Love Of Lord Abel
Aristocracy. Some people are born into it, some people have to earn their money the hard way. My family was one of the poor few who had to earn it. I completely despise those who were born into it, the spoiled brats, they had it easy. I bet not one of them has ever had to work a single day in their lives. I have. I'm sure that none of them has spent one night out there on the street. I've done that too. None of them has had to steal in order to live. That's something else I've done. They all flaunt money they don't deserve. As I said before, I despise people who are born into wealth. What's worse, I'm in a room full of them.
I scan the room, watching as they laugh, dance, and eat or lack thereof. A flood of women scurry to the door in a sweep of hushed voices. Giggles twitter through the room, like many birds trapped in a cage. No doubt, it must be some man wooing all of these women and their loose morals. I scoff at them all, whoever it is, they can't be so attractive that even those who have husbands could forget that they're bound to another. The man slips through the crowd to the room.
From this far, he looks like nothing special. He seems tall, but that could also be because of the top hat on his head. He's pale and has a lean figure. His clothes are dramatic; he wears a black, three-piece suit and a long, flowing cape. He walks with a tall cane, held only for appearance, with his man-servant following closely behind.
He freezes the moment he exits the wave of women, staring right in my direction. I stand, still as stone, feeling chills crawl over my skin as I gaze right back. I scowl, crossing my arms. What is he looking at? He averts his eyes as he moves to mingle with the others. I stay where I am, over at the buffet table, talking with the servants. They're the only ones I can identify with.
"So, 'ow are ya Madame Curie?" The maid asks in her cockney British accent. She is pretty, at least, to me. She has straight, golden-blonde hair that falls to her shoulders, her bangs frame her face perfectly. She has azure blue eyes that compliment her pale skin. She is thin and about my height, yet her face holds the youthful joy that mine wishes for.
"Ah, Carolyn, the days grow old and weary." I sigh, "I suppose it doesn't matter but, I feel I just don't belong here."
"Oh, ma'am, you fit right in." Carolyn grins warmly, trying to comfort me.
"You're beautiful. How can you not know that?" Admiration bubbles in her eyes, "You're curly sandy-blonde hair, your almost translucent skin... your naturally full, pouted lips." She leans in longingly, her eyes dreamy. I notice her lips slightly parted, her tongue sliding along the upper. "Not to mention your hourglass figure. Madame, any lady would kill to look like you." I may be wrong, but by the way she appears, she looks as though she's waiting for a kiss.
"Carolyn?" I interrupt her. She jolts out of her state,
"Sorry dearest." She blushes, "As I said, you're beautiful."
"I don't think it to be true, but I'll take your word." I hug her, hoping she doesn't feel shadowed by me. I used to be just like her, after all. "I meant more in spirit though. I only wish I were back on the farm, in the garden, taking care of my beautiful violet petunias or maybe the cerulean tulips in the back that receive no attention from anyone else." I smile, closing my eyes. I'm not here anymore. I'm not in a fancy room, wearing heavy, uncomfortable clothing, surrounded by snobs. I'm in my garden, stroking the wet tulip that I'd just watered, "Parfait*." I would whisper, kissing it on the petal.
"A lovely thought, dear." Carolyn breaks my daydream,
"Yes, well, it is only a memory now." My expression lowers to one of melancholy. A shadow falls over the maid, she blushes and slinks away. "Carolyn?" I begin to follow when a hand wraps around my wrist.
"Is that a French accent?" I hear a smooth, deep voice say from behind me. I turn swiftly, a look of surprise covering my features. There he stands, his man-servant behind him. He grins slyly, it's the pale man with the dramatic clothes. Seeing him up close, he is quite handsome. His grin opens to a smile that reveals shining white teeth.
"Oui, parlez vous francais*?" I ask, yanking my arm away.
"Oui*." His smile grows wider, as though he out-smarted my attempt to lose him. "Melheuruesment, je ne parle qu'un petite pe du francais*."
"Tres bien*." I reply glumly,
"What part of France are you from?"
"You are rude, you know." I frown, my brows furrowing.
"By what means?" His eyes show concern. Such beautiful eyes, glossy forest green with golden accents. Strange to see, I've never known anyone with gold in their eyes. They pierce me through his black bangs.
"Don't you know, that before you try to woo a lady, you must introduce yourself?" I cross my arms, hoping he'll find me obnoxious and leave me be.
"Oh, I'm afraid you're right." He smirks, "My name is Lord Abel, and yours?"
