Grady ---
continued
He stood upon the veranda looking up at the mansion looming above him in the dark. 'Twas shortly before midnight, and he had already checked the garden, the stable, and the carriage house, and had circled the manor to reassure himself that all the windows were dark, and that no one was about. The Countess was ensconced in the west wing. The family's bedchambers were in the east wing: Lord and Lady Trimingham's upon the second floor, front of the mansion; Chloe's and Edwin's upon the third floor, rear aspect. Edwin was not here, and Harriet slept in the servants' wing. Chloe should be alone.
Even the heavens had cooperated for this miraculous last chance: 'twas a moonless night, and only the stars provided illumination, the better to conceal his ascent to her chamber.
After deciphering her message, he had hastened to his chambers to enjoy his elation in private and bide his time until the appointed hour. His belly had fluttered in excitement as he speculated upon her intentions for the meeting. To discuss what had happened between them in the laundry chamber? To discuss the future? To engage in another tryst? He had bathed, trimmed his side whiskers, and dressed with care in clean garments, selecting dark-colored trousers and coat. He had dispensed with his pocket watch and hat, neither being adapted to climbing walls.
Although he had never been inside it, he knew which chamber was hers. It had two windows, one with a balcony. Indeed, in his amorous imaginings, he had occasionally envisioned climbing to her chamber so. Would the ivy still bear his weight? He had last climbed it when but a lad; now he was a man full grown. Looking up, he saw a faint light coming from her windows. Grasping the meshwork of branches, he ventured the experiment --- the first branch held firm. So far, so good. Branch by branch he ascended, finding the sturdier limbs by sense of touch. Like the magic spiral of a genie from a bottle, the faint, ethereal scent of cherry blossoms lifted him. At several points the vine creaked and arched away from the stone --- but did not give way. At last he pulled himself level with her balcony and swung his body over the balustrade.
He peered through the leaded glass doors into the dimly lit chamber, not seeing the subject of his affections. Straightening his waistcoat and cravat, he took a deep breath. Trying the door handle, he found it unlocked and stepped inside, his heart beating fast. He confirmed the spacious room to be unoccupied, however the fire in the hearth and the candles by the bed suggested that the owner had not long been absent.
Grady looked about in wonder at being in her private sanctuary. In his state of amorous upheaval, his gaze forgivably went first to her bed. 'Twas a massive structure likely dating from the mansion's Tudor beginnings --- the columns and canopy were of rosewood carved with plants and whimsical creatures and hung with copper colored silk fabric. Carved rosewood comprised the headboard and continued around the lower half of the chamber walls. Above it, the walls were covered with copper colored silk fabric painted here and there with exotic birds and flowers. The fireplace was tiled with jade. Upon the ceiling, the plasterwork was molded into the form of elaborately entwined flowering vines, and on the floor was a finely patterned Persian rug. In the glow of the fire and candles, the decorations of flora and fauna produced an effect more like an enchanted forest than a chamber.
Growing up on the estate, he had of course seen many opulent bedchambers. Hers was that --- no surprise --- but the chamber was charmingly enhanced by the slight disarray of Chloe's habitation. Books and letters were scattered about. An odd number of gloves languished upon the divan. A simple pottery vase held a loose bouquet of wildflowers. Her bonnet with the forget-me-not blue ribbons lay upon its side upon a table (the memory of it falling to the floor in the laundry chamber prompted a rush of pressure in his groin).
Now too he noticed the paintings upon the walls. No portraits of somber Trimingham ancestors were these, nor were they of sleek hunting dogs or horses. Last winter during her visit to Paris she had purchased three paintings --- he had written the expenditures in the account book. He had oft wondered what they looked like, and now he had the opportunity to indulge his curiosity. One was of a shepherdess and her flock at a woodside stream. The second was of a high waterfall in a rocky countryside, the torrent of water gushing forth. The third was a harbor scene, with ships at dock and under sail, and the open sea on the horizon. All three canvases had a striking dream-like quality rendered by a deliberate imprecision of the artists' brush strokes, quite different from any paintings he had previously seen.
