Finagled (10 page)

As many times as she had been called Duchess in the past weeks, by hotel staff or well wishers, she could not believe that she, Ramona Havishamble, just plain old Ramona Havishamble, was now Ramona Flanders, Duchess of Blusterfuss.

"Duchess of Blusterfuss," she said aloud, peering at the reflection of this Duchess in the large vanity mirror. "You have your work cut out for you."

After her maid had left, she crawled into the large, white bed, alone.

George went to his room. It was painful still to twist, but he removed his own jacket with some determination, and unbuttoned his crisp, dove grey shirt. He saw his reflection in his own mirror, full length and set into the dark wood paneling of his own bedroom, which somewhat mirrored Ramona's in design, though it was a bit larger, and outfitted in dark woods and green upholstery. His body had become weaker in his weeks of invalidism, but his chest still had a chiseled look about it. The bandage wrapped around his waist was to act as a brace. It really didn’t hurt much anymore, just felt tender to the touch, and he found it harder to walk than before. The Doctor said that he possibly had some nerve damage, something in his back having an effect on the nerves in his hip and upper thigh, where he felt the peculiar pain.

In his trousers he sat by the fire for a bit, watching it crackle, and thinking a bit too much about Regina. It made him feel tense, the memories of her arrival in the house as a new bride. He felt angrier with himself than he had in a long time over it.

He stood up, put his shirt back on loosely, and quietly left his room. Downstairs in the library, he opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a cognac. The sharp flavor of the alcohol made him wince slightly, as he drank it too fast. He just wanted to sleep. He had spent the past few weeks wanting the energy to stay awake for more than a couple of hours and now all he wanted was to be back in that hotel room, no awkwardness between himself and Ramona, and no reminders of the real reason he could not take her to his marriage bed. Andrew's pale, green eyes, so much like his mother's, had hit George in a way he had not expected. He had not felt haunted by her when spending time with the boy before, it was simply Ramona's plight, the unfairness that someone so unworthy as Regina was keeping him from what, he suspected, could be an extremely successful union. But seeing Andrew, unsure and reticent, made him realize even more that he must uphold his promise, even if it had been made passionately, even if it had been unwise.

He climbed the stairs again, returned to his bedroom. The silence of Loathewood after months spent in London was peculiarly unnerving. He had not felt this before, upon returning to London, he usually slept better than he had, surrounded by chaos, noise, the close quarters and unceasing sounds of the city outside his townhouse window, or the constant clatter of valets and maidservants at the hotel. These things, as well as the soft sound of Ramona's slow, steady breathing as she slept on her cot, had become calming to him, reassuring as he drifted in and out of an exhausted slumber.

Undressing, he climbed into his bed. It should have felt like coming home, and yet, he found himself staring into the blackness of the ceiling overhead, watching the shadows made by the dying fire upon the walls, and trying very hard not to think of the sleeping young woman separated by a thin paneled door to which he held the key.

When he finally fell asleep it was strange, slightly unnatural, induced by alcohol and that kind of bodily exhaustion one feels from days spent traveling. The jolt of the carriage wheels in his mind woke him up several times, but not for long, once more he was watching the side of Ramona's face as she looked out the window, framed by an unnatural and quickly passing landscape.

"Oh look," she said, "The cows have come home." she did not turn to look at him, but her face stretched into such a smile, it filled her cheeks with lines of sharp teeth.

He could not speak, though he tried to reply, his voice was ashen, a whisper when he meant to scream, as he clung uncomfortably to his great pile of cushions, feeling trapped by the weight of it.

"Don't you want me?" her voice came in a long, breathy whisper, suddenly across from him in the corner of the carriage, much too much space between them, the size of a room it was, she turned and he saw that her dress was tantalizingly loose about her small frame, the shoulder slipped down to reveal creamy white skin, her hair came unpinned before his eyes and fell in soft, honeyed waves, long and lush.

She moved against her dress, like every inch of the fabric touching her skin set her aflame with desire. Her mouth parted and moist, her eyes soft and drowsy.

He tried to reach her, but the closer he got, the farther away. The carriage was moving with such speed, jolting as it hit obstacles, it was impossible for him to keep his feet, so he crawled across the floor, watching her mounting pleasure with each bounce of the conveyance.

"I can't," he said.

"But you could," she said softly, "you could, so well."

"No," his voice shook with emotion.

"Oh, yes," she moaned, arching her back.

"You don't understand," he said, feeling an ache in his nether regions.

"Come over here, my darling, explain it to me," she lifted her skirts in a bunch.

"Egads, woman!" he said aloud, sitting up in his bed with a groan.

The room was dark around him, the fire had gone very low, he felt his sweating brow and felt his body hot with desire. His breath ragged. He looked at the door between their chambers. Ramona on the other side, had she heard his exclamation? He felt the heat rise from his groin to his face. He could not find sleep again. He bathed his face in water from the ewer in his room, and returned to the fire, stoking it slightly, for light more than heat, for he still felt inflamed.

