Unmasked (6 page)

Softly, my hand touched it.

And the man widely feared as the Phantom of
the Opera disintegrated in tears.

His legs gave way, and he fell onto the bed,
sobs wracking his body. “You touched me,” he repeated, as though
trying to convince himself that it happened. Impulsively, he kissed
the palm of my hand, a gesture that endeared him to me a
hundredfold.

I lifted his chin, forcing him to look at me.
I gazed into his face. I took my time, wanting him to see me do it,
and be aware that I could see every inch of the face that he had
hidden all his life. His sobs quieted. I brought my face down to an
inch from his, turned his head, and placed a long, tender kiss on
the vulnerable, naked flesh.

“Erik,” I whispered. “My Erik.”

He gave me a look of such monumental
gratitude that tears sprang to my eyes. How wonderfully expressive
was his face. The mask had been inscrutable, frozen in a forbidding
reproach. But his true face was nothing like that. It was a
prince’s face, under the barest veneer of beast. It was there,
beneath the surface, like the promise of spring underneath a
thinning carpet of snow. And I saw it, because I chose to see
it.

“I prefer you thus,” I said. “Will you do
something for me, Erik?”

He looked up at me, as if I was a goddess
demanding a gesture of veneration. “Anything you ask.”

I picked up the mask that had fallen to the
bed. “Destroy this.”

He stood up, staring at the mask in his hand.
An expression of disgust flashed across his face. He returned his
gaze to me, and without looking back, flung the porcelain thing
across the room, the shattered pieces tinkling on the
flagstones.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

His hand caressed my face. “For showing me
the degree and measure of your love. And for bestowing that love on
me.”

I smiled up at him, and we kissed. What a
pleasurable sensation it was, as if I was kissing him for the first
time. He felt it, too, because I heard him utter a sound of such
profound happiness that it made my heart quiver in response. We
basked in the warmth of that moment for a long time. I almost
wished that I could die then, so that I could carry that
exhilaration with me into eternity.

But we both knew that my unmasking would be
next, and the realization of impending pain – for that is what it
was – stole my breath away.

He caressed my hair, as my nervous fingers
fumbled with the hooks and eyes at my bodice. I took a tortured
breath and started again. As my dress began to loosen, I turned in
the opposite direction. After what seemed an eternity, each tiny
fastener was unclasped.

“Turn around.”

His breath was hot on my neck, and it kindled
strange sensations in me. If I hadn’t been so frightened of obeying
him, I would have been seduced by the deliciously husky way he
breathed these words.

I did as he asked. He was so near, every inch
of him touched some part of me. How could he stand to be so close
to me, when so many men had avoided my touch?

His face towered above mine, but it was bent
toward me as if his face were some hungry flower turning toward the
light of my sun. His hands pushed the fabric over my shoulders, and
the dress shuffled off me. My hands crossed awkwardly in front of
me. Only my corset and chemise remained.

The back of his fingers caressed the exposed
part of my chest, back and forth, sending shivers of pleasure down
my spine. His fingers twined around the silken cord of my corset,
and pulled downwards along the contour of my arm.

As the ties of my corset unraveled, my
breathing grew more labored instead of easier. How shall I ever
endure this? Any minute now he would see the mistake he was making.
My true figure would emerge, and he would see I was not like other
females. My heavy breasts would plummet to the folds of my waist.
My wide hips would overhang my gelatinous thighs. My skin, scarred
by stretching in some places, dimpled in others, formed one
continuous blemish over my entire body.

The unlaced corset slid to the floor, and I
froze, unable to breathe. Only my shift covered me now, my last
vestige of modesty, and I hoped against reason that the sheer
material concealed my ugly nudity. Suddenly the sparse candles in
the dark room felt like search lights, seeking out my every flaw
and serving them up to his eyes.

He paused then, and I dreaded what I felt
sure would happen: he would politely excuse himself, and walk away
respectfully to let me collect my clothes and what little was left
of my dignity.

He took a step back. I felt a tear rush to my
eye.

His hand gathered the fabric at my knees. I
stopped it.

“No,” I said, a sob escaping my lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

I insisted. “No further. Please.”

His tone was gentle, but firm. “I will not
settle for anything less than all of you. My love demands it. My
love deserves it.”

He raised the gown slowly over my head, and
let it whisper to the floor. My eyes followed it there. I couldn’t
bear to look at his face, didn’t want to see the revulsion that
would be certain to snatch away whatever regard he had for me.

Tears blurred my gaze, which remained fixed
on the bundle of muslin on the floor. “How can you stand to look at
me?”

He put his hands on either side of my face,
forcing me to look at him. “I love you, chérie.
Everything
about you. Because it has made you who you are. Can’t you see? The
shape of your body has dictated the shape of your heart. And that
heart is what has made you uniquely beautiful. I must be the most
fortunate man alive if only I have the eyes to see that beauty. And
that you have unmasked it to me – only me – makes me love you all
the more.” He kissed me then, intensely, as if to drive home his
point.