The harbor scene reminded him of his hope to go to America --- of his hope to have her companionship. His stomach twinged in nervous anticipation of making his proposal.
At that moment she appeared, emerging from a doorway upon the far side of the bed, clad only in a dressing gown over a nightgown. She started when she saw him, dropping the book she had been holding. Indeed, she seemed so taken aback that for a horrified moment he thought he had entirely misconstrued her message. "M-my lady," he stammered, bowing hastily. Her eyes were enormous, staring at him, her cheeks white. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound issued --- her lower lip only trembled. He could see her chest moving with her rapid breaths. So distressed did she appear that Grady cast his eyes about for some remedy...brandy, smelling salts, a fan. Spotting a water carafe upon a table near the divan, he poured a goblet full and hurried over to her.
"Drink this, my lady. You are unwell." He pressed it into her hand. She drank in intermittent gulps. Mercifully it appeared to have a restorative effect: gradually her breathing slowed, and her countenance grew more composed. Grady found himself thwarted in his intention to make his declaration and proposal. It seemed most unchivalrous to ask a lady in her present state to elope halfway around the world.
As she regained her composure, he next found himself distracted by her dishabille. He had never seen her hair completely unbound: the thick locks cascaded in shining waves to her hips. She wore a dark green velvet dressing gown, tied at her slender waist. A white nightgown was visible beneath the vee at her neck. His mind reeled at the thought of the nakedness below that. Without wide skirts, crinolines, or petticoats, he appreciated anew just how petite her figure was.
Chloe set the goblet down upon the dressing table next to her and faced him with a calmer expression. "Mr. Woodbyrne," she said quietly. "Lady Chloe," he responded. The genteel words belied the turmoil he was experiencing, and perhaps she as well...for her eyes were still anxious. But perhaps he was presuming too much...mayhap her unease was simply due to the shocking indiscretion they were committing simply by being alone together in her bedchamber --- let alone at night and in a state of undress --- and not due to romantic feelings for him.
She looked up at him, seeming to search his face. "Mr. Woodbyrne..." she began, but her voice trailed away. He sensed her embarrassment at his longing gaze and attempted to moderate his hunger by looking away. He was about to speak himself when his eyes froze upon the room from whence she had come. 'Twas a large closet and dressing room...and the source of his agitation was the stack of trunks therein, ready for the morrow's journey. He looked back at her. Her eyes went to the trunks. She too seemed perturbed by the sight. Abruptly she reached for the closet door and shut it.
For a moment she hesitated, then she walked past him directly to the hall door. She turned the key in the lock and faced him.
The sound of the door locking at once sent his mind and body into a tumult. He could scarce believe that they were locked together in her bedchamber and she stood before him, her hair unfettered, her naked charms just under her simple night clothes. He stared at her, trying to interpret her purpose...in the candlelight the green in her eyes shone, and her lush lashes lifted as her gaze met his. He could not discern her intent, but he was unable to disguise his own desire any longer...his eyes roved unabashedly over her face...her lips...down the curves of her body under the green velvet...how he ached to take her into his arms!
Her cheeks reddened under his voracious regard, and she clasped the edges of her dressing gown together at her neck --- but her shyness only augmented his amorous feelings. The aching pressure grew in his cock. Looking down at her, he could not stop thinking of her upon the ironing table...of how he had licked her little cunny to spending...of his finger up her bottom hole. He wondered if she was thinking of it too, for her blush was flaming red. Both of her hands now gripped the edges of the robe --- one at her neck and one at her belly. It occurred to him that perhaps she had been offended by the obscene act and had avoided him purposefully. Never having previously done it, he knew not what had possessed him to penetrate her in such a manner...'twas a most lewd act to perform upon an innocent girl.
