Sebastian - Secrets (5 page)

“And you are?” I enquire, trying to sound disinterested and aloof.

“Sebastian De Montfort. Delighted to meet you.  Welcome to my humble home”.  So he is the owner of this incredible house.  This man is a mythological deity.  He could not be more perfect.

“Pleased to meet
you too, it’s a beautiful home.” 

“Thank you, Elizabeth. 
I look forward to personally showing you around.  I’ll see you later, enjoy the afternoon,” he’s charming, beguiling … and oh so dangerous.

I’
m blushing a deeper shade of crimson as his eyes, deep and serious, fix their gaze upon me and refuse to blink or look elsewhere.  He looks so intense, so measured and controlled.  His hand lingers on my arm just a moment too long, he holds my gaze a moment too long.  Then, he’s gone.  I can still feel his touch as he turns to greet a tall brunette in uniform pink sweatshirt.

“Isn’t he delicious,” gushes Bleached Blonde.

“Delicious.  Yes,” I whisper.

We a
re ushered through a glazed door leading from the library onto a paved terrace overlooking a walled garden where we are divided into two teams. 

I
know that we’ll be mud running but I really don’t understand what this means.  I imagine we’ll be jogging, or in my case most likely walking, getting very grubby and having a good gossip and giggle.  It comes as rather a shock, therefore, when we are assigned a team coach who is a fearful dragon on whom I feel sure the De Montfort family crest was cast. 

The troll uses a megaphone to launch h
er verbal assault upon us.  We’re coaxed, bullied and cajoled into sprinting across the expansive lawns and down the tree-lined driveway.  We’re ordered to veer off road when we reach a giant oak, and are soon running, tumbling through woodland in a battle to traverse the boggy terrain, endeavouring to beat the other team to the finishing post.

The ground beneath our running shoes becoming increasingly tricky and I feel my right foot slip.  Before I can stop myself I am face down in slimy mud and I wonder if this can possibly be any more humiliating.  Apparently, it can as Bleached Blonde laughs mockingly as she passes me.  I am motivated to get to my feet. 

My knee stings and I see that the right leg of my jeans is torn exposing a raw graze.  I wince but refuse to show any sign of defeat or to let my team down so I push onwards, spitting out a mouthful of dank mud.  How I survive ninety minutes of this torture is beyond me but I do, and when we break through the trees and back onto the driveway I am immensely relieved until I see the other team already at the finishing post, sipping cognac from paper cups.  Damn them all.

I limp behind my teammates, my knee finally saying enough is enough.  As I lay claim to my cognac the pitiful
looks by the winning team don’t go unnoticed and my mood worsens.  It’s not improved by the further humiliation of De Montfort handing out winners’ medals to the other team and losers’ medals to my team. 

I stand in line, ripped trousers, bloody knee, caked in mud with leaves in my hair and a forced smile on my face as the Adonis places a ribbon over my head, adjusting the meda
l so that it rests on my sternum. He pauses and regards me, his amused eyes slowly drinking me in, his lips curled in a poorly concealed smirk. 

“I realis
e mud has untold benefits for the skin, Elizabeth, but I do wish you had left a little of it behind.” 

I could punch his conceited face but I hold back my twitching fist.  He moves on down the li
ne and I release the breath I’ve been holding as fatigue takes hold.

We drift back into the house and locate our bedrooms.  Mine is a sizeable room with high, decoratively corniced ceilings and it is furnished tastefully with antique pieces in dark oa
k.  The double bed in the centre of the room is a two-poster with canopy and is dressed with a gold damask comforter and matching stack of cushions.  At the foot of the bed stands a chaise upholstered in rich olive green fabric on which sits my overnight bag. 

I unzip it and remove a short cream silk nightgown, which I place on the cushions.  Retrieving fresh underwear and carefully unfolding a silver crepe evening gown from the crushed confines of the bag, I lay out my evening ensemble before running a bath.  

The hot water feels so good despite the gash on my knee stinging fiercely and I sink down until the water level reaches my chin and reflect on the afternoon. 

I can’t seem to get Sebastian De Montfort out of my head, with his smo
uldering eyes and moodiness.  ‘Sebastian’ is such a classy name, so much more impressive than ‘Alan.’  I decide I want to find out more about the mysterious man and this evening’s dinner will be the ideal opportunity so I determine to make an extra effort with my appearance after all, I have all the other women to compete with for his attention.

The hot bath improves my mood
and eases my aching joints.  I’m excited about the drinks reception and dinner that awaits us, and am eager to discover more about the mysterious Sebastian.  Moisturising my entire body and luxuriating in my sumptuous surroundings is such precious ‘me’ time.

My trusty, magic support pants ‘tragic knickers’ as I like to call them, are a struggle to pull up but necessary for a smooth silhouette under my slinky silver dress.  I slip the evening dress over my head and the whisper light fabric falls softly over my hips and ends just below my ankles and is cut low at my décolletage. 

I pad to the bathroom at the same time as reaching behind my back to pull up my dress zipper, pulling out the plug in the bath and then trying again to tug up the zip.
  The loud gurgling of the draining bath water through noisy old pipework drowns out the sound of the light knock on my door. 

I’
m standing in the bathroom becoming flustered and hot as the zipper catches in the fabric of my dress, and I lean forward against the washbasin, arching my back in an attempt to free the snagged zip when a figure appears in the steamed up bathroom mirror.  Gasping in shock I spin around and face Sebastian who is leaning against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded with a smile playing across his lips, his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Don’t worry about knocking will you.” I scold sarcastically, embarrassed once again at the state in which he finds me – hot, red faced and my gaping dress twisted and puckered.

“Actually, I did knock, but you didn’t hear me.  I bought you this.”  He holds a sticking plaster between his thumb and forefinger and waves it in front of me. 