For the first time in my life, my body was no
longer the thing I despised, the bane of my existence, the
millstone around my neck, my curse. I felt free to accept it,
embrace it, as that which sculpted the person I became. Someone was
in love with who I was, and I owed that, at least in part, to what
I had called my deformity. Erik loved me not
in spite
of my
flaws, but
because
of them. My shame vanished.

We dropped to the bed, and continued our
explorations of each other as newly born creatures. As he entangled
me with his kisses, I stroked his hair, marveling at the silken
texture of it as it glided between my fingers. The sensation of his
fully clothed body as it moved over mine filled me with wanton
pleasure. I let my hands travel over the expanse of his shoulders,
the curve of his back, the crest of his derriere.

He raised himself to his knees to remove his
clothing.

“Let me,” I said softly, sitting up on the
bed before him. I began to undress him slowly, reveling in the
effect it was having upon Erik. First his cravat, then his
waistcoat, then his collar, then his shirtsleeves. I took my time,
enjoying the novelty of his manly clothing, infused with the scent
of him. His chest, finally bared to me, was muscled and perfect.
His skin was luxuriantly soft, like fine satin. A nest of bristly
hair at his chest narrowed to a line on his corded stomach and
disappeared into his trousers.

He raised a muscled arm and threaded his long
fingers into my hair. His chest rose and fell in deep breaths,
silently begging me to continue.

My fingers began to unfasten the buttons on
his trousers, slowly, one by one. His growing manhood tented the
fabric, and I gloried in the arousal I inspired in him.

His trousers slid down his hips, revealing
the evidence of the power I had over his body. It made me feel
vibrantly alive. And gloriously feminine.

I put a curious hand around it, and he
groaned. I’ll never know what made me so bold in his bed. Perhaps
it was his words of love in my ear that inflamed my desire. Perhaps
it was his blindness to my flaws. But my inhibitions were released
like the cork of a champagne bottle, and I took immeasurable
delight in pleasing him, more than in the pleasure he gave me.

He sank to the bed beside me, and placed his
forearm under my head. I luxuriated in the wonderful heaviness of
his torso next to mine, he as desperate to love as I was to be
loved.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and I fixed my
eyes on his face. His hand began a slow, tender exploration of my
body. I marveled that these hands, stained with the blood of so
many people, could bring my body to life. It found its goal in the
V between my legs, and I let him enter. I relished the feel of his
musician’s hand, coaxing the most beautiful music from that
unfamiliar place. I closed my eyes to let the pleasure surround
me.

His hand stilled. “Look at me!”

My eyes flew open, and he recommenced his
slow, tiny bowing on the instrument that he was tuning. As I stared
into his face, he watched as the pleasure he elicited threaded
through my body and exploded for him.

Only him.

As he lowered his body onto mine, we shared a
moment of supreme love that comes only when two naked souls meet
and fuse in their sameness.

I wish I could say we moved to a nice house
in the country and spent a quiet life together. That he finally
found tolerance from the world above, and I some measure of
acceptance for my size. But I cannot. We continued to live down
beneath the opera house, in our underground palace among the
creatures of the night, and the world outside never did change its
opinion of us. But now that we had each other, it mattered so very
little.

But Erik’s music did change, echoing his
renewed hope in the goodness of life. He published a new opera
under a pseudonym, which debuted in Paris before being performed in
Rome, Vienna and London. We saw each premiere – in secret, of
course.
The Resurrection
built upon the childhood fable of
the Beauty and the Beast, only in this story, each person had
elements of both beauty and beast in him. One’s shortcomings were
the other’s graces, one’s flaws were the other’s perfections. A
magic spell combines their respective features, creating two
disparate creatures: a human of surpassing beauty – and a loathsome
ogre. But the ogre is the only one given the heart of compassion,
so only it survives. In the end, kindness, not beauty, endures.

The heart is a wonderful and glorious thing.
It is not limited by eyesight or fettered by conventions. It acts
independently of these things, as inscrutable and unpredictable as
a holy miracle. But its true power comes from extending love, not
acquiring it. We are called not to be adored, but to love, and if
the heavens permit, to be loved in return.

Unmask, and see for yourself.

~~~~~~~

About the Author

Michelle Marcos is the award-winning author
of several historical romance novels for St. Martin's Press. She
lives in Miami, Florida, and loves to hear from readers. You can
connect with Michelle on:

Web: http://www.michellemarcos.com

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Other Titles by Michelle
Marcos

Lessons in Loving a Laird
, ISBN
9780312381790, St. Martin's Press

Secrets to Seducing a Scot
, ISBN
9780312381783, St. Martin's Press

Wickedly Ever After
, ISBN
9781429925150, St. Martin's Press

Gentlemen Behaving Badly
, ISBN
9781429926485, St. Martin's Press

When a Lady Misbehaves
, ISBN
9781429959346, St. Martin's Press