The picture before him was such that his eyes crinkled with amusement at the corners while he steeled his mouth to not so much as twitch. She had finally come to him (and it had certainly taken long enough) riding astride an impressively large bay: iridescent gray green silk evening dress with violet velvet ribbons and rucked velvet cloak lined with the same silk, ruined passed praying for; soft kid evening gloves stained and almost sliced to ribbons from the reins bunched in her small but capable fingers; satin dancing slippers embroidered with her trademark violets: wet, torn, and impossibly mangled from the stirrups in which her dainty feet currently rested; from beneath her hiked up skirts, sheer stockings laddered and torn from the constant rubbing of the saddle; and ostrich feathers bent, broken and drooping to the side of her face. She continued to sit her shivering mount in the monumental downpour, clouds puffing from both of their mouths in the frigid air while her violet blue/grey eyes sparkled black in the shadows cast from the light of the torches held by the footmen on either side him.
“Lady Alice,” he said as he limped down the steps of his country home leaning slightly on a malacca cane. “To what do I owe this singular delight?” The closer he got to her, the less humorous the situation appeared. Her face was white and strained.
She watched his halting steps where once there had been a fluidly effortless stride wondering through the weary fog that clamped upon her brain when this latest affliction had happened to her beloved friend. “D-d-do not be r-r-ridicul-l-lous!” Lady Alice stuttered with the bone cold weariness that shook her body so violently that she appeared about to be unseated from her equally spent horse. “Waldrip, I c-c-cannot make my legs move. They are fr-r-r-ozen.” Alice gazed toward the warm light pouring from the door behind him. “I am n-n-not young anym-m-more. I need your help.”
He had already made it down the stairs by the end of her speech; his hands lifting her down, against his chest, strong, steady, sure, as she sighed with relief. Then, as her feet touched the soaked gravel, she began whimpering and doubling over with pain when leg cramps hit her from toe to hip. “I am far too old for this,” she said with a wince as she straightened up, tried valiantly to walk and gasped with pain as spasms hit her again. A footman brought an umbrella to cover them as Lawrence, Viscount Waldrip, picked up his writhing lady love and carried her limping up the steps and into the light of flambeaus, while another footman grabbed the reins of her steaming horse and walked him toward the stables.
Parton bowed them into the marble hallway lit by candles reflected and refracted in the shimmering crystal of the chandelier overhead as he shut the door against the night.
Where had his wits gone,Waldrip wondered as he barked out commands. Seeing her in front of his home after twenty-five years of waiting had turned his brain to mush. The fact that his delight had ridden a horse, of all things, and a very large one at that, in her dancing slippers should have alerted him at once. But the puzzle would have to wait and so would his injured knee.
Alice knew that Waldrip was issuing orders to various servants from the rumbling in his chest that she felt rather than understood. A maid servant hurried before them holding a candelabrum to light their way. She was so caught up in the cold and cramping of her body that she hardly noticed her journey up the staircase to the large bedroom suite on the right – the one she knew quite well belonged to Waldrip. Behind them a tub appeared and more maid servants set it up by the sitting room fireplace where the fire was stoked and blazing by the time Waldrip laid her on his bed. Her slippers and stockings were expertly removed despite the wet cling of the shredded silk. A series of footmen carrying hot water filled the hip bath as slit gloves, sodden cloak, and broken plumes followed while Lady Alice Violette Lacey retreated to a cold numbness that did not respond to the warmth of the fire.
Waldrip glanced at her as he and a maid servant continued to pull off her gown, her light corset, whimsically embroidered with little purple clusters of flowers and then her soaking wet shift. His poor dear hadn’t even had the comfort of new fangled drawers under the narrow gown as she rode and her thighs were chafed raw as well as cramping. He murmured to the maid servant and she went to his dressing room and returned with ointment provided by Waldrip’s valet who discreetly remained behind in the dressing room. With her hatred of riding at anything greater than a gentle canter, he knew the desperation that must have driven her to ride five miles through the dark and blinding rain in her evening clothes no less. He was worried about the reason for that desperation, but that was a less urgent issue when compared to her blue lips and the dead white cast of her usually rosy skin.
