Authors: Stephanie Stevens
Tiffany was silent as Clinton led her to the front of the manor. "Did you miss me, Princess? I do apologize for leaving you, but business called me away."
"Hardly." Tiffany replied coolly.
He smiled softly, knowing in his absence she had erected her wall against him. "You know, Princess, they say distance lends enchantment."
"Then perhaps your enchantment should be distanced."
Clinton was about to respond but noticed Tiffany had stopped at the golden doors before them.
Tiffany looked at the doors, which loomed large and threatening. Knowing when she crossed through their portals, her fate would be sealed, her future settled, she hesitated.
Clinton, as if reading her mind, said gently, reassuringly, "It will not be bad, Tiffany. It is inevitable." Lifting her chin with the tips of his fingers, he turned her face to him, seeing her fear, her insecurity, her vulnerability. He sought to assure her, to make her feel safe. "When you exit these doors, you will be the same--only a woman."
Wishing she could believe him, wanting to believe him with all her heart, but unable to overcome the nagging fear, she replied softly, "Nothing will ever be the same."
"Mademoiselle! It ees getting late,
non?
His Grace is most impatient." Reluctantly Tiffany rose from the sunken tub, which Germane had likened to a small pond, not wanting to leave its safe haven. She had stretched full length in the luxurious tub made of white and blue tile. She marveled at how the temperature was kept constant, preventing the water from cooling.
"Mademoiselle!" Germane dashed into the bathing chamber. "After this afternoon, I do not think you wish to push His Grace further with your tardiness." Tiffany meekly nodded, allowing her maid to dry and powder her. Tiffany followed Germane and sat at her dressing table, remembering her brief reprimand from Aunt Winnie, who likened her behavior to that of a child in swaddling.
Absendy she gazed about her room thinking at least her lifelong prison was decorated much to her liking, reaching for a bonbon, which she quickly dropped when Germane scolded,
"Non,
mademoiselle! You will spoil your dinner!" Placidly Tiffany removed her hand from the plate, ignoring the rumbling of her stomach.
"Does Mademoiselle like thees?"
Tiffany looked. Held in Germane's capable hands was a sapphire blue gown whose skirt was edged in blue lace and satin ribbons, which were caught up with bunches of rosebuds.
Shaking her head, Tiffany replied softly, "No, I never cared for the gown. Choose another."
"But, mademoiselle! I kept only three gowns, and the other two are not appropriate."
"Did my trunks not arrive?" At Germane's affirmative nod, Tiffany asked, "Well, are my gowns unpacked?" Again Germane nodded. "Then choose another."
When her maid did not do her bidding, Tiffany asked sharply, "Well, Germane, if my gowns are unpacked, what is the problem?"
"They are in your other rooms."
A slight furrow appeared on Tiffany's brow. "What other rooms?"
"The rooms in the East Wing, mademoiselle!"
"Well, then, silly, go to those rooms and get my pink velvet-and-satin gown." Tiffany leaned down, smoothing a silk stocking. Looking up, she saw Germane standing before her, wringing her hands nervously.
"Heavens, Germane. What is it? You're so concerned over my tardiness and you stand there. Go fetch my gown."
"I . . . I cannot."
"Why ever not?" queried Tiffany, sitting straight up.
"Because . . . His . . . er, His Grace is changing and it would not be proper for me to go to his apartments. I would be most embarrassed."
The heavy, sooty lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. The shock of understanding hit Tiffany full force. Tiffany stood up, shrugging into her white robe. The meek, mild woman had transformed into a determined, angry one. Walking with purposeful strides to the door, opening it, she turned to Germane. Tossing her head in a defiant manner, she replied with conviction, "We will have this situation rectified immediately."
With purpose in mind and all the self-righteous indignation behind her conviction, Tiffany charged down the elaborately decorated hallways to the East Wing. Stopping a passing maid to inquire directions to Clinton's rooms,
Tiffany proceeded, unaware of the stunned expression on the maid's face.