Ramona awoke with a start. She had heard a voice, but she could not tell if it had been real or imagined, something from her confusing dreams, the sorts you have sleeping in a strange bed for the first time, they had been plaguing her all the way from London, and now felt stronger and more feverish than ever. She felt like someone was watching her, in her dreams, seeing her in a way no one had seen her. Her head thrown back as she performed arcane rituals naked in a wooded glen, each step of her little white foot an agony of pleasure as she became one with nature. The soft touch of her long blonde hair against her naked skin sent a shiver down her spine. She awoke feeling horrified by the sensations she had felt in her dream, and yet strangely unsatisfied.

She got up for a glass of water, and heard the sound of George shuffling around in his own chamber. His complaint could not be the same as hers. This was the most familiar bed, his, and she worried that perhaps his wound was agitated by the carriage ride. She did not feel the comfort of their camaraderie shared at the hotel, where entrance to his bedchamber was a given. She tried to imagine the room now, and him, pacing it, the thought that he paced  it in pain made her heart hurt. But he truly did not need her now. Beyond his personal valet there were dozens of servants available should he want for anything, and she knew nothing of the house, no idea where she might find whatever he could want to soothe whatever complaint he might have.  She felt a frustrating discordance.

She sat up, and, lighting a candle, went to the clock above her mantelpiece. It was early, in a couple of hours the sun would be rising.  She would not find sleep again on this night. Resignedly she put the candle on a side table and looked for something to busy her hands with.

Watching the clock tick. Listening to the pacing in the next room, wrapped up in a blanket by the fire, Ramona found herself dozing, slipping in and out of sleep, until a loud sound from the adjoining room roused her suddenly, like a cold splash of water in the face.

She jumped up, let the blanket fall to the floor, and ran to the door that joined her room to George's. She knocked.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

A grunt of a reply, "Yes."

Silence.

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"No. No. Go back to bed."

"I... I was not in bed." She said.

A small click of the lock between the rooms. The door did not open.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Yes..." his voice was muffled by the panel.

She turned the handle and saw, by the dim light of one candle and the fire which was certainly larger than the one in her own room, George standing, leaning a hand on the back of his chair, in a dressing gown, his hand held on his back and a wince on his face.

"Did you fall down?" she asked, approaching hastily.

"Yes."  he said, "just a little," with a chuckle.

"Should I call for someone?" she asked, "to check on your wound?"

"Have you suddenly gotten squeamish?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Mmm. No." she replied.

"Well then, you are already here, and already, quite evidently, awake," he slid his dressing gown off and stood completely naked before her.

Her face got hot as she avoided his dark, shadowy regions. She looked away quickly.

Without hesitation, he approached her, turned away slightly, and started to undo the bandage that braced him around the middle. Ramona looked. She tried to keep her eyes raised to the wound, and not the firm and handsome buttocks below it. It was a bit red, the parts that were puckering in healing were hot to her cold fingers, and when she touched it, he recoiled slightly.

"It seems," she had trouble finding her voice and it came small and unsure, "it seems a bit inflamed. I think perhaps you should seek the Doctor in the morning. Inflammation can be a sign of  infection, though... it could be that you landed on it?"

"I did." he said. "My slippers are slippery," he explained.

With surprise she looked down. Though naked, he wore a pair of fine leather slippers. The kind with a smooth sole.

She could not help but espy his masculine rear end while observing this and his nudity was made somehow even more nude by the addition of the slippers. She turned away.

"Do you need my assistance re-bandaging?" she asked, both hopeful and hesitative about his response.

"That would be agreeable to me." he said. Adding, "Wife."

She picked up the discarded bandages from the floor. They were still clean and she approached him slowly from behind, pulling them taut around his middle. Touching his skin shyly and delicately, and then tying them off with a skill she had picked up over the weeks at his bedside.

"There," she said.

His voice came huskily, "Thank you," and as he turned towards her again, she raised her eyes to the ceiling. She could not help but see his large, pulsating man sword standing out from his body like a pink and purple beacon. Her color rose even more, and she felt sweaty and tingly.

"Darling," he said, looking at her, very much not looking at him. He stumbled towards her slightly and she recognized once more that he was drunk. A part of her wanted to give in to him. It was a very strong urge, though she was afraid of what it might mean, but if he was too inebriated to remember the promise he had mentioned to her, it was her duty, her level headed wifely duty to make sure that he did not do something that he would later regret. He was quite close to her now, and she looked him in the eyes. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and he pulled her body against his. She felt his engorged member against her lower belly and felt a strange sensation, like something from a dream, at this peculiar and unfamiliar pressure.  She steadied herself. She could not give in to the heady passion that was burgeoning inside of her.

"George," she said, trying to make her voice sound stern instead of caressing as it felt inclined to be in that moment. "You are inebriated. If you do not remember that... oh!" his hands had moved from her shoulders, one down the arch of her back and to the gentle swell of her left buttock, moving the soft, thin fabric against her skin, the other hand had located her right breast, nipple already hard from the cool air of the room and the unexpected arousal rising in her inexperienced body, he plucked at it gently. The fire in his eyes translated into a slow and gentle passion.