His eyes would not leave hers. It was odd, though intimate, and frightening all at the same time. She knew he could see what was going on in her head, but she did not bother to avert her cerulean eyes from those of his caramel ones. The room felt as though it was dimming down to the point of complete darkness, all because this man was drinking her from her eyes. The conversations and other dancing seemed to be lost in a complete blur and haze around the two.
A chill crept up and down her spine at the sudden flash in his once calm eyes. Fear. Since when did he fear for her? She was his, what do you call it? Nagging vicious acquaintance? Yes, that was it. He feared for those who held a spot in his heart, and that was never where she was meant to be. He showed concern and compassion for any person he knew was pure, or anybody whom he knew he loved.
Did this mean that he loved her?
Finally, a small smile flickered across her paling lips, "Is there something wrong, Monsieur?"
His heavy gaze slackened, and he offered her an assuring smile from across the small circular table that they shared, "No, not at all, Mademoiselle, I'm just...curious."
"Curious?" She inquired with a quirk of her eyebrow, "whatever for?"
His answer did not come out straight away; he seemed almost hesitant, "Have you been," He paused to gather himself together, "hurt?"
There it was, plain as day. Hurt. Of course she had been hurt! There had been too many times for her to count, to many scars for her to forget. They scorched her both physically and emotionally; she flinched. Her mother had hurt her, hurt her when she had dared to leave and never come back. Her brother had hurt her, hurt her when he boldly said he did not love her. Her ex-fiance had hurt her, hurt her when he dared to hit her. The memories flashed before her eyes, but she immediately masked them when she noted the confusion in his eyes.
She didn't want to expel her life secrets to him, so she kept it in the diary of her mind and heart. She let her forefinger lightly trace the rim of her wine glass, not bothering to level her eyes with his, "No." There, it was simple, but it was said. Although she knew she would regret lying to him in the future, she had no other choice.
He nodded slightly and began to allow his eyes to skim about the large restaurant. The walls were red and lined in olive green trim, glass chandeliers held many tan colored candles illuminated the room as they hung from the high ceilings, hearts and cupid paintings decked the white ceiling, the flooring was wooden and cracked, vanilla scented candles were centered in the center of each small table, including the one he and his evening companion sat at, and there were people everywhere in their fancy new suits and gowns. Some danced, others talked, but everyone was happy. Well, almost everyone.
She took out her golden fan and flipped her wrist to provide herself with a cool breeze. The sudden intensity and how close he was to her past and heart was starting to provide a sudden warm sensation, making her skin a tad bit clammy, "Is there anything," She swallowed, "else that you wish to know about, Monsieur?"
"Yes," He replied matter-of-factly, "there is. I was wondering if you have ever been," He did a quick double check at the look in her eyes, making sure that he was not mistaking what he saw, "lonely?"
She swallowed hard. How was he figuring this stuff out? Were her eyes that vulnerable that he could read her past like a book? But, his assumptions were correct. She had been lonely, too many lonesome nights by the fire and too many lonesome nights in her in her small home. Save for the single silver cat she had, she was indeed a very lonely woman compared to her loved and very wealthy half sister. Friendship was not something she could hold onto for more than four months, never mind an actual relationship.
She had trusted a woman by the name of Lucilla Wellington, but she had become fed up when she found out that she was being taken advantage of. For shame, she had not noticed it earlier in their friendship. Loneliness was indeed a problem in her life, an issue ever since she was a young girl. The usual cause of such a thing was by that of betrayal, deceit, and lies. Eventually, she was left alone, but she'd rather die a thousand deaths before admitting such a thing.
She sat up straighter and fanned herself a little faster, "No such word has ever been used to refer to me."
He would not press that matter any further, so he settled for another nod and took a quick sip of his wine. He enjoyed the warm fuzzy sensation that heated up his veins, and he found himself sighing with contempt once the glass was firmly set back down, "Well, I see that you have had a few bad chapters in your book," He began, "but I will not pressure you into telling me such a tale."
Her once calm cerulean eyes darkened instinctively, "What is that suppose to mean, if I may be so bold to ask, Monsieur?"
"Nothing at all, Mademoiselle, I am just speaking my mind."
"And you are saying that I cannot speak mine?" There, she had done it again! She had begun to flip and flop his words around. Was this not how she managed to lose her friendship to Lucilla? Yes, she was rebuilding that hard thick wall that she had desperately tried to tear down, wanting to invite him in. But, why wouldn't she allow him past the gates?
He raised his hands in a defensive gesture, "No, Mademoiselle, I did not mean-"
"You did not mean to talk down to me? To offend me? To judge me?"
"No! Please, I am-"
"You are trying to criticize me!" She stood up abruptly, shooting her wooden chair backwards. By now, a few wandering eyes flashed to the loud woman in the long green gown. "And who has given you permission to devour my eyes anyway?" She screeched, "What has happened in my life, and is shown in my eyes, stays with me and my past! If I were you, I would do the wise thing and mind yourself!" She tightly clutched the thick skirt of her long green dress and quickly pranced out, her long chestnut curls bouncing against the milk of her skin.
He offered an apologetic smile to all of the disturbed people about the room, who now had their confused eyes firmly pinned on him, "She has had a rough day," He explained, "All she needs a little sleep; everything is all right." Once everyone had gone back to their private conversations, his eyes flickered to the retreating form of the woman he had been conversing with. A glimpse of the hem of her dress caught his eye, before vanishing from sight. He sighed and turned his attention to her full glass of wine.
"The events of your past have left you hurt and sore, Mademoiselle," He spoke quietly, "I wanted to help you, but it seems that you have too much blood in your wine."
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