The Rogue’s Forbidden Love Rules

Chapter 3 : Elizabeth’s fantasies & daydreams

Then with a burst of tears she ran straight toward him, and flung her arms about the neck of Odysseus, and kissed his head, and spoke: “Alas! You do persuade my heart, though obstinate, it is.” And stirring his heart all the more to lament he cried; and he embraced in his arms his dear and truthful wife. Elizabeth Woodville stopped her reading, and then she said a lengthy and luxurious sigh. The sound came to the quietude of the Aragon House library which Marge entered hours earlier in the search of reading materials.

To Elizabeth, a good book involved a love affair through the ages and Homer did not disappoint him. Oh, Odysseus she thought with deep sadness, opening a shining yellowed page on a leather bound book and wiping her cheek. Twice in one’s life, twenty years apart, going back to the arms of one’s love.

An apt reunion if ever I’ve read one. She looked up from her book and dropped her head back against the high, padded chair They smelled of old love, of care and oil, and she closed her eyes She felt like the heroine of this story—a wife waiting for her loved husband to return home She wanted him to overcome the Cyclops She wanted him to resist the Sirens She wanted him to fight for one goal only—to come back to her.

would one feel like to be such a woman? One whose beauty as unmatched as was given true affection from the bravest man of his generation? How sweet would it be to have a man like this integrate into one’s home? Into one’s life? Into one’s bed? A grin twisted Elizabeth’s lips, as the vile idea came into her head. Oh, Odysseus indeed. She chuckled. He only wished that people could know that the prim, the proper Lady Cornella Hartwell, a proper spinster who behaved appropriately, harbored ribald and more importantly forbidden feelings for the fictional heroes. That also was followed by a self-deprecating sigh.

She knew only too well how foolish she was to dream about the knights of her stories. It was a terrible habit, and one she had been nursing for quite some time. It had started when she first came across Romeo and Juliet at the age of twelve and proceeded through kings and sculse —Beowulf and Hamlet and Tristan and the Byronic heroes of the gothic novels.

Whether the screenplay was literate or not did not matter—Elizabeth’s daydreams about her imaginary male characters were equally populist. She could escape the confines of this lofty room filled with books and papers of a thousand Aragon earls to whom she was insignificant. She thought of herself as being the unmarried spinster sister of the Earl of Aragon not as Penelope who loved her man so much that she had no use for any other men. She wove her hero into the picture, she – again settled at the loom, he – young and muscular as an ox in the doorframe of the room . It was actually more difficult to decide upon his physical appearance-it was one which had been used as the basis for fantasy in her s****l life for nearly ten years. Over his six- and-half foot of height, he was muscular like a statue, with black hair which women wanted to run their fingers through and blue eyes like the sea that Odysseus had been away from for twenty years.

A firm jaw line, slightly spoiled by the presence of a cleft in his chin which appeared when he smiled – that smile – a smile that was sin and joy in equal measures.

Yes…they were all modeled on the only man about whom she would ever have suffered dreaming—Charles St. John, the Margrave of Ralston. One might expect that after a whole ten years of dreaming she would have left alone her fiction, but, no; it seemed that she had fallen heavily for the rake quite squarely and she did it most unfortunately and she was to spend the rest of her life dreaming him the man whom she could call Antony to her Cleopatra.

This she looked at in horror and then laughed outright at anyone trying to compare them. Leaving aside the fact that she was named for an empress, one would have to be severely touched to think Lady Cornella Woodville anything close to Cleopatra.

At least first of all, Elizabeth never ever kept any man in a state with her beauty, and about which Cleopatra, for instance, could have heard many extraordinary things. For instance, while Elizabeth has an ordinary phototype, with brown hair and ordinary brown eyes, Cleopatra differently. Neither could the Queen of Egypt be described as being stout or being on the large – sided side.

Nor did Elizabeth picture that Cleopatra had ever been abandoned at the doorstep of a dance floor for the entire night. And, Elizabeth knew that there wasn’t the slightest chance that the Queen of Egypt had ever worn a lace cap.

Unfortunately, the same things could not be said of Elizabeth. For now, in this time, Elizabeth was the stunning Penelope and Ralston was the heartbreakingly attractive Odysseus who indeed grow an oak tree at the foot of marital bed they shared.

Her cheeks turned rosy with the fantasy as he neared her, and that magnificent bed, and slowly, gracefully, began to draw the tunic over his head: he was bronzed from years at the sea and beneath the sun of the Aegean; he might well have been hewn from marble.

When he got to her and pulled her to him, she felt the heat of him enveloping her, taking up so much space that was her’s. He had been waiting for years for such a moment, and she too. His fingers to trace lines along her arm purposefully and Elizabeth fancies him in pity pulling her close to capture her lips.

