Anew: Awakened Part 17

Erotic death. What does that even mean? Erotic I get just fine. When it's right, it's life affirming. Death I know all too well. They have nothing to do with each other.

I snag a flute of sparkling water for her off the tray of a pa.s.sing server. Sipping it, she eyes me over the rim. "Amelia seems very nice. Not at all like Susannah though."

"You don't think so?" Marianne tends to have a good take on people. If she's fooled, it's a fair bet everyone else will be, too.

She shrugs. "I can see a superficial similarity but it's clear she's very different. How did you two meet?"

She got that one in fast but I should have seen it coming.

"Edward introduced us." I have no compunction about the lie, not on this subject at least. I've already gone to great lengths to bury the truth of Amelia's origins. I'm not about to take any chance of it ever coming out.

"Did he?" Marianne raises an eyebrow. "That's odd, he didn't seem happy about the two of you being acquainted. In fact for a moment there, I thought he was going to have to wrestle her away from you."

I can't help but grin at the thought of the two of us tussling over Amelia. McClellan is about my size and in good shape. He knows how to handle himself but I have no doubt who would have won. I fight dirty.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say. "Edward's a gentleman. He'd never do anything so uncouth."

"You're right, of course." A look of frustration flits across her face. It's gone before I can even be sure that I saw it.

"Edward is always a perfect gentleman," she says. Her eyes darken. She's staring at something behind me. I shift slightly so that I can see what's got her attention.

My body tightens. Amelia is standing on the other side of the Grand Foyer between Edward and Adele. A steady stream of people--mostly men--are approaching them, seeking introductions. She looks warm and lovely as she greets each. Nothing in her appearance gives a hint that half-an-hour ago she was pressed up against the wall of an alcove with my c.o.c.k buried deep inside her.

"Do you know how close a cousin Amelia is?"

I'm preoccupied enough that I don't immediately get what Marianne is asking. "How close?"

With a hint of exasperation, she says, "Is she a first cousin? Second? Third? Eighth twice removed? Cousin covers a lot of territory."

The penny drops. I stare at my sister in bewilderment as I realize that she's concerned Edward may be attracted to Amelia.

Hastily, I say, "First cousin, although Edward thinks of her as a sister."

Marianne nods but not before I see the relief in her eyes. How did I miss this? When did my shy, reserved sister, who so far as I know has never given any man the time of day, develop an interest in Edward McClellan? And why hasn't he reciprocated?

Edward's always been discreet about his private life but I know for a fact that he's a player. Never a shrinking violet, our Edward. More on the precocious side although to his credit he's always behaved responsibly. Well, except for that time with the circus gymnast...

It occurs to me that he's known Marianne since she was a little kid. Maybe that's the hang up? If it is, I have to hope like h.e.l.l that she isn't about to get her heart broken.

I'm staring at Amelia, trying to figure out why she got as mad at me as she did and how to get around it, when I notice the tanned, silver-haired man approaching her. A surge of adrenalin goes through me. I loathe Charles Davos and have for years. The idea of him being anywhere near Amelia is a red flare.

"Stay here," I tell Marianne. Davos within touching distance of my sister is equally unacceptable.

She looks bewildered but she trusts me so she does as I say. Now if I can only convince a certain other female to do the same.

Edward sees me coming and frowns but he doesn't object when I nod to Adele and ease her behind me a little as I settle in beside Amelia. I can only gather that he's got his own reservations about Davos.

Amelia glares at me. She isn't just p.i.s.sed, she's flat out furious. And worse. In the depths of those incredible eyes, I see what looks like hurt. That twists my gut but there's nothing I can do about it, not right then.

I bare my teeth and turn to Davos who is staring at me like something he's found on the sole of his shoe.

"Ian," he says, "what a surprise. Not off fighting somewhere for truth, justice and the American way?"

I hate guys who think like he does, I mean really hate them. Privileged b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with no thought for anything other than themselves. But Davos is special. My hatred for him is in a category all its own.

