Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

LIZZIE

W hen I awoke, I was alone and no longer bound to the bedposts. I was a little surprised how well I had slept considering the complete hot mess my life had become in the last twenty-four hours. Snuggling deeper under the heavy down covers, I tried to think things through. The problem was no matter I how spun things around in my head, nothing made sense.

The possibility that I was part of some extraordinarily elaborate plan of Richard's to trap me in the Victorian era as his own personal sex slave was even more ridiculous than the idea that I had tripped into a wormhole on my way back from the cast party and somehow managed to travel back in time like that chick from that Scottish show. And yet, what other explanation was there?

Unless what everyone was telling me was the truth?

Was I insane?

Every living soul around me seemed to think so.

My reactions to Richard certainly were not in keeping with my usual character. I had allowed the man to fuck me twice! And then there was what he did later… I shifted my body lower under the covers as if the bedspread could somehow hide my shame. The very idea that I enjoyed a man thrusting deep down my throat as hard and fast as he could rocked me to my core. Never in my life had I ever even fantasized about allowing a man to do something so carnal and violent to me… and yet there I was, moaning like a cat in heat with every thrust.

The problem was everything was so familiar and yet it wasn't. The surroundings, the people, the clothes, they all felt right .

Before I could think further, there was a discreet knock on my door.

Annoyed, I realized my heart lurched at the idea it might be Richard. Then I realized that a man like him wouldn't bother knocking. My thighs clenched slightly at the thought. Damn him! The thought of him being such an arrogant Neanderthal as to not even obey the most basic of social niceties should not be turning me on.

Mary entered, carrying a large heavy tray.

"Good morning, my lady."

"Morning, Mary."

"It's Parker, my lady."

"Right, yeah, sorry. Parker," I added obligingly as I started to get out of bed.

"No, my lady. Please stay as you are and enjoy breaking your fast. I will tidy up the room."

The tray had four little feet that fit snugly on either side of my thighs as she placed it on my lap. I couldn't believe my eyes. A brightly polished sterling silver set was carefully arranged on the tray. The pot was elaborately engraved with fancy swirls and flowers. There was a pitcher of cream and a tiny pot of sugar. Hearty toast points were arranged upright in a little silver caddy. There was even a silver egg holder with one perfectly boiled egg. Arranged to the side, there were several small pastries with dishes of marmalade and clotted cream.

I had to admit it looked beautiful and terribly luxurious. I had never had breakfast in bed before. Realizing I hadn't really eaten much at dinner, before Richard had… had seen to… punish me, I was looking forward to tucking into every delectable morsel. Carefully grasping the teapot handle, I tipped it over one delicate teacup that was decorated with thistles and roses.

Expecting tea—I was in England after all… at least I thought I was still in England—I was surprised when a brew of dark chocolate poured out. This was definitely not the powdered stuff you made with hot water. It looked rich and creamy.

"Hot chocolate?"

Parker looked in my direction from across the room where she was busy fussing over the dresses in the wardrobe. At my question, she hurried over to the bed, a worried expression on her face.

Raising her hands in a placating gesture, she lowered her tone and spoke softly to me as if she were soothing a temper-prone child. "Lady Elizabeth, you usually prefer a warm chocolate to break your fast. You've often said tea was too bitter for your digestion this early in the morning. So, I've brought you what I've always brought you. I can have Cook prepare something different if you wish it."

Usually prefer.

Often.

Always.

Words of familiarity, of a settled routine, of knowledge of my likes and dislikes. The worst part was it was true. I didn't like tea in the morning, always preferring the sweetness of hot chocolate. Yet, in all my conversations with Mary in the costume room during rehearsals and the run of the play, I cannot recall ever once telling her that. Were my memories false? Did that really happen? She was speaking as if she not only knew me but my likes and dislikes as well.

Deciding to play along for now, I said, "Of course, I must have forgotten. No, please do not bother Cook."

Keeping silent, I obediently sipped at my chocolate and ate marmalade toast as I wondered how far this fantasy was going to take me.

After she rang for a maid to clear away my tray, Parker set about dressing me for the day.

"His Grace has stated you are declining all invitations from your friends for teas and outings till you are feeling more yourself so I have chosen one of your favorite at-home taffeta dresses for today, if you approve."

There it was again.

Your friends.

Your favorite dress.

Words of familiarity, of a routine I couldn't recall.