“Come along, Alice, let us get you warmed up.” He wrapped her in the soft woolen blanket draped on the bed and carried her to the hip bath. As he approached, the
maid servant moved a screen between the fireplace and the door to provide a belated privacy. As Waldrip gently lowered Alice, she gasped and began to weep: the numbness abruptly wearing off her feet, legs, hands and arms as burning pain hit her on all sides. Her thighs felt as though they were on fire and she could hardly keep her hands in the water. When she tried to draw them out, even struggling to leave the tub, Waldrip pushed her down under the water. Yet even as the warm water buffeted her skin, she shook uncontrollably, unable to shed the cold at her core.
There was a knock at the door, then the maid entered carrying a tea tray and a brandy decanter. She checked the pot, poured the tea, added 3 lumps of sugar and extended the cup and saucer to Waldrip. He took the cup and shifted his position to both ease his leg and support the shivering bit of humanity before him. “Here, dearest,” he cradled the back of her shuddering head and lifted her mouth to meet the lip of the tea cup he held in the other. Her teeth chattered against the rim, she was still sobbing with pain, and a good portion of the tea spilled into the tub. The maid servant glanced at him, lifted her eyebrow, added two more lumps of sugar and poured a generous portion of brandy from the crystal decanter into the next cup of tea. This time, as she swallowed the tea, Alice choked and gagged on the spirits burning their way down her throat. He nodded to the maid servant and she waved away the footman who had carried more hot water to the door. She picked up the heavy pail and carried it around the screen and began to slowly add hot water to the cooling water within. He nodded and she withdrew from the room.
He could see Lady Alice’s expression in the candlelit vanity mirror on the far side of the room as she came to attention when the chills slowly diminished. He knelt behind her, his injured knee stiff and aching, but his hands where they had always wanted to be: on the lovely rosy tipped globes of her breasts as they floated in the water, an adolescent boy’s bobbing apple dream. He watched as she glanced down through golden brown lashes then up toward the mirror where she could see the shadowy planes of his face rising above her silvery gold curls, and he saw her delicately quirking eyebrows as she comically tried to decide whether or not to chastise him. He could feel in his fingers, his wrists, his arms, when she gave in to the gentle pressure and sank back against him. “Do not get used to this,” she whispered shakily as she drifted to sleep against his warm damp chest.
* * * * * * * *
“Lady Alice,” he said as he limped down the steps of his country home leaning slightly on a malacca cane. “To what do I owe this singular delight?” The closer he got to her, the less humorous the situation appeared. Her face was white and strained.
She watched his halting steps where once there had been a fluidly effortless stride wondering through the weary fog that clamped upon her brain when this latest affliction had happened to her beloved friend. “D-d-do not be r-r-ridicul-l-lous!” Lady Alice stuttered with the bone cold weariness that shook her body so violently that she appeared about to be unseated from her equally spent horse. “Waldrip, I c-c-cannot make my legs move. They are fr-r-r-ozen.” Alice gazed toward the warm light pouring from the door behind him. “I am n-n-not young anym-m-more. I need your help.”
He had already made it down the stairs by the end of her speech; his hands lifting her down, against his chest, strong, steady, sure, as she sighed with relief. Then, as her feet touched the soaked gravel, she began whimpering and doubling over with pain when leg cramps hit her from toe to hip. “I am far too old for this,” she said with a wince as she straightened up, tried valiantly to walk and gasped with pain as spasms hit her again. A footman brought an umbrella to cover them as Lawrence, Viscount Waldrip, picked up his writhing lady love and carried her limping up the steps and into the light of flambeaus, while another footman grabbed the reins of her steaming horse and walked him toward the stables.
Parton bowed them into the marble hallway lit by candles reflected and refracted in the shimmering crystal of the chandelier overhead as he shut the door against the night.