"We can't all sit on our a.s.ses, Charles," I say. "But these days most of the fighting I do is from right here."

"Then you really should get out more," he says with a tight smile. "Your crudity is an insult to the lady."

He turns his gaze on Amelia. I really don't like the way he's looking at her. It's too intense, too personal, like he's actually interested in her.

Davos is a handsome guy in a plastic kind of way. He's pushing seventy but he looks decades younger thanks to surgery, pharmaceuticals, and a complete lack of anything resembling a conscience. He's tanned and fit under the mane of silver hair. I can see why a certain kind of woman might find him attractive, especially when they factor in his bank account.

But all I can see on Amelia's face as she looks at him is distaste. She's trying to mask it but it's there all the same in the narrowing of her heart-stopping eyes and the little downward curl at the corner of her delectable mouth.

"Please don't concern yourself," she tells him. Her usually soft voice suddenly has a note of steel in it. "I'm not that easily offended. Besides, I'm well aware of Ian's service to our country. I'd say that's earned him some leeway, wouldn't you?"

It's hard to tell who's more surprised--me or Davos. I'm dealing with the fact that she's gone from kicking me in the b.a.l.l.s, if only verbally, to defending me while he can only frown.

Glancing from one of us to the other, Davos asks, "You two know each other?"

"Very well," I say.

"Slightly," she corrects.

I look at her. She looks right back, not giving an inch. The message couldn't be clearer--however deep inside her I think I've gotten, I've barely scratched the surface.

So far as I'm concerned, she's just issued a challenge. I can't help but smile. If there's one thing she should have figured out about me by now, it's that there's nothing I like better.

Chimes sound. Time for Act III.

When the curtain goes up again, I watch Amelia. She's leaning forward a little in her seat, fascinated by what's happening on the stage. As far as I can make out, the guy--Tristan--has gotten stabbed and is taking a long time to die before the love of his life--Isolde--arrives and sings about how great he is now that he's dead.

Obviously, there's something I'm missing. While I can admit that the music is good, the story leaves me cold. If Tristan had any real b.a.l.l.s, he'd have scooped Isolde up and carried her off somewhere they could screw themselves silly, make babies, and ride off into the sunset together.

What the h.e.l.l? Where did that thought come from? Babies? Sunsets? What? I have got to get a grip on myself, especially if Davos is in the picture. But that's easier said than done. Amelia is lapping the whole thing up, I've got a hard-on to beat all, and the music just doesn't stop, soaring to its conclusion on a note of longing that goes soul deep.

The cast is taking yet another bow when I realize that there's a reason all great romances end as tragedies. It's a lot easier to kill everyone off than it is to figure out how two people can overcome their differences and make a life together.

Especially when one of them is clearly h.e.l.l bent on driving the other crazy.

It's time to rethink my strategy.

Chapter Eighteen.

Amelia Returning from the opera, I'm overcome by weariness. Adele sees that and sends me off to bed with words of praise for how well it all went and a gentle kiss. I'm glad that my grandmother is happy. I just can't imagine ever feeling that way myself.

When it comes to Ian, I truly don't seem to have a will of my own. That terrifies me. But I'm also puzzled by it. More than a few of the people I was introduced to at the opera were attractive young men. I can see myself enjoying becoming better acquainted with some of them. That suggests I'm capable of making a choice at least up to a point. But beyond that? Could I actually give myself to another man? Would I want to? The mere idea feels me with unease.

At least I'm rea.s.sured that I'm not likely to see Ian again anytime soon. According to Adele, his presence at the opera was a rare concession to the social niceties. No doubt he has far better things to do.

I sleep poorly and rise too few hours later. Heading directly into the shower, I stand under the hot water until my muscles unclench and I finally feel ready to face the day. As I dry myself, I can't help but notice the marks on my body. Touching the faint but unmistakable signs of Ian's possession, I wonder why their presence doesn't disturb me more. They are, after all, a reminder of just how eager I was to succ.u.mb to him.