Parker held up a soft powder blue taffeta dress with delicate draping and closely pleated kilting on the hem and cuffs. I immediately recognized it as the dress I wore in the opening scene of the play but of course, like last night's dinner dress, this was far more elegant and did not have that musty moth ball smell or pale yellow pit stains that were the norm for theater costumes.

After Parker laced me into a whalebone corset, I stepped into the dress before allowing Parker to raise it up over my hips so that I could place my arms into the sleeves. The dress buttoned down the front with a row of fifteen fabric-covered buttons and featured a few pale yellow rosettes closer to the waist. As I reached for the buttons, Parker gently pushed my hands away. After giving me a slightly admonishing look, she slowly and methodically began to fasten the dress.

With her concentrating on her task, I thought I could take her off-guard. "This reminds me of that time I was wearing this dress and Joe dropped that slice of pizza at my feet. You were so mad when he got marinara sauce on the trim."

I watched her closely for even the slightest sign of recall, even a slight twitch of the lips.

Nothing.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I'm afraid I don't know what a piz is or anyone named Joe."

"It's pizza, not piz."

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind," I sighed.

Sitting dutifully at the vanity table, I watched as Parker warmed several curling tongs in the fire, before returning to my side to curl my hair into perfect sausage curls. She then swept up half my hair into a loose chignon secured at the top, with the rest of the curls cascading down my back.

After surveying her handiwork, she nodded and turned her attention to straightening up the room.

I stood… then realized I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do now.

Seeing my indecision, Parker came to my rescue.

"On days you do not have visiting obligations you usually like to stroll in the portrait gallery before retiring to the green room for the afternoon."

There was that dreadful word again… usually.

"Yes, of course."

I strode to the door but paused with my hand on the knob. I turned to Parker.

"Down the corridor, two flights down, then a right, then a left."

"Thank you."

Opening the door, I tentatively stepped out into the hallway. I would be lying if I didn't say I was half expecting the hallway to look like my modern apartment, or a city street, or the backstage area of the theater. Wasn't that how it always went in those time warp movies? The person would accidentally step out of the dimension into the real world for a moment before being sucked back into the fantasy.

Seeing the same lush carpet, candelabras, and oil paintings as I did the night before, I took a few steps in the direction Parker advised. As I walked, I passed several familiar faces, but with each occasion they kept their eyes lowered and only offered me a discreet nod or curtsy. Without exception each one was familiar whether they were part of the backstage crew, or an extra in the play, or someone I had just seen around the theater. Or at least I think they were familiar; things were starting to get a bit jumbled in my head. Sparing a glance over my shoulder, I decided to explore the estate a little before heading to the portrait gallery.

After arriving on the ground floor, I ducked into what looked to be a library. The place had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and lushly upholstered chairs with spindly little tables by their side strategically placed throughout the large room. In the center was a massive globe and a table covered with maps and atlases. Realizing this may be a good place to start, I began to examine the shelves carefully. Looking for a telltale diet book or something on computers tucked between the rows and rows of leather and gilt bindings.

Nothing.

Next I pushed the heavy velvet curtains aside and searched the walls for electrical outlets.

Still nothing.

What kind of place didn't have electrical outlets? Even castles and old monasteries had electricity!

Concerned that someone, especially Richard, might come looking for me if I wasn't where I usually was in the mornings, I decided to head for the portrait gallery.

The portrait gallery was a long promenade that took up a great deal of the east-facing portion of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows and French glass doors on the right let in the warmth and glow of the sun that shone on the portraits arranged to the left. The beautiful inlaid floor had been polished till it almost seemed like glass as it reflected the crystal chandeliers above. The occasional potted fern gave the gallery a breath of life and additional color. Slowly I walked from painting to painting. I felt as though I were in a museum before it opened.

Row upon row of stern, unsmiling faces peered down at me in disgust, as if they knew my thoughts and doubts and judged me for not accepting the luxury about me that their labors generations earlier no doubt had made possible.

Midway through the gallery, one painting in particular stopped me in my tracks.

Once more I stared at a familiar face… mine.

The sumptuous portrait in the gilt frame was of me.

My own green eyes stared back at me from a posed position in what looked to be a garden. The gown was stunning. As a fashion student I had always dreamed of wearing such an elegant piece. Perhaps they weren't dreams? It had a daring off-the-shoulder neckline in a champagne chiffon with leaf-shaped embellishments that brought out the jade green of my eyes. I was staring boldly out from the painting as if I were daring my future self to deny its existence.

"You are not regretting gifting this to me, are you, my love?"

I stiffened but didn't turn at the sound of his voice.

