“My god, what a beautiful room,” I whispered, unableto believe this was the room he chose for me. This feminine, luxurious space fit for a princess.
“This was once my room, believe it or not,” he said, gazing around at all the pink just as I did. “I’m glad you like it. It isn’t to my tastes at all, but...it wasn’t designed for my tastes back then. Perhaps you’ll bring it to life again.”
I wanted to ask why, and to probe a little, but I knew I shouldn’t. We’d only just met. I was desperate to ask who the room was designed for. To ask if it was for somebody named Louisa.
“It’s the most stunning room I’ve ever seen,” I said, keeping my mouth shut about the mystery woman for now.
That satisfied smile again, his lips wry and curling, his eyes sparkling beneath his fierce tapered eyebrows. I noticed the hairs were untrimmed and slightly wild, but still well-shaped, a bit like the flowers in the front garden. Nicholas looked ruggedly handsome, elegant and yet not too polished.
He had to be twenty years older than me, perhaps more. He had wrinkles in his forehead, and slight creases around his eyes. He was tall, too, and muscular in a lean way, with strong arms and wrists, and hands that could cover my entire face, I was sure. I enjoyed the way his expensive robe fit him so well, no doubt tailored to his exact measurements. It hugged his thick chest and tapered gracefully to a slimmer waist, hinting at a trim yet hard, healthy body beneath.
I wondered if his chest would be covered in hair much like the ones on his head, threaded through with silver and grey.
“I’m so pleased you like it,” he said. “There’s an en-suite bathroom with a roll-top tub, which you’re welcome to use, though it is so late. You might want to get some rest. Margaret, my housekeeper, will be informed of you first thing in the morning, and she’ll know to bring you breakfast and tea.”
I sighed so audibly with desire that Nicholas chuckled, a deep rumble that made my thighs clench again. The exhaustion came over me in a wave, as my body finally succumbed and admitted it had come a long way in the freezing cold, and could use a warm bed to rest in.
“On a nice tray, too, so you can sit up in bed and watch the rain dancing down the window panes,” said Nicholas, smiling softly. He’d enjoyed this room himself, in that way – that much was clear. “Cosy and warm.”
His expression was so knowing, as if he could see all my anxiety and pain at losing my mother and running from my home, that I felt the urge to cry. I held back my tears, but something deep inside of me – the little girl who longed to be looked after, for a change, instead of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders – felt suddenly relieved.
This kind, fatherly man wanted to make me feel at home. Looked after. Cared for.
How long had it been since I’d ever felt that way?
“I’ve never had a room like this,” I said softly, my eyes falling again over the exquisite, soft luxury of it. “With my own dressing table, and a place to properly hang my things, and a roll-top tub...”
Nicholas clasped his hands behind his back and watched me as my voice trailed away, my eyes drifting over the panels and the flocked wallpaper like a little girl inher own little paradise. His eyes were sparkling, his smile satisfied. My gratitude pleased him.
“Consider it yours, for now,” he said. “We’ll speak in the morning, once you’ve had your rest and relaxed a little. Will you be all right, on your own?”
To anyone else, that question might have been strange. I was twenty-one, after all; a grown woman. But I was grateful for his concern for me. Grateful that he asked. Nobody ever asked – not even Tom, who thought he owned me, had ever asked if I was all right on my own, only that he thought I could usehiscompany. He’d never asked if I was afraid.
And I was. I had been.
But Nicholas asked, and he made my heart give a flutter.
“I think so,” I said, wishing I could ask him to stay a while. Maybe sit with me, until I fell asleep to the sound of his deep, peaceful voice...but that would be ridiculous.
“Then goodnight, Grace,” he said, giving a gentle bow before he passed me and left, closing the door softly behind him. A strange but beautiful scent followed him, like sandalwood, a men’s cologne, only gentler. It settled around my head as the door closed, and for a moment I felt he was still with me.
Though I was overwhelmed by the long journey and the terrible cold snap I’d waited in outside, I’d been warmed by the fire and Nicholas’ acceptance of me. Exhaustion had finally caught up with me. There would be no time for a bath if I was to get any sleep at all before waking. I got the impression Nicholas was an early riser, as well as a poor sleeper.
I used to be, before mother died, when I tended the animals first-thing. Since Tom took over, I’d become used to a muddled existence, waking and sleeping at odd hours, in-keeping with mother’s fitful sleeping in the last few weeks of her life. Since she’d been gone, there’d been nothing to wake up for, except to make funeral plans.
Now it was all over, and I had run away, and I was here, in this magnificent room. This beguiling funeral home. My mind wandered to the mortuary, and what awaited me, with a tingling of excitement in my gut. I thought of the people in their eternal slumber, and wondered what they’d be like, compared to the bodies of my mother and father.
As I pulled back the heavy duck-down duvet and the thick embroidered quilt, my body gave a shiver. I undressed to my threadbare knickers. How long since I’d been into the town to buy myself anything new? Ordering online was out of the question, with our remote location. I felt the chill of the room turn my nipples to tight buds. My breasts were small, and firm. I found myself wondering if Nicholas liked breasts that way, small with pink nipples.
I wondered, long after my eyes fluttered closed, what his hands might feel like as he explored them. Then I explored myself, his scent still in my nostrils. As my climax built, my breaths became slow, and I fell away into sleep.
I dreamed of him, instead.
♥
A gentle rapping came on my bedroom door. Confused, I dreamed of mother’s frail hands knocking on the wooden floor with her stick – the lightest rapping, because of her muscle wasting, which would travel to find me in any dream or deep sleep. It was usually followed, if I wasn’t fastenough to rise and call out to her, by her impatient groan.
But not today. Not ever again.
