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29: A beautiful gift
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Promised to the father, married to the son 30: A ladies maid
*Ben* So she thinks she knows me, does she? Well enough to speak of me to a laborer as though we are friends. I don’t like that she might actually be figuring me out and I like even less the things that I am starting to anticipate about her. I knew her eyes would widen in surprise and pleasure when I asked about the blasted tuner for the piano. I knew she wouldn’t be entirely comfortable taking the dressing table. But it is ridiculous to spend coins to have another made when my father already purchased one that went unused for more than a quarter of a century. I don’t take any satisfaction in my ability to predict her reactions. Takes far less in her ability to predict mine. Therefore, I decide to do something entirely unpredictable and bring her to Lydia’s Teas and Cakes before we return home. As we enter, those whiskey-shaded eyes of hers glow with absolute delight. And I curse my stupidity. It’s being far too accommodating. It doesn’t help matters that it always causes this odd se
Promised to the father, married to the son 31: Jealousy
*Ben* I think about Skye while I am at the mines. I think about her while I gallop my horseover the moors toward the manor. I think about her as I bathe, while I stride through the hallways in search of her, fairly certain where I will find her. In the music room. I am not disappointed. Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the door jamb and simply watch. Standing on a ladder, dusting my mother’s portrait, she is dressed much as she had been the day before, just without my hessians, as she now has two strapping lads, one about six inches taller than the other, to deal with the pesky spiders. The new servants are moving furniture so two young women, one of them Cullie, can roll up the various carpets. I suspect they will be getting a beating in the morning, along with the draperies that have already been removed. Another young woman is using a long-handled broom to sweep away the dust and cobwebs from the walls. White sheeting has been placed over the piano to protect it fr
Promised to the father, married to the son 32: Missing her
*Ben* Three evenings later, after returning from a day at the mines, I am disappointed to find the door to the music room locked. I have grown accustomed to finding my wife there, to having a few minutes to observe her before someone spots me lurking in the doorway and gasps or shrieks in surprise. In spite of my assurances that no ghost is hovering about, it seems some are still expecting the sudden appearance of a wraith. I don’t much like that I anticipate seeing Skye at the end of the day, that she has so quickly become an intricate part of my life. I awake with her in my arms, and if I am fortunate enough to find the sun has yet to appear, then I begin my morning with a rousing sexual encounter. She is the most enthusiastic partner I have ever known… or perhaps it is simply that I take such satisfaction in pleasuring her. Her moans and cries inflame my desires. Even now, standing before the blasted locked door, I want her. But I won’t take her, not until we dine. I am determined t
Promised to the father, married to the son 33: She plays for him
*Skye* Anticipation is an aphrodisiac. I can not help but believe that as I enjoy my dessert. I had been tempted earlier to unlock the door, to share with Ben then and there the results of me and my servants’ efforts. But all through dinner I tingle with the awareness of what is to come. While I know it is quite likely he will not be as taken with the room as I am now that it is put back together, my enthusiasm for sharing it is not dimmed. It is my sanctuary. I have made it so with each spider killed, each cobweb swept away, each fleck of dust removed, every inch of wood polished, every bit of cloth and carpet beaten until the years of neglect faded away. With that one room tidied and vibrant again, I can envision the magnificence that had once encompassed the entire residence. It is a shame, a crime even, that this house has been left to ruin. I want to give back to Ben what it has once been. That he grew up with such decay and neglect saddens me beyond all reason. I know he fanci
Promised to the father, married to the son 34: He plays her
*Skye* Keep playing? Is he mad? If not for the wicked challenge in his eyes before he disappears beneath my skirts, I may have kicked him out of the way. Instead I return my fingers to the keys while he brackets my hips and slides me to the very edge of the bench. I strike a wrong chord, cringe. I am not going to allow the kisses he is trailing along the inside of my thigh to distract me. It matters not that I can scarcely breathe or that I am suddenly so warm I can swear the room has caught fire. Then his mouth lands on the bud of my desire and I nearly come up off the bench. Instead I pound the keys as his tongue circles, as the pleasure mounts. I drop my head back, unable to concentrate on the tune, simply striking random chords. What does it matter when he is doing such wicked, wicked things, when he is distracting me, causing me to be perched on the threshold of so many incredible sensations swirling through me, urging me to cry out… “Ben, what the devil…” With a screech at th
Promised to the father, married to the son 35: His secret
*Skye* A week later, I unlock a door and lead my newest staff members into a room that I am fairly certain had been the morning room for at least one Mrs Archer. At the far end, the windows jut out to create a little alcove, with bookshelves along the wall on either side. I can imagine myself curling up, book in hand, in one of the two large plush chairs near the windows and reading to a little girl nestled in the other. “Let’s get started, shall we?” I order as I whip the draperies open, coughing as the dust floats around me. Since Marsden didn’t seem disturbed by the tidying of the music room, in fact he seems to relish it, since he joins us there each evening shortly after I begin to play… I have attacked the study belonging to the lady of the house with gusto. Now I have a place where I can write letters… if I had anyone who would welcome receiving a letter from me. The cook meets me there each morning to go over the menu for the evening meal. I keep the midday fare simple… br
Promised to the father, married to the son 36: Confronting him
*Ben* I pour the steaming water into the tub in the bathing room. Mrs. Downey doesn’t understand why I don’t have one of the servants prepare my bath, but the servants are Skye’s, not mine. I don’t need to take them away from whatever chores my wife has them doing. Besides, the fewer people who see me in this ragtag state, the better. After setting down the pail, I arch my back and look up at the ceiling. Christ, I am tired. But I know once I see Skye, the weariness will fade away. Her smile of greeting always seems to revitalize me. I have even begun to enjoy her evening recitals, no longer viewing them as an irritating delay to my possessing her, but rather embracing them as a slow, sensual building of awareness. She finds a bit of ecstasy in gliding her fingers over the ivory, and I become enthralled watching her. She is a siren, luring my father out of his reclusiveness. Each evening, he makes his way down to the music room. I have begun pouring a scotch and setting it on the ta
Promised to the father, married to the son 37: Not loving each other
*Ben* Nearly an hour and a half later, I stand at the window in the library, downing scotch. I had come straight here from the bathing room, now wearing the clothes I had donned this morning before changing into the sturdier and rougher attire that I sport when going to the mines. Skye is correct. I have been an ass. I am still in danger of behaving as one because I can’t shake off the anger that rivets through me now that she knows the truth of my situation. I am embarrassed that I get my hands dirty, that I engage in backbreaking labor that no gentleman should. That I hadn't paid more attention to the mines when I reached my majority, that I hadn’t noticed sooner that my father was not the best steward for the estate and business. That I return to the manor each evening covered in sweat and grime. It is bad enough that the local people know. But I can envision Skye in New York attending a luncheon, tittering with a group of ladies, laughing at the notion of me working for my supp
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