she is in attendance, but at a separate soirée with her little girlfriends. She is too young to attend the ball.”

  Tessa felt her lips part, and he stared at the movement as if mesmerized by it.

  When she said nothing, he said, “She is but twelve.” He stepped backward with a reluctant look in his eye. “Will you be all right for just a moment? I want you to stay right here.”

  She nodded like a round-eyed mute girl.

  Christian gave her hand a gentle squeeze, led her to the velvet-cushioned settee, encouraged her to sit, and then left.

  Staring down at the long train of her dress which spanned from where she sat to nearly halfway across the room, she touched the embroidery for the first time. The silken threads almost felt coarse compared to the silk fabric of the gown. How long had it taken to even make the material for this? She knew all of it had been hand woven, hand stitched, and handcrafted. Had it been made just for her?

  Then she noticed her hands, and twisted her wrists to consider the palms. These were not the hands of a servant. They were soft and un-callused. And, of course, a prince would not have been so adamant about marrying a servant girl. She may have learned her name, but she did not know her title.

  Just then, Christian returned. Behind him, he held the hand of young girl who looked like a more feminine and sweetly beautiful version of himself. The charming young maiden had ringlets the same shade of brown as his mop of waves bouncing around her head. The greatest difference was a shock of blue filling her eyes instead of his blackish brown.

  Emma peered around Christian’s arm shyly measuring her. Then when the girl apparently decided she was all right, she smiled, flashing a dimple just like his, and darted around his side to cheerily greet her with a quick curtsy. “Hello, Lady Contessa. Christian said you needed my help.” She then settled a pair of long white gloves into her upturned hands.

  With her fingers curling slowly around the soft kidskin, she watched in shock as the girl then began untying the ribbons in her hair, saying, “I’m really good at this. I’ve practiced on Bridgette loads of times.”

  Wondering who Bridgette was, Tessa lifted her eyes to Christian’s as he smiled down at her and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when his sister spoke instead, “You don’t want him doing it,” she whispered with a conspiratorial quirk of her brow. “He did my hair once when Mama and Bridgette were indisposed, and you would not believe the mess he created.”

  Christian laughed out loud, lowered onto the seat next to her, and shook his head. By then, Emma had removed all of the ribbons and begun coiling her tresses on top of her head, taking pins from Christian’s outstretched, open palm to secure each section. She stepped up onto the settee to reach the back.

  “Emma,” Christian reprimanded in a brotherly tone. “Mind the cushion, dear.”

  His sister responded in a defiant voice, “Hmm! If you expect this done properly, Chris, mind your own business.”

  “We must shorten her sleeves as well,” he muttered, his fingers gliding over the fabric.

  Tessa shivered.

  Emma paused in doing her hair to untie the sleeves of her overdress which were attached at the shoulders with ribbons. “I have not seen this style, is it French? It seems med—”

  “Yes, it is French,” Christian lied promptly, and far too easily.

  She met his gaze as his little sister bunched up the excess fabric of her chemise, creating romantic puffs that came to just above her elbows as she crossed and tied the ribbons into an ornate latticework of golden bows to secure it. “The gown is lovely, my lady, but this will be more fitting for a London ball.”

  Contessa suddenly felt exposed, and began drawing on the gloves whilst Emma resumed tugging gently on her hair.

  Christian was considering her with a worried look on his face.

  She realized why he looked troubled when he took hold of her now gloved hand and pressed his fingers into the pulse point at her wrist another time. Clearly he feared she may vanish again, and that would certainly startle his little sister.

  When that didn’t happen, he sighed with obvious relief, then noticed how his legs had gotten buried beneath the train of her gown. “Do you have safety pins, Emma? We must do something about the train.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Once Emma was done with her hair and had jumped down from the settee, she said, “Will you please stand, Lady Contessa, so that I may bustle up your dress?”

  “Aye,” she muttered, pushing to her feet.

  Emma gave her a confused look, which is when Tessa remembered that Christian did not use the word, and realized the girl had most likely not heard such old-fashioned speech in quite some time. If ever. She promptly corrected herself. “Yes, I mean.”

  Christian’s sister shrugged her shoulders, stuffed a hand into the pocket of her ivory dress, and removed a fistful of what she assumed to be safety pins. “Help me, Christian.”

  He obeyed promptly.

  Then Emma’s brows twisted with suspicion and her head tipped to the side as her interest narrowed on the gown rather than her hair. “Such a long train…I don’t under—”

  “You promised not to ask questions.”

  “But, Chris—”

  “Not another word, Em. And not a word to anyone else.”

  “Oh, very well.” She then busied herself with Christian in gathering up the long train and pinning it to the back of her dress, leaving a shorter train.

  When they finished they both stepped back to consider their work. Both of them were smiling.