“For your knee.  Would you like me to put it on for you?” he cocks an eyebrow and is clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“No, I don’t want you to put it on for me, I’m a big girl.” I retort ungratefully.  “But thank you… it was thoughtful of you,” I add as an afterthought. 

He steps toward me, reaches to
my side and places the plaster on the marble countertop next to the basin.  The closeness of him makes me tingle and I breathe in his manly scent as he lingers for just a moment, his fingers by my bare arm. 

He hesitates and then places his hand on my shoulder and the touch of skin on skin sends further tremors through my core. 

“Turn around,” he says, as his hand pulls my shoulder toward him and guides me so that I face away from him. 

“What are you doing?” I ask, my redness deepening and my breath catching.

“Your zip, Elizabeth.  Unless you prefer to come downstairs as you are?  Those large pants would cause quite a stir I’m sure.”

Co
uld this be any more humiliating?

His finger touches the small of my back as
he tugs at the waistband of my tragic knickers, pinging the fabric against my skin and the mortification is unbearable.  Yes it can be more humiliating, damn him.

“Just do the zipper up.” I bark at him.  “Thank you.”

My curtness increases his enjoyment and the irritating man sniggers as he releases the fabric and pulls the fastener half way up … oh so slowly. 

He takes my long hair in his hand and drapes it over my shoulder before gliding the zip home and his fingers brush the back of my neck as he gently tugs my hair back into place.   Such tiny touches and yet the electricity that passes between us is incredible and I feel sure he senses it too.

As I turn back to face him he lowers his eyes quite shamelessly to the ample cleavage on display and only averts his gaze when I tug the fabric up as I tut my disapproval. 

“Is th
ere anything else?” I ask brusquely. 

He crosses his arms again and places a finger on his lips as he stares pensively into my eyes.

“I think you’ll do.  Be downstairs in ten minutes,” he replies and with that, he turns and leaves the room, closing my bedroom door firmly behind him. 

I let out a deep sigh. 
That went well
, I scold myself.

It’s a delicious meal of venison followed by a warm pear tart with cream.  The wines are divine and I feel my mood lifting with each glass. 

Dinner is served by the pretty young girl
who I saw earlier.  In addition there are three other, equally pretty young ladies waiting the table.  All are wearing fitted black dresses, which sit above the knee – demure but sexy, their hair tied back into a neat chignon.  Curious.  I make a mental note to ask the handsome but arrogant Mr De Montfort about his choice in staff.  Clearly he hasn’t recruited solely on the basis of curriculum vitae!

I sit through a series of speeches and clap
politely when an award is given to the woman seated to my left, who has been judged to be the highest achieving woman in business.

By eleven thirty
, the evening draws to a close.  Tired ladies make their way to bed, and I sit alone in the now empty dining hall.  The lights are dimmed and the remnants of candles flicker on the long elegantly dressed table.  I sip my fifth or sixth glass of red wine feeling deliciously mellow and survey my surroundings.  The high ceilinged room is papered in rich ruby damask, and gilt framed oil paintings adorn the walls, suspended from ornate picture rails.  Many are of hunting scenes while others are, I presume, De Montfort’s long dead relatives.  They look down at me with reproachful stares. 

The dying embers of a fire still offer a warming glow from the oversized fireplace.  I take my glass of wine and sit in front of the fire, my legs curled under me on a deeply piled rug.  I close my eyes and imagine I am sitting in my own castle
, while my prince waits for me in our bedchamber.  I imagine what he will do to me when I retire to bed and a sense of longing encompasses me.

I jump as I hear movement behind me.  I turn and look up and see Sebastian De Montfort standing over me.  He has a half smile and his eyes are studying me curiously.  I am suddenly consumed by a feeling of guilt
, at how attracted to him I am, and embarrassment that I am so relaxed in his home. 

“Elizabeth, don’t let me disturb you, I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

Before I can stand, he places a hand firmly on my shoulder and tells me to stay seated on the floor. 

He pours himself a glass of red wine
and sits down beside me - his legs crossed and his right knee touching my leg.  I shiver at the touch of his limb through the silky fabric of my silver evening gown.

“Let me see your wounded knee,” he demands firmly.  My mouth drops open and I look aghast at him.  He wants to l
ook at my bare leg!  My scuffed, sore knee. 

I shake my head and tell him that it’s
nothing, I have the sticking plaster on it, and it really isn’t painful.  I look at him and he is looking deeply into my eyes, a frown etched across his brow. 

He doesn’t speak for the long
est time and then, when he does he says only “show me.” 

It is not a request, I realis
e, he is insistent. I hesitate but he leans forward, gently grasps the hem of my dress and slides the fabric up my legs, above my knees.

I’
m blushing deeply now but to my amazement, he kisses his fingers and softly lays his fingers onto the covered wound.  I feel a thousand sparks coursing through my body and have an overwhelming and totally irrational desire to feel his fingers on my skin.

“You’re flinching.  Is it sore?” He asks.

“A little,” I reply although it was the spark from his touch rather than pain, which made me flinch.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” The conversation is awkward.

“Having a lovely time, yes thank you,” I reply.

“You did make me laugh, Elizabeth.  You were a picture, covered in mud with leaves in your hair.” He has that ridiculous smirk on his face.

“I’m glad I entertain you,” I huff.  “Be sure to book me next time you need a good laugh.”

He leans forward and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Your hair is so much prettier without the foliage,” he is still mocking me and I cast him a frosty glare in return, trying not to let him see the profound effect his touch has on me.

“Perhaps if we hadn’t been subjected to the wrath of the old bat that led our team, I wouldn’t have fallen,” I suggest, much to his amusement.