Reaching the door, Tiffany raised her hand, knocking. For a brief moment a surge of excitement coursed through her. The door was promptly opened by Mortimer. The staid and proper valet quickly opened and closed his eyes in a flash seeing Tiffany dressed in a robe standing at the threshold. "My Lady!" he cried in a surprised voice.
Clinton, on hearing his normally proper valet cry out, walked in from the terrace. He smiled as his eyes beheld Tiffany, clothed only in a sheer silk wrapper which clung lovingly to her tall, lush form, outlining and leaving very little to the imagination of what charms lay beneath its silken shroud.
Tiffany had given no thought to her state of dress until now, seeing Clinton's gentle yet intent perusal. Pride prevented her from crossing her arms about her breasts, whose nipples, much to her embarrassment, rose tautly against the wrapper.
"Princess, I have lived day and night waiting for the moment you would enter my room. And now the moment is at hand and I am at a loss of what to do."
Taking in Tiffany's attire, Mortimer felt the heat rising from beneath his collar and creeping in blush over his face. He turned stiff-backed, walking into the bedroom, leaving them alone.
"Please, take a seat, Princess." He waved his hand toward a chair near the hearth.
"No, thank you. I have something I wish to discuss with you and should not take long for you to rectify."
He smiled appreciatively at her, his eyes resting on the taut dusty peaks.
"A glass of Madeira perhaps?" he asked absently, thinking how he'd like to roll his tongue over her taut nipples.
Narrow blue eyes regarded the misdirection of gray ones and Tiffany spun around to face the fireplace, uflording
Clinton a spectacular view of her shapely derriere, which the silk material clung to and outlined magnificentiy.
The silence was unnerving and she turned to look over her shoulder, catching his unguarded look and the direction of it. She spun around and walked to the chair, where she sat feeling safe from his probing eyes.
"Do I have your attention?" Her eyes shot blue daggers at him.
A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "All of it, Princess."
"Well, you see, I am in need of a particular gown for this eve, and when I requested my maid to get it, she informed me it was in my apartments." She raised her eyes to look at him and was not prepared for what she saw. He was partially dressed and wore a short robe of black and gold velvet, belted loosely at his waist, exposing his bare chest and the mat of crisp black hair that covered it. She quickly averted her eyes to her lap, squelching the tingling sensation beginning in her belly.
"You were saying, Tiffany." Clinton urged her on, looking at the long, shapely length of her leg which the parting of her robe exposed up to her thigh.
Shaking her head, she looked up at him, seeing his gaze directed on her exposed legs. Snatching her robe together, she continued, "As I was saying, I needed a gown and my maid informs me it is in my apartments. I foolishly inform her we are in
my apartments,"
saying those words with emphasis. "My maid then informs me, no, the apartments I now occupy are not mine. Mine are yours!" Rising softly, intending not to lose her anger, she smiled sweetly. "Of course, I know there has been some error and that you will rectify this most improper arrangement immediately." Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Of course, I knew once you were made aware of this, youd have it corrected. After all, it is highly improper and unheard-of." She graciously accepted the glass of Madeira he had offered, in spite of her refusal. Tiffany sipped her wine, grateful for its calming effect.
"I would think, Tiffany, you've come to realize I do not adhere to what is proper. I tend to make my own rules to fit my own situation. Never the other way around. There is no mistake, we will share the same apartments. I will not abide the current mode of separate bedrooms. We soon will be man and wife. We will share a great deal together, both inside and outside
our
bedroom."
Tiffany gave him a glance of utter disbelief, responding, "This is preposterous. I demand my own rooms be separate from yours!" Placing her glass down, she walked up to him, ready to do territorial battle. "As a matter of fact, I insist upon it."
"Give me one good reason why I should consider your request," he asked, softly.
A becoming blush crept up her face as she timidly replied, "There ... ah, will be times during the month when even you ..." She stopped, unable to go on, too embarrassed for words. Turning her head away from his probing eyes, she continued softly, barely a whisper, "Even you don't expect to . . ."