"I am Juliette Curie, but you may call me Madame Curie."
"Well, tell me, madame, where is it you live in France?"
"I lived in Paris." I roll my eyes, pouting my lips. "Not anymore."
"Well, isn't that a little... cliché?"
"What do you mean?"
"A heart-stoppingly gorgeous aristocrat from Paris, France." He raises a brow, "You're a living cliché."
"Excusé-moi*?" I grit my teeth, trying to hold my tongue. "You are just like all of those other pompous brats!" It doesn't work, "You who were born into your wealth! I bet you don't know what hard work is!"
"And you do?" Lord Abel keeps his calm exterior,
"Yes, actually." My tone falls, "I used to work on a farm. My father has worked for every penny he's earned."
"Oh," His expression grows soft, "Is that why you are so cold to me?"
"Yes. I try not to mingle with you who've not strived for your money."
"Then why are you at a party with all of us?"
"My Father wants me to marry into a wealthy family, that way my future is secure." I bow my head shamefully, "I never thought my father to act this way. He used to be so warm, wanting me to find love, like he once had with my mother." I feel my face heat up, my eyes filling with tears. I take a sharp breath in. "Ever since she's passed, he's been so different."
"Hm, tell me about it, love." He locks an arm in mine, "Let's walk under the moonlight." He leads me through two large doors, waving his man-servant away.
I stare at the full moon wistfully as it fills the sky with it's light.
"So, tell me of your sorrows." He looks to me with concern. I'm sure he was only acting, trying to find his way under my dress. However, I need to release these feelings and I can't talk to Father anymore.
"Well," I sigh, trying to find a place to begin. "When I was a young girl, Mommy and Daddy were madly in love. He could never be around her without smiling. One particular day, about eight years ago, an aristocrat, just like you, who was born into their wealth, just like you, came into our home to take our money. Money that he didn't need." My voice grows dim, "Claimed we owed him for giving us the land to grow our crops. He'd given it to Daddy as a gift. We needed that money, so my Dad couldn't give it to him. The aristocrat pulled out a gun." My eyes fill with tears once again, "He shot at Daddy, but Mommy jumped in the way. When the shock finally wore off, she was laying on the ground in a puddle of her own blood, lifeless. Ever since then, Daddy's been trying to build himself up. He wouldn't come in from the farm for days at a time. When he did come home, he slept most of the time, only waking to dine. He might've just been trying to keep his mind off of her. However, without the time we used to spend together, we began to grow apart." I try to keep my breathing even, facing away from Lord Abel. I can't have him know that I'm crying, "He wasn't my Daddy anymore. He was cold, uncaring, unloving. Now he's Father, a respected, wealthy man, who is feared by all, but loved by none." I sigh, trying to discretely wipe the tears from my face. I suppose it's not working, for Lord Abel steps to the front of me, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping the saltwater from my cheeks.
"I'm terribly sorry," Lord Abel looks to me sympathetically, "I didn't know... I see now why you resent us." A long pause follows, he stares into my face, but I can't look at him. My eyes and mind are both elsewhere.
"Part of me believes that he doesn't want me anymore, because I look so much like Mommy." I blink, my expression empties of all emotion; I feel numb.
"Sh, don't speak that way." He pulls me into an embrace. I reluctantly accept, feeling that somehow, I need to be held. "If you wish, you could spend the night at my estate." He strokes my hair.
... I knew it.
"Lord Abel, that is a generous offer," I pull away, "But I know you're kind."
"Oh? What kind is that?" An impish grin crosses his lips.
"Whilst I sleep in your home tonight, you plan to charm your way into my bed. Then in the morning, when I leave, you'll never speak to me again." I begin to walk away,
"My darling, I assure you, those are not my intentions." He grabs my wrist, pulling me back to face him.
"I'm sure I couldn't stay anyway." I pull my arm from his, "Do you realize what that would do to my reputation? It'd be shattered. I, personally, don't give a damn, but Father? He'd be furious! To soil the family name would be dishonorable and I would be disgraced. Forever known as a harlot not only by all of these unimportant people, but by my own Father."
"Alright Madame, but I feel you'll warm up to the idea with time." He chuckles, returning to the party inside.
*Parfait - Perfect
*Oui, parlez vous francais? - Yes, do you speak French?
*Oui - Yes
*Melheuruesment, je ne parle qu'un petite pe du francais. - Unfortunately, I can only speak a little bit of French.
*Excusé-moi - Excuse me
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