  “Tessa, you look lovely. And so modern.” He winked whilst tugging his hands back into his gloves.

  Emma didn’t see the gesture. “Yes, lady Contessa, you look beautiful.”

  Tessa swallowed, hoping not to vanish any time soon and said to Emma, “Thank you so much for your aid.”

  The young maiden lifted her dress out to the side with one hand as she dipped into another curtsy. “Well, Christian promised to buy me some new ribbons.” She cupped her hand to hide her next words from her brother. “He’s easily fooled. I’d have done it for nothing.”

  From his expression, she knew Christian had heard that, but he simply smiled, showing his teeth and dimple. “Shall we?” he asked, presenting his arm.

  Emma left ahead of them and skipped to the left, whilst Christian led her to the right.

  Just as in her dream, she was acutely aware of gravity’s hold on her, of the temperature of the air around them. But on top of that, she could feel the heat of his arm beneath her hand, the movement of his taught muscle, the coarseness of his black coat, the brush of his hip against the fullness of her skirt, the welcome pressure of his other hand as he settled it over the hand nestled at the bend of his arm.

  Drawing in a breath, she noted the fragrance of the flowers on the hall table. She wanted to stop and explore them more thoroughly, but
it seemed Christian was determined to dance with her as his legs swiftly ate up the space to the doorway leading to the ballroom. She nearly had trouble keeping up.

  Women dressed in whites, and creams, and soft pastels, and gentlemen dressed in black and white moved in and out of the entrance, taking very little notice of them. Of that she was relieved.

  Her fingers bit into Christian’s coat as the music throbbed out to her. Not only could she hear it, but she could also feel it. His eyes fell to her face. “Are you all right?”

  She simply peered wide-eyed into the full ballroom as couples spun about the space, creating a scene of moving black against twirling silk, gossamer, and chiffon.

  “Contessa,” Christian whispered, and when she turned her face to meet his, she understood he was simply saying her name to ensure she remained in his world.

  “Contessa,” he said again, leading her into the room and then twisting to face her. He placed her left hand on his shoulder and lifted the other in his left. She felt his right hand settle gently at the small of her back. Smiling with his entire face, he began guiding her in a dance. She did not know the steps, nor did she know the tune, but did not stumble because of his skilled lead.

  She allowed the melody to fill her as she was swept in his arms around the ballroom amongst the other guests. And fought to keep from gasping each time his thigh bumped into hers, the toned muscles moving against her softer frame. The heat and the friction were near enough to make her swoon. But she held on, and focused on his face which had not moved away from hers.

  Not only was she surrounded by his warm strength, but his essence also enveloped her as his masculine, musky scent filled her lungs. The intensity of that along with his penetrating gaze made her falter, and she stumbled but he tugged her closer, preventing a fall. For a moment she thought he may keep her near, but the want in his expression fell away to reveal…was it guilt? And he allowed the distance between their bodies again.

  His gaze shifted momentarily from her, and then slid back. “People are staring,” he muttered softly as though he were pleased with the fact.

  With eyes rounding, she looked away. People were staring. Within the audience, many were smiling. However some were tittering behind gloved fingers whilst others were scowling with blatant disapproval, which unnerved her.

  “We danced through three songs. That is not common practice and could be considered offensive. Yet, I’m finding it difficult to care at the moment.”

  “But—the ton—Christian. You will be shunned.”

  “And you’re not concerned with what they think of you?”

  “No, I am…” She almost said she was dead, but at the moment, she was not. “Should I be?”

  He passed his eyes over the onlookers before responding. “Three we can get away with, more than that I will not risk in front of the others.”

  With regret showing in his eyes, he began to release her as the song ended, but they were both startled when she suddenly lost her form again.

  “Contessa!” he snapped in a hushed tone, and just as quickly she returned.

  Worry was obvious on his face as he scanned the room for any who may have noticed her vanish, then expelled a breath of relief. It seemed as though no one had. He draped her fingers around his forearm. “Shall we go and get some punch?”

  “Oh.” This was another thing she’d missed. “Yes, please.”

  Just as she lifted her chin, she saw her, the maiden Christian had been dancing with. And Tessa would say she could feel the sharp, threatening look being thrown her way. “Christian, she is not pleased.”

  An annoyed sound escaped him. “Never mind her, darling. It is her nature to be so. She is not kindhearted and is quick to wish ill to others if she does not get her way.”

  Ignoring the scowling lady in yellow, he moved her around the other guests and made for a doorway at the back of the room, but they were stopped by a woman who bore shocking resemblance to Christian, except for the blue eyes of Emma….

  “Christian, darling, won’t you introduce me to this lovely young lady?”

  “Of course, Mother, this is Lady—Contessa.”