She could sense the muscularity of him, ur hands holding her face, a man’s lips merely a whisper away from her mouth. Immediately and just before he thrust his tongue into her mouth, he whispered something that Keri could barely hear because they were whispered.

“ELIZABETH!” She abruptly sat up in her seat and, let her book fall onto the desk, and blinked in disbelief at the sharp sound coming from the door of the library. Feeling embarrassed, she tried to swallow the lump at the back of her throat, and nervously wished that the intruder would leave, so that she could continue her day dream.

The notion was brief—an immediate dismissal—an inadvertent castoff—Elizabeth Woodville was polite dear lady that she was and she could not insult a caller. But no matter how much she would like to. A flash of light that comes from the opened door, and her sister – with a great energy, and a great joy.

“Elizabeth! There you are! What is fiendishly clever is that all of these characters have been designed to mimic my own traits; ‘I’ve been looking EVERYWHERE!’

Elizabeth took one look at her sister’s writing and the childish animation in her face and burst into a smile. Here is where Mariana had always been a charming, a joyful, women , a contagious happiness, people loved her from the first time they met her.

Seasons later, at the age of eighteen Mariana was acting as the showstopper… the debutante who had managed to garner the focus of the entire ton and thereby even a moniker, The Aragon Angel.

Today she was reading in the library which receives filtered rays of sun, she was dressed in bright yellow fizzy material with chiffon texture and had sweet and loving looking lips curved in a lovely smile on her oval face and had chestnut ringlets.

There was nothing that could explain as to why London society adored her sister, Elizabeth could easily fathom that. It was difficult not to like Mariana. Although to a much older, much less perfect sister it might have been rather trying when her perfection was in evidence. Having teased her uncle, Elizabeth said:

What could you ever need me for? I believe you’ve done fairly well on your own today Mari!” An immensely feminine pink touched Mariana’s significantly pale cheeks —one that would have made Elizabeth green with envy for how natural and well-blended it looked, had Elizabeth ever desire perfect rosiness on her face for life.

“Elizabeth! I can’t believe it! I woke up this morning thinking that maybe it was all just a dream and I have been pinching my cheeks all day. With just as much force, Mariana rushed across the room and collapsed in the leather chair directly across from her sister.

With her eyes half closed and in a narcotics-induced voice, she went on, “He wanted to marry me!” Can you believe it? Is that not marvellous?” “He” in this instance was James Talbott, the sixth Duke of Rivington and by far the most eligible bachelor in Great Briton. It had been at a preseason ball and the young man was a duke, handsome, wealthy and titled; all of that was not needed to fall in love with Mariana; he saw her and he was infatuated instantly.

A hurried romance had then commenced, and this morning the duke had come to propose to her at Aragon House. Elizabeth had felt like exploding with laughter at the mans nervousness; a titled gentleman, a wealthy landowner, and yet he had been obviously quivering with anticipation of Mariana’s reply—a situation that only added to Elizabeth’s liking for him.

“I can, indeed, believe it, sweet.” She laughed. “He was big-eyed like the stars, actually very much like these shy stars in your eyes right now.”

Mariana lowered her head to the side as Elizabeth proceeded, “But you must tell me!” What is it like to catch a man who so much loves you? And a duke no less!” “Oh, Elizabeth,” Mariana cheered up,

“I don’t give a farthing for James’s title as a Duke!” I care only for James! Was he not the most wonderful, pillar of a man? “And a duke, nay more”

The two women jumped in surprise at the exclaimed statement, shrilly said from the doorway of the room. Elizabeth took a deep breath a frowning as she remembered what made her go into hiding in the morning. Her mother.

“Elizabeth! Is it not the most wonderful news? Sardonically considering how many times she was going to Facepalm Answer in regards to this query yet today, Elizabeth made to speak.

Not quickly enough, however. “Indeed, Sir!” said the other; “why, Rivington is as deeply in love with Mariana as any man need be!”

Can you imagine? A duke! In love with our Mariana!” Thus Elizabeth has time to begin the answer again: To which she was interrupted.

“There is so very much to do! A wedding to plan! A betrothal ball to host! Menus to design! Invitations to send! Not to mention Mariana’s gown! And trousseau! Oh! Mariana!” Such joy on the countess’s face was only matched by the kind of fear one could see on poor Mariana’s face.

A spade was a spade thought Elizabeth and she joined in the fight to free her sister. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘Rivington only proposed this morning.’ Should not you request Mariana to permit her enjoy this awesome moment?

A pitch of laughter crept into her voice as she carried on, nodding towards her sister, “Maybe, a day or two?” It was just as if she herself had never said it.