He was here.

Directly behind me.

I had been so enthralled with the portrait I hadn't even heard his approach.

Warm hands encircled my waist from behind. I could feel the press of his strong chest against my back and smell the spicy sandalwood of his aftershave.

My mouth felt so dry I had to swallow several times before speaking. "Gifting it to you?" My voice sounded low and breathless, betraying my frayed emotions at his nearness.

A warm hand brushed the ringlets aside and placed a kiss at the delicate spot just at the base of my neck, behind my ear. I stifled a small moan as I resisted the urge to lean back into his embrace.

"Do you not recall asking that I place it over my bed so that your beautiful eyes would be the first I saw in the morning and the last I saw at night?" Richard whispered huskily into my ear. "It was only after promising your father I would hang it in a more respectable location that he allowed me to accept your gift."

It all sounded so plausible. It was just the type of dramatic, romantic gesture I would be capable of.

"I think it is time I now obey your wishes and move it into my bedroom," he continued to purr into my ear. My stomach clenched as I gripped the folds of my gown, trying to keep my breathing slow and even. Desperately trying to hide his effect on my senses. Everything about what he was saying more than hinted at a previous intimacy between the two of us. I almost wanted that to be true; at least it would lessen my shame and guilt and explain my willingness to just lie back and spread open my legs any time he even looked in my direction.

I looked up at my portrait. Now I was seeing it through his eyes. My bold gaze seemed to take on new meaning. My eyes seemed to be hiding a secret. Did I know this was being painted to hang over my lover's bed? Is this why Richard seemed to know my body so well, my deep, dark, and twisted desires I myself didn't know existed?

Had we been lovers for long? I know he often calls me "my love." What if this was all true? What if in my own delirium I was betraying a man who loved me by denying that love even existed? If that were the case then what Richard was doing was not out of cruelty but out of love.

I looked up at the portrait again. Surely something like this would have taken months to paint? Far longer than I thought I knew Richard. It also looked old, the tell-tale cobalt blues fading into browns with age as I had learned in an old art history class.

The press of his hand broke my chaotic reverie.

The tips of his fingers began to run up and down my spine as he spoke. "I like the idea of staring into those big, gorgeous emerald eyes of yours as I grasp my cock and pleasure myself at the thought of the next time I get to feel your warm body accept me deep inside."

Dear God, I am going to faint.

The corset felt tighter than ever before. I couldn't breathe. Stiffening my back and shoulders, I stepped away from his intoxicating embrace.

Today he looked every inch the country gentleman, like something out of a movie. With a dark, tight-fitting frock coat and buff breeches tucked into polished black riding boots. As I looked down, I saw a riding crop dangling loosely from his right hand. Images of me draped over his lap while he punished my bare ass with that same crop flashed before my eyes.

Is this a fantasy or a memory?

I honestly didn't know.

From the look in his eyes as he followed my gaze, I very much believed if it wasn't a memory now, it had the possibility of becoming a future one. At his knowing, raised eyebrow, I turned my head away.

Pulling at the high, stiff collar of my dress, I took a few steps backward, away from his intense presence. "I… I need to go to the… um… the green room," I stammered, trying to recall what Parker said was my usual routine.

"Then I shall escort you there," he said as he took a few steps toward me and offered his elbow.

"No… I'm fine. I can find it on my own," I hurriedly assured him as I turned away and started to head to the left.

"Elizabeth."

His authoritative tone stopped me in my tracks. I could hear the heavy clack of his boots against the polished wood as he strode briskly up to me. I kept my eyes and head lowered, focused on the twisted folds of my dress. I wished I had the courage to spit out Lizzie defiantly, correcting his continued use of my formal name instead of the nickname I preferred, if only to have a tiny bit of rebellion… but I didn't.

The man both intimidated and fascinated the hell out of me. Each time I saw him I wasn't sure if I wanted to run away or toward him. All I did know was that he was dangerous… not just for whatever his involvement was in this current charade we were playing out, but for how he was able to bend me to his will with just the tone of his voice or a look.

I felt his fingers under my chin as he raised my face to look at his own. "I really must insist," he intoned darkly. His eyes shining like obsidian even in the bright morning sunlight, giving no quarter.

I couldn't but think of that nursery rhyme as he led me away in the opposite direction I had initially headed.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly.

Years ago, I memorized that poem to recite in a theater class in high school. Everyone knew the opening line but few knew how it ended.

Up jump'd the cruel spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragg'd her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlor; but she ne'er came out again!