Early the next day Isabelle dressed and went out into the grounds of the great house, she walked in the walled garden, in the shade by the rock pool and out into the less developed, wilder meadows. With each step she wanted to walk further from the temptation and anguish that her brush with the Gypsy had left behind.
When she was married, almost three years earlier, she had been in no illusion about the union. Her husband was a wealthy man, and if he prospered so did she – she was as much his property as the house was, and her part of the bargain had been in tolerating his pathetic advances. He was not unattractive in his youth, but at nearly thirty years her senior, those days were long past. He was heavy, his hair thinning and had been troubled for the last year with gout.
In the knowledge that this had not been a love match – that being an option only to paupers and simple folk – she knew she could never find passion with her husband. Coupled with his unskilled and selfish approach to sex, she could see no possibility of a happy sexual union between them. Even with desperate need willing her on she had been unable to come to orgasm with him last night, and the thought of his heavy body over her own made her shudder.
But why, now, was this so hard to accept? She had lived with him without romantic expectation for almost three years, accepting it as her fate. Now it seemed that someone had opened a vision on the horizon – allowed her to see what she wanted, without really making it accessible to her.
She could not deny that she wanted to feel the stranger, Peter, make love to her – that she had wanted to let herself beg him, as he had insisted – but she also knew that she could not have this and keep unscathed her status as a lady.
She rubbed the front of her gown, over the mound of her sex, feeling the urge rising as she thought of him. There were women who took lovers – but she doubted she could rely on her household staff to be truly discrete, and her husband was rarely away at town. She also had the feeling that Peter would want more from her than a quiet affair – he had wanted her to be open and declare her need in a way he must know no lady could. She could not imagine him slipping quietly in and out of her chamber unseen and unheard, simply because it was what she would want of him.
She could feel her own heat building – dampening her between her legs and making her breath come short. As she reached the river she felt hot and dusty, and as she swung around to ensure her privacy, she was filled with and unlikely compulsion.
Fumbling to undress herself, unused to the task without a maids' help, she removed her gown to her undergarments, slipped off her fine shoes and stepped into the waters. She gasped at the cold, but stepped further, thinking of times when she had bathed like this as a child.
She waded out into the current, watching the water eddy around her, quick moving and stained brown, like ale, by the peat in the mountains. She was gasping for breath against the cold, and as she felt that water rise to the heat between her legs she cried out.
The feeling of the icy river touching her was both agony and relief; she sunk slowly to her knees on the fine pebbles of the river bed, allowing the water to rise to her bosom, and the feel of cold fingers touching under her breasts brought her to her feet, gasping.
She stood in the sunlight, water to her hips, feeling the warm sun against her and the cold water coursing off her. Her linens were stark white in the light, like fresh snow, and the clung wet to her body, pressing heavily against her curves, her tiny, hard nipples showing dark against the almost transparent fabric. She raised her face to the sun and smiled.
With her eyes closed and her mind numbed by the cold river water Isabelle didn't see or hear him advance. Peter was standing in silhouette beside the small trees near the river bank. When she first saw him she thought she was going mad – driven to seeing him after he had occupied her mind so fully.
He stepped down to the waters edge with a slow swagger, and she shielded her eyes to see him properly.
"Good day, my lady. Are you refreshed?" his eyes roamed across her, returning frequently to the dark points of her chilled nipples. She raised her hands to cover herself.
"It is a warm day." She began to wade out of the river and onto the bank, trying to skirt away from him, keeping her eyes averted. In her chest her heart pounded and she felt breathless and dizzy. She stumbled on the uneven and slippery rocks and almost fell back into the water. Peter grasped her firmly about her upper arms, and when she looked down she saw a rush of red as her foot had been cut by the sharp edge of a rock. As the blood flowed freely against her wet skin she thought for a moment she would swoon, and Peter kept her upright with his strong grip.
He helped her to a grassy slope and seated her before kneeling at her feet and lifting her ankle to take a closer look. His gentleness and his concern surprised her in one seemingly so bold, but he cradled her delicate, pale foot in his hand and examined it carefully.
He wrapped her ankle with a clean kerchief from his pocket, and seemed satisfied that all was well, but he didn't move away, or let go his hold on her foot.
Instead he locked eyes with her again and bent his head to kiss her toes, each in turn. She gasped with a mixture of shock and pleasure, the feel of his warm lips against her icy skin and the sensation of his fingers' caress on her tender instep were magical.
"Tell me your name, lady." She felt his breath against her foot, and seemed amazed that, having been so intimate, he did not know this about her.
"Lady Faversham..." she started at her own formality, giving her proper name to a man holding her naked ankle in his palm. Blushing, she said "Isabelle."
