When the Viscountess Felicity Fabreigh opened her eyes the following morning, she was still in deshabille. She lay there awhile on the floor, watching the specks of dust floating in the sunlight that streamed through the casement. The morning caressed her stomach and thighs, which, as they usually did, looked perfect. Her head ached. She could not form a coherent thought.

But with consciousness came recollection, and the images of the night just past swarmed to confront her: the empty decanter of brandy, her dead turtle Orlando, and, looming above all else, he who had wronged her once again. She could not believe that she had allowed herself to be taken in, that she had allowed him to bring her to the brink of carnal bliss, only to recoil so suddenly and retreat stupidly into the hallway.

Had the Viscountess been in a reflective mood, she might have considered the possibility that she no longer possessed for him the charms she had once had as a young bride; but that thought was too painful to accept, and she thrust it aside in favor of fury. Yes, he had done it on purpose; he had acted out of unadulterated malice.

But the Viscountess had never been one for defeat. She was no shy violet; she would not allow that thing, that pitiful imitation of a man, to trample her again without retribution. She laced her corset with such vehemence that the stiff stays pressed into her skin like brands, and in the process she resolved to kill Frederick before breakfast.

Dressed, she left the house, descended the terrace steps, and set out for the stables.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She paused outside the door of the gardener’s shed, her hand quivering lightly upon the latch. If she opened the door, if she dared to set even one foot across the threshold, the decision would be made, she would do it. She was suddenly aware of the fragrant air, astonishingly heavy and moist for the summer. She heard, as if from a piano, note by melodious note, the birds that nested in the lone apple tree that leaned over the shed; saw as if through a magnifying glass the leaves of grass which were still the pale green of newborn shoots. She inhaled quickly and deeply as she noticed a gardener sleeping beneath a distant tree.

“Perhaps I shall kill him as well,” she thought, “if I am not too tired out after disemboweling Frederick with a gardening tool.”

Her hand unlocked the door; her slippered foot made the step of no return. Her eyes saw the array of sharp tools laid upon the shelf as though in wait for her. Her hand moved again through the dusty gloom, selected a pitchfork, clutched it to her breast.

“Viscountess Fabreigh?”

She turned. There, framed in the doorway, one hand entwined about the harsh leather of the reins, dark blond curls breathing with a life of their own in the slight morning breeze, stood The Stable Boy.

It was all she could do to whisper: “Yes?”

“Viscountess,” said he, “if you have need of the pitchfork, there’s no need for you to take the trouble to procure it yourself. After all, that’s what I’m for, is it not?”

The thought flashed through Felicity’s brain that perhaps he was there for, well, something else. Perhaps those Roman calves, sheathed in leather boots, those Greek shoulders, accented so finely by the linen shirt, perhaps all of him was there to serve a different purpose. She could barely remember what she had come to the stable for.

“True.” She struggled to regain her composure. “But it is such a glorious morning, I preferred a walk. And surely you do not take an interest in my activities, being as you are, a mere”–her voice audibly trembled–“Stable Boy.”

“I take an interest,” he said, gravely. He shifted his weight in the stirrups and smiled almost imperceptibly, as though he were aware of the effect which the spectacle of his rippling thighs should have on the Viscountess. “I myself set out early for a ride when I realized what a beautiful day it was. Do you know how to ride, Viscountess?”

Her eye boldly met his. “No. I want you to teach me,” she said.

The Stable Boy stepped closer. She could smell him, the sweetness of sweat, the sourness of leather and manure. He leaned against the door frame. If she tottered just a step, if she relaxed her taut body just a little, she would touch him. “As you wish, Viscountess,” he said. “I mean not to boast of my prowess, but I am an excellent rider.”

Felicity’s mouth went dry. She wagered he was. She asked: “Tell me, will it be hard?”

He barely smiled at her this time, just gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Yes, Viscountess,” he said. “It will be very, very hard.”

She could not look at him anymore; her eyes fastened upon the dirty straw at her feet, trampled into dirt. She said, softly: “Perhaps we can find a mare to begin with. A gentle mare.”

“There is a stallion that my lord bought a fortnight ago,” he said. “He is a wild breed, from the North of England, and we have not broken him yet. But he has an odd way with the fair sex. He will be gentle.”

She could not speak. She only felt her head nod as of its own volition, saw again her body move without her command, her hand reaching out imperiously to take his arm. And she watched herself, as if from a distance, walk with The Stable Boy toward the stables.



Chapter 4 to appear in ArtsMonday...