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Alasdair
It’s been three days since I sent my missive to Ella, but I have heard nothing in response. Therefore, I have taken to pacing the length of my library as a means of coping with her rejection. Try as I might, I can’t stop her parting words from ringing inside my head. The need to change her mind toward me is starting to eat away at my patience and possibly my sanity.
Thinking about the poem I wrote her and how easily the words flowed from my mind, a perfect vision of her comes to me. She is breathtaking, and I wonder for a moment if I have exaggerated her appearance in my memory. She possesses a beauty like I have never seen, and I am beginning to think there was some truth to my words—that she is enchanted with a kind of magic from ancient lore. I have not been able to think of anything but her since I felt her appear in the garden.Neverhas a woman taken hold of me, body and soul, the way Ella Seymour has.
The women I spend my time with are uncomplicated. They are either widowed, hoping to become my mistress, married and looking for satisfaction they are not finding in their husband’s bed, or unmarried women who only want one night of pleasure. Each scenario is free of attachment and obligation, which is ideal for us both. There have been a few that caught my affection more than others. One in particular, I fancied myself in love with, but now recognize I was young and confused physical passion with a deeper emotion. Still, I feel gratitude toward her for all that she taught me about the erogenous map of a woman’s body. I became addicted to controlling her pleasure and found I could not reach climax unless hers came first.
Stopping at the chair in front of my desk, I place my hands on the arched back and drop my head forward to stretch the muscles of my neck. The tension in my shoulders has become painful as the lack of proper rest and overwhelming frustration have settled there. I stand up straight and roll my shoulders, determined to make the rest of my day productive rather than wasting it pacing back and forth conjuring up images of my little faerie maiden.
As soon as I sit down, Ewan, my valet, knocks then enters, carrying the silver correspondence tray. “Pardon me, sir. The mail has arrived.”
I notice Ewan is hiding a smile behind what is supposed to be an expressionless face. “Why do I sense ye have more to say, Ewan? Ye have an air of mischief about ye. Go on…spill it.”
Ewan possesses a familiarity with me that is typically frowned upon in most households. Apropervalet is required to mind his own business and never voice his opinion on anything other than attire or schedules. But Ewan’s candor and humor are two of the reasons I brought him into my employ as my valet six years ago.
“Well, I could’na help but notice there is an envelope from Lady Seymour,” he states as a smile spread across his face. “Ever since I made yer delivery to that house with the exceptionally lovely serving maid, you’ve been looking at the mail wi’ an impatience that’s even put me on edge. So, I’m admittedly as curious as a June bride on her wedding night to see if ye got the response ye were hoping for.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Aye, well, I appreciate yer enthusiasm toward my social life. I admit to being more than curious. I’m downright anxious to know what’s in that bloody envelope.”
Ewan sets the tray down the tray in front of me and waits as I pop open the wax seal. I’m surprised by the feeling that comes over me when I find the graceful script of Lady Seymour inviting me to join her, Lord Seymour, and their daughter, Ella, for tea tomorrow at three o’clock. It is more disappointing than exciting, though. “Tell me, Ewan, do ye find me to be a man that possesses an overblown ego?”
With a confused tilt of his head, he answers, “Ah, no, sir, I would’na describe ye as such. Confident, to be sure. And rightfully so,” he adds with a smirk. “But no’ a man of too much ego.”
“Thank ye, Ewan. ’Tis good to know. But it does’na justify why I am somewhat offended at havingnotbeen invited to join them for dinner, only tea.Andin the company of Lord Seymour, meaning the conversation will surely be dominated by war strategy, the condition of my ship, and whether she can handle a dozen more cannon to be added to her arsenal.” I drop the letter down in front of me and rub my hands down my face, allowing my head to fall back against the chair. “Ella does’na want me to call on her. My letter and gift were clearly not well-received. Nonetheless, her mother was obligated to respond because of my family’s title. To spare their poor daughter from having to spend her time conversing with alowly Scot, they are embedding her father as a distraction.” Standing up abruptly, I walk over to pour myself a glass of whisky.
