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 flustered.
“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 clitoria, 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 class. 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 jeté 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 soirée 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 soirée. 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.”
By which I gather that he does not want me to bring it up again. Even so, I persevere. “I don’t understand why the men who assaulted him aren’t being held to account. What they did was wrong.”
“You may think so,” Edward says quietly. “But there are a great many who disagree with you. As I am sure you have no wish to draw unwelcome attention to yourself, you should forget what you saw.”
I understand his concern for my sake but his seeming callousness disappoints and worries me. Softly, I say, “I can’t forget it and not withstanding my respect for your advice, I won’t. I am not a child to be shielded from unpleasant realities. Nor am I willing to ignore rank injustice.”
“Then you will place yourself in danger,” Edward says. I have never heard him speak so coldly. “And others with you. Is that what you wish?”
“Of course it isn’t but--”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Enough. This is neither the time nor the place for any such discussion.”
Reluctantly, I have to admit that he has a point. We are arriving at our destination. Getting out of the car, I am still dwelling on his uncharacteristic behavior when I notice a nearby building of such extraordinary size and beauty that it eclipses everything else around it.
Constructed of black steel and silvered glass, it is far taller than any other in the city. There is no indication of what goes on inside but I can’t help wondering what the view from the topmost floors is like. There must be days when the inhabitants are far above the clouds, unfettered by the world. I envy their freedom, however illusionary it may be.
A few minutes later, I step off an elevator in the smaller building where the soirée is being held. The elegant apartment looks as though it was taken directly from an English country manor. Tufted sofas and wingchairs are upholstered in chintz and strewn with needlepoint pillows. Marble-topped tables hold crystal vases overflowing with flowers. The paintings are old, heavily framed, and mostly of horses and dogs. The effect is warm and gracious even if I can’t imagine myself ever living with it.
Our hosts, a couple I remember meeting the previous evening at the opera, greet us in the entrance hall. Beyond them a hundred or so people are gathered for a private performance by a world-renown cellist. Servers circulate with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. I sip a little of the wine but forego any food until I can figure out how to juggle both while shaking hands and smiling non-stop.
Edward and Adele introduce me to yet more people. Those I didn’t meet at the opera have nonetheless heard about my arrival in town, no doubt thanks to the private link on which Society exchanges news and gossip. I’m wondering what I might learn from it about Ian when a frisson of awareness interrupts my thoughts. I look up.
He is standing not twenty feet away, watching me.
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia
“Ian,” Adele says with a smile. “What a surprise.” She leans toward him and drops her voice a notch. “I thought you detested such events yet here you are for the second evening in a row.”
“Could it be that I’ve suddenly acquired an interest in culture?” he asks, grinning down at her.
“Of course it could be, dear boy,” my grandmother replies. “I just don’t think it actually is.”
Observing them, I realize that of course Adele knows Ian. Indeed, in all likelihood she knows him well. Moreover, she regards him with affection.
Questions tumble through my mind. Why is he here? Why does he have a look in his eye that I recognize all too well--dark and smoky but also hard and a little frightening? What on earth am I supposed to say to him?
After my bold declaration that we were done, I’d expected at least a little time to shore up my defenses before having to face him again. Yet first I find myself supporting him against Davos, then he sends me lewd flowers, and now he shows up where I had no expectation he would be.
“Amelia,” he says, the husky timber of his voice threatening to melt me. Before I can even think of stopping him, he takes my hand, turns it, and holding my eyes with his, presses a velvety warm kiss into my palm.
The flute of champagne I am holding only just makes it to safety on a nearby table.
“Ian,” I murmur because apparently I’m incapable of saying anything else.
He smiles and without a flicker of hesitation, says, “Will you excuse us, Adele? Amelia and I have a few things to discuss.”
My grandmother--who until now I have believed truly has my best interest at heart--waves a hand. “Of course, dear boy. Take all the time you need.”
Traitor! I cast a frantic look around for Edward only to discover that he’s on the other side of the room deep in conversation with Ian’s sister, Marianne. Edward is always so imperturbable that it’s difficult to imagine what he’s thinking but just then he looks unusually intent. I can’t help wondering what Marianne could have said or done to prompt such a reaction.
Any such curiosity will have to wait. I have other, far more immediate concerns.
Ian is still holding my hand, having tucked it into the crook of his arm in a seemingly gentlemanly gesture that might fool others but doesn’t deceive me for a moment. He is leading me away from the soirée toward a small room off to one side. The damn man must have a mental map of every trysting spot in Manhattan.
My traitorous body stirs in anticipation. But this time I am fiercely determined not to give into it. I dig my heels into the plush carpet and hiss, “Let me go. I’m not interested in discussing anything with you.”
He stops but doesn’t release me. To the contrary, his hand tightens on mine. He looks strangely pleased as though my refusal, far from angering him, is what he wants.
I’m thoroughly confused, more than half convinced that I will never understand this mercurial man.
Softly, he says, “Whatever you say, sweetheart. We can have this out right here.”
As much as I don’t relish the thought of a scene, I have to know. “Have what out? There’s nothing for us to discuss.” With rash impulsiveness bordering on madness, I add, “Unless you’d like to apologize for what you said? Explain why you are such an ass? I’m willing to listen to that.”
His jaw clenches. The hardness in his eyes is even more pronounced but so is the dark seductiveness.
“You’re seeing Sergei Zharkov.”
That’s what he wants to talk about? How could he possibly even know? Adele couldn’t have told him, she was with me from the time we arrived. Edward must have but why? And why would Ian care?
“I am taking classes with Sergei but I don’t see what--”
“I don’t want you to.”
My mouth drops open but I recover quickly. There is only one possible response and I don’t hesitate to give it.
“You don’t have any say in what I do.”
I wait, silently daring him to claim otherwise. If he starts in again about owning me, I swear I won’t be responsible for what happens next.
Ian’s eyes narrow. He casts me an assessing look, as though trying to judge how serious I am. His mouth tightens. “You know Zharkov likes women? A lot.”
Sergei likes women a lot or he likes a lot of women? I’m confused but I don’t really care. It has nothing to do with me. The Russian certainly is a very attractive man, superbly fit and with a wild edge to his nature that I find undeniably appealing. If I have a ‘type’, I think I’ve figured out what it is. But Ian, heaven help me, is the original. Everything else is a pale reflection.
“I don’t see why that matters,” I say. “He’s an incredibly talented ballet master. Taking class from him is a privilege.”
Ian’s jaw is clenched. I stare at it in unwilling fascination. His thoughts and emotions are usually so contained but not now. I don’t need any special insight to understand that he’s fighting the urge to tell me again not to see Sergei. But I do feel dangerously curious about how he imagines that he could enforce such an order.
At length, he says, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?" I ask. "Living my own life? Making my own choices?”
“Driving me crazy,” he says.
My eyes widen. Where is this intensity coming from? Can my spending time with another man possibly disturb him this much? If he really is so possessive, why did he let me go in the first place?
Mindful that we are standing in a crowded drawing room, I say softly, “Ian, I want to dance. I need to. But to do it safely, I have to be in proper condition. I’m not going to make the same mistake I did in the studio.”
That over exertion landed me in his arms. Memories of what followed dart through my mind--the massage room, the shower, the tent afterward--
I really do not want to go there especially not when the light in his amber eyes makes it clear that he’s more than willing to come with me.
My explanation or perhaps the memory it evokes seems to improve his mood. He smiles and without warning asks, “Did you get the flowers?”
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 19
