A Waft of Wind

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising she added, "C'est comme cella que mamma faisait, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur?"

Jane Eyre, Volume I, Chapter XIV

"Oh it's beautiful." She whispered in a soft, breathy voice, admiring herself in the looking glass. She was shimmering in diamonds and satin, with her blond hair made up in the most fashionable way and adorned with the finest jewels. As she enjoyed the touch of rich beauty on her soft, small features and smooth skin, she was aware of another pair of eyes scrutinizing her perfect figure with longing eyes that shined in the candlelit, simple room.

She had never had any means of accessing such treasures as she was now wearing, before this dashing young man had stepped to her life. How could she let go of this opportunity offered her. Her heart laid else where but she knew she might never retained it so she might as well enjoy these fine gifts of a rich man who had chosen to bestow them upon her freely; or so she thought.

If she had looked deep in his eyes, she might have seen lust swimming at their depths. But she was as much blinded by his wealth as he was by her beauty. The silence that reigned over the room was only broken by the slow flow of his deep breathing. At last, she tore her eyes off her reflection in the mirror and advanced in slow, seductive steps towards him who was sitting on the edge of her bed.

His eyes followed that graceful figure with impatience as she approached him. Even while walking, she kept the poise with which she danced. Tactfully she kneeled before him on one knee, her little hands resting on his knee lightly.

"Monsieur, I thank you a thousand times for your generosity."

He smiled sardonically, but said nothing, only enjoyed the sensation of Celien, the great opera dancer, at his merci. He covered her delicate, white hands with his own warm and powerful grip, and pulled her up to sit beside him.

"This is nothing compared to what I could give you, my angel. Imagine the elegance and glamour of hotel rooms, the exquisite carriage and fine horses, unlimited number of satin and jewelry, higher societies. . ."

She looked at him, his dark, firm visage that held a charm new to her eyes: his athletic form and strong arms. She could imagine herself wrapped in them, warm, safe, comfortable_. He could never take the part of her lost love but she was tempted by the diamond chain around her neck and the wealth, the accommodations…

He looked at her eagerly, "Will you accept my proposal?"

It was a hard decision. He had said he was already married. What he wanted was not easy to give: her pride, her faith, her love. She battled the tears that threatened to fill her hazel eyes at the thought of betraying the one she had loved. But ire triumphed over it. Had he not betrayed her? Had he not abandoned her to be left in the hands of this English youth? She could avenge her broken heart.

"Yes, Monsieur Rochester, I will be your mistress." She had said it. She was past the point of regret, there was no going back now that she had given her word.

He, however, was unaware of the struggle that had taken place inside her, oblivious to the emotions that ran through her blood and nerves under the mask of her calm face as she lay under the blankets beside him. The only thought that kept her spirit from wasting away under that muscular form was the thought of tomorrow and the riches she would be rewarded with. He could feel, though, the rise of both their souls as passion fueled their entwined bodies. A passion that sheltered them from the waft of cool wind, blowing in from the window and flying the plain curtains.

But they both knew that the storm would not be kept at bay for long.

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