A Dance of Forbidden Desires

Chapter 2

Paul had also sworn an oath.

"All right, mother—I'll promise—for three months."

The "must" had finally arrived on this rainy evening, so he took out some hotel paper and started writing.

Dear Isabella:

"I say—you know—I hate starting like this—I have reached this monstrous location, and I am quite uncomfortable. Pike would have been better with me, but it would have been difficult to get him back to England because of those dreadful rules. What is Moonlighter like? Do you think they have actually taken care of that strain? I told Tremlett to come down every day and give you an update. My rooms have views of a terrifying lake and—I assume—mountains, but I can't make them out. I doubt that I will even be able to play a game of pool because there is hardly anyone at the hotel because the Easter guests have all left and the summer ones haven't arrived. I'm tired of reading guidebooks, and I want to ride the next train back home. I'm getting ready for supper right now, but I'll get this done tonight.

Paul got ready for supper, but his valet was shaken by his foul temper. He then entered the restaurant while grumbling, acting impolite to the kind and accommodating waiters and ordering his food and a bottle of claret as if they had injured him. They pointed their thumbs at him and muttered, "Anglais," to one another behind the serving screen.

Once he had some olives in his mouth intermittently, Paul sent for the New York Herald and propped it up in front of him as he read and waited for his soup.

The table next to him in this peaceful area was set for one, and in the center was a bouquet of roses with just two or three of the gorgeous blooms that he was accustomed to seeing in Parisian boutiques. He had eaten fairly late, so nearly every other table was empty or starting to empty. Who would want to eat roses by themselves? The menu was also written up and prepared, and the head waiter's face lit up with anticipation. He then delivered a bottle of red wine that had been meticulously decanted, feeling the temperature through the elegant glass with the air of a great connoisseur.

Paul thought to himself, "One of those over-fed foreign brutes of no s*x, I suppose," and then he looked at the sports notes in front of him.

Until he heard a dress ruffle, he did not glance up again.

The woman had to go around him, even getting close enough for the thick silk to touch his foot. He thought he smelled tuberoses, but he didn't notice a knot of them tucked into the front of her bodice until she sat down and he gave her another look.

A woman who orders supper in advance and orders special wine, special roses, and special attention! It was downright repulsive!

Paul grimaced. He arched his brown eyebrows and gazed at the creature with his briskly developing blue eyes.

Behind her chair, a stern, old servant wearing black livery stood. She was dressed entirely in black, and her hat—a pricey, eminent-appearing hat—cast a shadow over her eyes. He barely noticed that they had been dropped upon her plate.

He could clearly see that she had a face that was completely white, as white as a magnolia bloom and devoid of any distinguishing traits. He muttered to himself, "No features at all. Yes, she had a mouth worth looking at again; he was mistaken. It was really crimson. Unlike Isabella's, which were big, pink, and limply open, these were straight and chiseled and bright red.

Although Paul was a young man, he had a good sense of color and saw that this red was real, vibrant, and unsettling.

He started eating soup, and she received hers at the same time. She had merely nibbled on some caviar as a hors d'oeuvre, and he was incensed by the servers' servile behavior in passing each item to the dignified servant to be delivered to the lady by his hand. Who was she to receive such courteous and prompt service?

The hotel's maître d'poured her glass with only her red wine. The maître d'hôtel was anxiously awaiting her decision as she brought it up to the light to reveal the clear ruby. She then sipped it and smelled its perfume. All she murmured was "Bon," and as he bowed and moved aside, it appeared as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his sloping shoulders.

Paul became angrier. She is definitely over thirty, he thought to himself. "I guess she doesn't have anything left to live for! I'm curious as to what she'll consume next.

She consumed a delicate truite bleu while being completely silent about her wine. Before Paul's sole au vin blanc arrived, she had practically finished the fish, which infuriated him even more. Why should he wait while this woman gorged herself? Of course. What would be her next step? He couldn't help but be curious, though not in a good way.

The youngest green peas and the most delicate selle d'agneau au lait appeared, and once more the maître d'hôtel came back carrying the mixed salad.

Paul saw that the lady only consumed a modest amount of each of these items. She didn't taste her claret again until a fat quail arrived later, while he was still attempting to finish two mutton chops à l'anglaise. He was confident that it was claret, and possibly magnificent claret at that. Surprise her! Paul consulted the wine menu. What might that be?

fifteen francs for Château Latour? Château Lafite at twenty, Château Margaux, or perhaps it wasn't even here and it was unique, just like the roses and the focus. He purchased some port over the phone because he believed he could not possibly drink any more of his little St. Estèphe!

In fact, aside from that one time when she lifted her head to gaze at the wine through the light, he had never once seen the lady turn her head toward him, and even then, the glass had been in between them. He started to get annoyed by the white lids and their thick lashes. What shade might they be? those beneath eyes. They were definitely not very big, and they were probably also black like her hair. very little black eyes! Surely, that was ugly enough! He also detested his thick, black hair, which grew in strangely large waves. Women's hair should be soft, fuzzy, and light, and it should be kept neatly in a net, like Isabella's. This appeared to be thick enough to choke someone if she wrapped it around their throat. What odd notions were he having in his head? Why would she consider wrapping a man's throat in her hair? He reasoned that it must be the port mounting to his brain because he wasn't used to making such wild assumptions about women.

Next, what would she eat? Also, why did it matter to him whether she ate or not? The hotel manager reappeared carrying a platter of gorgeous-looking nectarines. The server now gave the respectful servant a finger-bowl, which he filled with rosewater. Just then, Paul caught a whiff of it and noticed the woman's hands. They were flawless, so he could not complain about them. They were thin and white, with a clear whiteness akin to mother-of-pearl. Stunning pink nails, too! And how professional! He was unable to focus on Isabella's hands.

He was now aware of a disapproving, annoyed attention that was engrossing his entire existence.

The claret, of which the lady had only drank one glass, was immediately taken away by the hotel manager.

(What a waste, Paul thought.)

Then, when he came back with a peculiar-looking bottle, the respectful servant poured the beautiful golden liquid into a tiny liqueur-glass this time. What might that be?