And of how desolate I felt when he raised the specter of my greatest fear, that whatever else I may aspire to be, I am still a vessel for his pleasure.

My mouth tightens as I brush my hair and loosely braid it. There is still so much that I don't know about myself but beyond the shadow of a doubt I know I am vastly more than that. I don't need Ian or any other man to confirm it for me. I just need to be sure that I never let myself forget it again.

Feeling somewhat better, I make my way downstairs. Edward has already left for work and Adele isn't up yet. I have the small dining room to myself. Small in the sense that the oblong mahogany table seats twelve. By contrast, the formal dining room on the other side of the house can host many times that.

A young footman pours coffee for me from a silver service. I murmur my thanks and request a simple breakfast--yogurt and fruit, all I think my stomach can handle. As he departs, I recall what Adele has told me about the residence's staff.

With jobs so scarce, ambitious young people vie for entry level servant positions in the hope of attracting a mentor or patron who will help them advance. Several of the men and women working for Edward at the family firm started that way. I wonder why they had to go to such lengths to win the right to make use of their intelligence and skills. And how much longer the frustration of others not so fortunate can be contained.

Despite my thoughts, I'm enjoying the yogurt accompanied by fresh raspberries when a young maid appears at the dining room door. She looks a little fl.u.s.tered.

"Flowers have arrived for you, Miss Amelia."

I can't help but be excited. I've never received flowers before. "Bring them in, please."

She hesitates before turning away to retrieve something from the table in the hall. Keeping her eyes carefully averted, she carries a lovely porcelain bowl filled with flowers into the dining room and sets it in front of me.

At a quick glance, the arrangement is exquisite. The bowl itself is unmistakably Chinese; I cannot imagine its age but its blue-green celadon glaze suggests that it is centuries old. Inside is a loamy soil covered by pale green moss from which vines sprout, filling the bowl with delicate blue flowers the same shade as my eyes. Not cut flowers then but a plant intended to endure. Whoever has sent this gift knows me well enough to give me something truly special.

My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the card. In all likelihood, the gift is from Adele and Edward in recognition of my entry into society. But something about the flowers-- I look a little closer and in that moment the reason for the young maid's hesitation becomes clear. The flowers--the exquisitely beautiful flowers that match my eyes--are a velvety soft representation of what lies between my legs, fragrant lips framing a swollen bud that peeks up between them just asking to be stroked.

From the treasure trove of knowledge with which I have been imprinted, a tidbit surfaces. These are c.l.i.toria, named in recognition of their resemblance to the obvious. They are not, as would have been my first guess, a product of genetic engineering. Nature herself created them and more over gave them various medicinal uses including to ease stress. Clearly, Nature has a naughty streak.

The maid clears her throat. "Where shall I put them, miss?"

As calmly as I can manage, I say, "In my room, please."

She nods with relief and departs quickly, taking the bowl with her. I retain the card. Slowly, I draw it from the small white envelope and scan the words written in black ink in a firm hand.

"Thank you for making an evening at the opera so memorable. Ian."

My breath catches. I am at once shocked by his audacity and all too tempted by the suggestion that our encounter meant more to him than he revealed at the time. Still, he has gone much too far in sending me such a blatantly erotic gift.

What if Adele had been there to see it or, worse yet, Edward? While both may suspect what happened between Ian and me in those first few days, neither has been so indecorous as to bring it up. I really do not want that to change.

By the time Adele comes down, I've slipped the card away in the pocket of my linen slacks and regained my composure, at least on the surface. My grandmother looks well rested and eager to tackle the day.

Before she takes a sip of her breakfast tea, she says, "Now that your wardrobe is in hand and you've made your first appearance, we need to decide what you'd like to be doing between social engagements. There will be a great many of those. Invitations are already pouring in. But still, there is so much else to avail yourself of in the city."