  Contessa offered a quick curtsey and his mother bowed just as abruptly. She’d noticed that it was customary to curtsey or bow when greeting others. She did not know if that was the case in her time. Perhaps it had been something she had forgotten, but, wanting to fit in, she was attempting to mimic the customs of this time.

  “Is that your surname? I know not of that family,” the marchioness asked.

  Tessa felt her eyes round, for she did not know it.

  “Mother, I was just about to get her punch. Would you like a glass as well?”

  The woman’s eyes traveled her gown, gloves and hair. This made Tessa wonder if she was pleased or displeased in what she saw, because her expression gave nothing away. But then the older lady smiled and turned to her son. “Yes, please. I would love a glass if you will bring her back to me so that I may get to know her.”

  Christian offered a slight bow, and then whisked her to the adjoining room. Making her dizzy with his brisk movements.

  “That was your mother?”

  “Yes.” He was busy filling a crystal cup with a clear pink liquid from a large bowl. She thought he meant to present the drink to her when he threw it back in one gulp, set that glass down, reached for another, filled it too, and then handed that one to her.

  Quietly, she accepted it. He refilled his cup, and then one for his mother.

  She lowered her eyes to the cup in her hands and lifted it to her lips. Wet flavor slid along her tongue. There was a bite to the punch which overpowered the sweet fruitiness of it. The fine muscles of her forehead tightened into a frown. It did seem that drink in her day had also been...fermented, just as this was. However, an odd memory came to mind. It also seemed that heavy drink was something she’d avoided. Did she not hold it well? Not wishing to become soaked senseless in front of Christian and his mother, Contessa set the glass down upon the table.

  Just after Christian polished off his third glass, his eyes landed on her rejected cup. “Do you not like it?”

  “I do not think it wise for me to—well, no. It displeases me,” she finished, deciding it best to explain it more simply than try to voice the foggy ideas in her head.

  “Oh.” He discarded his glass next to hers as though her choice made him feel guilty for indulging as he had.

  She glanced along the table and noticed the foods available. “May I?”

  “Of course.” He reached for a little plate and began filling it with a selection of sandwiches and little round pastries and cakes. Keeping the dish in his hand, he lifted one of the sweets and held it to her lips.

  He watched with a great deal of interest as she opened her mouth and bit into it. His stare was so intent that it made her lips tingle, and her eyes were drawn to peer at his mouth as well, remembering that kiss.

  The kiss that she knew she should not have allowed, but at the time, simply could not gather the will to do so. Because, when the heat of his mouth had covered hers, she’d been lost to the sensations involved. Sensations that had evaded her for so long. The way his lips molded to hers. The way he moved them over hers. The way their breath blended together. The way it tasted. And especially the way something delicious twisted inside her stomach. It was only when she could not find breath that she had to push him away.

  He looked toward the ballroom briefly, and her attention was drawn back to the treat sliding along her taste buds. It was divine, tasting sweet and buttery with little bits of dried fruit that added another level of texture and flavor. She snatched the cake from his hand and took another bite, eating the confection a little too swiftly to be ladylike, but she could not stop herself.

  When that was gone she reached for another food item, but he captured her wrist and said, “You may want to remove one glove, my lady, or you will soil them.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She stripped it hastily from her righ
t hand, and he chuckled softly.

  “You like it?”

  “I have missed food. Your cook made some pastries that had me dying to be alive again, just from the way the others reacted.” She tried a sandwich this time. At least that’s what she thought it was. The bread was soft and crust-less. She’d thought bread had been harder than this in her day.

  “Eat up, darling, and when you have had your fill, we will go to my mother.”

  She noticed that as he spoke, he looked none too pleased about the idea.

  “Is there a problem—?”

  “Certainly not. Try this one; it is one of my favorites.” He lifted a flaky-looking little roll with a creamy filling spilling from within to her mouth.

  She partook, and observed again how fascinated he seemed to be with the process of her biting and chewing and licking the cream that had tried to spill over her lip. There was an almost hungry twist to his mouth that made her wonder what he was thinking about.

  Chapter 14

  Chaperone

  Christian was not thinking proper thoughts. He swallowed and looked toward the ballroom.

  “Are you not going to eat anything?”

  He refused to let his gaze wander to her mouth again and looked at the plate instead. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

  “Oh.” She lifted the last pastry from the dish and foolishly he followed her hand with his eyes. Her eyes, he thought, I’ll only look at her eyes.

  That didn’t help at all. She had these enchanting green ones which darkened with pleasure as she moved the food around her mouth. “Mmm, that was delicious, thank you Christian,” she said, her lashes lifting to reveal more of her irises as she drew her fingers between her lips to clean them one by one.

  Christen groaned in his head. “Now put your glove back on,” so he’d stop staring, “and we’ll go have a short visit with the marchioness.”