“Oh, I dinna think ’tis as bad as all that, m’lord. Ye said yerself that the lass has a little bite to her and that she has the face o’ Cleena herself. Ye can’na be expecting her to just give herself away. Aye, if she’s truly the rarity ye described, ye need to work fer it.” Ewan makes his way over to me and pats my shoulder. “You know it, and I’m afraid she knows it too. However, if ye open yer eyes and look at it through a better light, I think you’ll find she’s presented ye wi’ a challenge that makes her more valuable. She does’na intend to be another one of those women she found ye shaggin’ wi’ in the gardens. No, she’ll be damned before she’d be that, especially wi’ you.”
I pause to consider his statement. “Ye are young to be so wise, Ewan. I believe there is some truth in yer words. But what do ye mean, ‘especially wi’ me’?”
“Well, as ye say, I may be young, but I do have the wisdom about me. So, ye can’na tell me a young lass, or any female young or old for that matter, would be uninterested in Alasdair Stewart after seeing him unclothed standing in a garden.” He laughs aloud. “I know what ye look like in the skuddie, and ye can rest assured, most men, especially these soft Londonite milksops, do’na look like you. I’d be willing to bet she has thought of nothing else since.”
“That’s a very interesting and…unexpected observation. I can’na help but ask, have ye seen many Londonite milksops unclothed? Seems a bit unlikely unless ye have interests that I’m unaware of,” I say with humor. It is likely Ewan Smith is the most successful libertine in all of Scotland with a list of women a mile long waiting for an invitation.
With heavy laughter, he responds, “Oh, that ‘tis verra funny, m’lord. You and I both know ye don’t have to see a man wi’out clothes to know his body looks more like that of a nursing mama than that of a true man. By God! Just look at their hands! Soft and supple, free of scars or even the bloody hair that signifies it’s attached to a man andno’a woman!” He shakes his head with a look of disgust. “I tell ye true, I’ve seen so many here it makes me wonder if they simply breed ’em that way.”
“’Tis a curious thing, to be sure. But I don’t think the memory of my naked body is going to change Ella’s prejudice against me. I saw the look in her eyes. It is’na something I care to see again.” Unfortunately, the image of it comes to me as the muscles in my neck begin to tighten back into knots.
“I will have to disagree, sir. And to prove I’m right, I want ye to make an observation tomorrow when ye arrive fer yer lit’l tea party. When ye make yer proper greeting, kiss her hand. Three things will prove my theory. One, her eyes will turn black wi’ desire upon seeing you. Two, the creamy skin on her chest will flush pink and ye can watch it travel up her delicate throat. Then third, she will part her lovely lips in silent invitation.” His voice deepens on the last sentence.
“Thank you, Ewan. I did’na realize ye thought I’ve been livin’ under a bloody rock all this time. Now snap out of it. Yer gettin’ yerself aroused talking about yer damned theory, and that is’na something I care to witness.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I just love women. They’re so soft and sweet and they smell so good…”
I snap my fingers in front of his glazed stare. “Out, Ewan,” I command. “This conversation is over.”
“Aye, m’lord,” he replies and abruptly leaves the room, likely rushing off to find relief with one of his many female companions.
As I sit back down at my desk, I look at the invitation again. This is a polite response and nothing more. Nevertheless, it is an invitation that will put me face to face with Ella, and that is all I need. This is a chance to see her again— to see how she reacts to me and how I react to her. I need to know if it is the same as it was the other night. Will I feel her without touching her? Will her scent wrap around me and alter my thinking? Will her beauty inspire more words that need to be written? How long will it take me to convince her that she is mine?
“Bloody hell!” I say to myself, tossing the note across my desk. I lean back in my chair, noticing I am starting to sweat, and my heart is beating harder in my chest. It’s as if I have physically exerted myself. “What the hell has she done to me?”
The question echoes around the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and arched windows. Outside, the sun beams through the parted clouds, and I decide a hard ride on Magni will do my preoccupied mind and agitated body some good.
Before leaving, I respond to the invitation.
Dear Lady Seymour,
Thank you for your kind invitation. I look forward to joining you and your family for tea on the morrow.
Your humble servant,
Lord Alasdair Stewart