I imagine that there is although I haven't had an opportunity to give it much thought. Slowly, I say, "I'd like to take dance cla.s.s. I enjoy ballet but my body needs to be better conditioned for it."

Adele nods. "That's an excellent idea. Is there anything else?"

I hesitate. Just as with the piano, I'd like to find something that's compatible with my interest in movement and agility but is my own. A thought forms that I almost dismiss before deciding that it has merit.

"This may seem unusual," I say. "But I'd also like to take some form of physical defense training."

My grandmother raises an eyebrow. She looks concerned. Gently, she asks, "My dear, is there any particular reason why you feel the need for that?"

This is the closest she has come to asking me what happened in the days I was with Ian.

Quickly, wanting to eliminate any shadow of worry that she may have, I say, "I just think it would give me more confidence in myself and my ability to deal with challenges. After all, I've had very little opportunity to develop that."

Adele is clearly hesitant but she suggests that I speak with Edward who, she says, is knowledgeable about such matters. I feel guilty about not telling her that my true reason for wanting such training is in the hope that it will alleviate the sense of helplessness that haunts me whenever I think of the gestation chamber.

When we have finished breakfast, my well-connected and ever-efficient grandmother makes a call. Suddenly I have an appointment at a premier ballet studio where, after a short but grueling try out, I'm accepted as an advanced student.

"You will have to work," warns Sergei Zharkov, the young, intense Russian dance master. He's almost too good looking with a long, sinewy body packed with muscle. His dark golden hair tied at the back of his neck in a small ponytail only serves to emphasize his harshly beautiful features.

"You have had training, obviously, and you possess skill and grace. But your stamina--" He makes a dismissive gesture. "People think ballet is for delicate fairy creatures but we must be strong and tough to create such an illusion."

Without warning, he taps the center of my back with the tip of the long staff used to beat out time and, when necessary, correct an errant dancer. Automatically, I straighten, one hand resting on the barre.

"Better." He eyes me critically, his gaze running up and down my body that is clad in a practice leotard and tights.

I expect nothing less than his thorough scrutiny. In taking me on as a student, Sergei is agreeing to help me hone my body as an instrument of beauty and art. Of necessity, he will want to know what he has to work with.

"Yes," he says finally, "I see the possibilities." After a moment, he smiles. "Very well then, Amelia. Let us begin."

Two hours later, I emerge from the studio limp from my exertions but feeling considerably more at peace with myself. Sergei is merciless but already I know that I'm in good hands. Besides his obvious talent and dedication, he is very clear in his requirements and he has an innate sense of my limits.

When I confessed to him that I'd attempted a grand jete without being in condition to perform it, he was horrified. He made me promise that I wouldn't do anything so rash ever again but instead would wait until he judged that I was ready.

The car Adele sent speeds me back to the house where I have only a short time to shower and dress before we're due to leave for a soiree at the home of family friends. Edward and my grandmother are waiting in the parlor when I hurry down the steps still tucking myself together.

"I'm sorry to have taken so long," I say, grimacing. "I'm afraid that I'm moving a little more slowly than usual."

"Sergei is quite the task master," Adele says with a smile. "But never mind, dear, you look ravishing."

I'm wearing the first outfit I put my hand on that seemed appropriate for a soiree. It's another of Zosimo's creations, sleeveless with a bodice of pale ecru silk above a short pleated skirt. Both are interlaced with thin crystal filaments that change color as I move, subtly shifting from gold to violet and back again. While it's nowhere near as grand as the gown I wore the previous evening, I love it.

In the car on the way, I turn to Edward. I don't want to press the matter of what Adele and I witnessed two days before but I am anxious for news.

"Do you know what happened to the young man who was beaten?" I ask softly. "Is he all right?"

My brother frowns. Reluctantly, he says, "He received medical treatment and was released outside the city. You needn't trouble yourself any further."