Clinton smiled softly at her bent head, realizing her humiliation, and saved her from having to further state her case. A warm hand cupped her chin, turning her face up to his.
Looking gently with understanding into her eyes, noting the slight trembling of her mouth which she tried to still, he said softly, "How callous of me to forget how truly feminine you are Tiffany. How truly innocent." His fingers brushed the silky skin of her cheek. "I do not wish to offend your tender sensibilities, but there is much I've to teach you. Much you've yet to experience. Trust me, Princess, your monthly cycle does not offend me. It is but a minor obstacle, not insurmountable to our pleasure."
He grinned down at her, holding her wide blue eyes with his. "I can be quite inventive, you know."
Tiffany paled visibly. "You beast!"
"The beast shall have his fill, Princess, nothing short of it."
Images of a carnivorous beast devouring her flesh, consuming her, caused her to shudder. He walked to the bedroom door and stopped to ask, "Which gown is it you require?"
Tears threatened to spill in her defeat. She was unable to speak for fear her voice would crack and merely shook her head. Finally, looking up at him with imploring eyes, she whispered brokenly, "I only require a room with a door which I can open and close at will, nothing more."
"There is no door that will keep me from you, Tiffany. Don't you understand that yet?" he asked gently. "Now, which gown is it?"
Without answering, she turned from him, walking to the door. Before opening it, she replied, defiantly, "There is still
this
door." She yanked it open. "And when this one is gone, there remains one which will keep me from you. Which you have neither key or wherewithal to open." She crossed the threshold, and just before closing the door, she said, "The one to my heart!"
"A
nd to the new duchess of Wentworth and Chablisienne--" lifting his glass in toast, Austin looked down at Tiffany "--you have stolen the day with your beauty." The crowd of guests cheered in tribute. Austin cleared his throat, shouting above the roar of cheers, "And to the duke, well, ole man, while the day is lost, the night surely belongs to you." The crowd burst out into laughter and cheers. Tiffany felt the warm flush of a blush creep hotiy over her cheeks and lowered her head in embarrassment.
Toast after toast was pledged in honor of the couple as the elaborate dinner came to an end. Dancing began and late afternoon waned to early evening.
Winifred noted the lateness of the hour. Her green eyes scanned the crowd of over a thousand guests, coming to rest on the couple standing at the doors amidst an array of acquaintances. A smile crossed her mouth as she regarded the tall, handsome form of Clinton clad in an elegant white and silver jacket and pants; his waistcoat was solid black, providing the perfect foil to his otherwise white elegance. She watched him, noting that his eyes often drifted to Tiffany, and his arm possessively rode the small of her back, keeping her close. The green eyes sparkled, resting on Tiffany, outfitted in a long white satin bridal gown with an equally long matching train. The gown was lavishly
trimmed with lace and pearlescent soutache braid. Her hair was pulled away from her exquisite face, drawing attention to the elegance of her features. White roses were tucked in the gather of curls caught up, exposing the graceful line of her neck. When Tiffany turned, the tender smile faded and a glimmer of sadness crossed the green eyes.
Winifred could not miss the forlorn look, almost lonely, etched on Tiffany's face. And for a brief moment Winifred had doubts. Oh, Robert, she thought, I hope I've done right by her.
Tiffany, feeling Clinton's hand on her shoulder, turned. Smiling gently down at her, he repeated, "Come along, Princess, Mother is ready to retire. We should bid her farewell." She placidly let him lead her. Tiffany moved in a daze, aware of all that happened, but numb. She had risen this morn to find three twittering maids fussing about her. She had endured their ministrations and Germane's as they clothed her in her bridal finery. And when Aunt Winnie had come to her, gently preparing her for the day and wedding night, she had apathetically listened with half an ear. The full extent of what had happened, and was yet to come, did not penetrate her numbness. Somehow she had managed to arrive at the church, say her vows, and become Clinton's bride without a bat of an eyelash, or an utter of protest. She had stood, a smile affixed on her face, nodding to congratulations offered, extending thanks to those who shared in the occasion.