Where had his wits gone,Waldrip wondered as he barked out commands. Seeing her in front of his home after twenty-five years of waiting had turned his brain to mush. The fact that his delight had ridden a horse, of all things, and a very large one at that, in her dancing slippers should have alerted him at once. But the puzzle would have to wait and so would his injured knee.
Alice knew that Waldrip was issuing orders to various servants from the rumbling in his chest that she felt rather than understood. A maid servant hurried before them holding a candelabrum to light their way. She was so caught up in the cold and cramping of her body that she hardly noticed her journey up the staircase to the large bedroom suite on the right – the one she knew quite well belonged to Waldrip. Behind them a tub appeared and more maid servants set it up by the sitting room fireplace where the fire was stoked and blazing by the time Waldrip laid her on his bed. Her slippers and stockings were expertly removed despite the wet cling of the shredded silk. A series of footmen carrying hot water filled the hip bath as slit gloves, sodden cloak, and broken plumes followed while Lady Alice Violette Lacey retreated to a cold numbness that did not respond to the warmth of the fire.
Waldrip glanced at her as he and a maid servant continued to pull off her gown, her light corset, whimsically embroidered with little purple clusters of flowers and then her soaking wet shift. His poor dear hadn’t even had the comfort of new fangled drawers under the narrow gown as she rode and her thighs were chafed raw as well as cramping. He murmured to the maid servant and she went to his dressing room and returned with ointment provided by Waldrip’s valet who discreetly remained behind in the dressing room. With her hatred of riding at anything greater than a gentle canter, he knew the desperation that must have driven her to ride five miles through the dark and blinding rain in her evening clothes no less. He was worried about the reason for that desperation, but that was a less urgent issue when compared to her blue lips and the dead white cast of her usually rosy skin.
“Come along, Alice, let us get you warmed up.” He wrapped her in the soft woolen blanket draped on the bed and carried her to the hip bath. As he approached, the
maid servant moved a screen between the fireplace and the door to provide a belated privacy. As Waldrip gently lowered Alice, she gasped and began to weep: the numbness abruptly wearing off her feet, legs, hands and arms as burning pain hit her on all sides. Her thighs felt as though they were on fire and she could hardly keep her hands in the water. When she tried to draw them out, even struggling to leave the tub, Waldrip pushed her down under the water. Yet even as the warm water buffeted her skin, she shook uncontrollably, unable to shed the cold at her core.
There was a knock at the door, then the maid entered carrying a tea tray and a brandy decanter. She checked the pot, poured the tea, added 3 lumps of sugar and extended the cup and saucer to Waldrip. He took the cup and shifted his position to both ease his leg and support the shivering bit of humanity before him. “Here, dearest,” he cradled the back of her shuddering head and lifted her mouth to meet the lip of the tea cup he held in the other. Her teeth chattered against the rim, she was still sobbing with pain, and a good portion of the tea spilled into the tub. The maid servant glanced at him, lifted her eyebrow, added two more lumps of sugar and poured a generous portion of brandy from the crystal decanter into the next cup of tea. This time, as she swallowed the tea, Alice choked and gagged on the spirits burning their way down her throat. He nodded to the maid servant and she waved away the footman who had carried more hot water to the door. She picked up the heavy pail and carried it around the screen and began to slowly add hot water to the cooling water within. He nodded and she withdrew from the room.
He could see Lady Alice’s expression in the candlelit vanity mirror on the far side of the room as she came to attention when the chills slowly diminished. He knelt behind her, his injured knee stiff and aching, but his hands where they had always wanted to be: on the lovely rosy tipped globes of her breasts as they floated in the water, an adolescent boy’s bobbing apple dream. He watched as she glanced down through golden brown lashes then up toward the mirror where she could see the shadowy planes of his face rising above her silvery gold curls, and he saw her delicately quirking eyebrows as she comically tried to decide whether or not to chastise him. He could feel in his fingers, his wrists, his arms, when she gave in to the gentle pressure and sank back against him. “Do not get used to this,” she whispered shakily as she drifted to sleep against his warm damp chest.
* * * * * * * *
