![]() ![]() ![]() “Bethany,” I whisper into her neck, as my lips nuzzle her pale skin and my body shivers. Her white-fur pelisse with its high collar causing me to sneeze as it tickles my nose for a moment. “Mary,” she cries, and her arms fly out, close around me and hug me tight as I tremble within her warm embrace. She is my confidant, my friend, my lover, my heartache my world, even at this moment in time, and I, just like one of Austen’s dewy-eyed young ladies run down the steps and into my love’s arms as she gracefully alights down the carriage steps. Far too soft and desirable for that to be a comparison. Yes, she is his in name and law, but I, like some love-struck disciple of Jane Austen’s recent writings whose elegant prose far outstrips my own more erotic offerings, find a fervour rising up inside me at her long-awaited arrival. Yes, she had married Lord Gormley, Roger to me, and my former and most ardent lover. ![]() I feel my insides dance with delight at the sight of my sweetheart lover. She smiles and my heart races as her eyes find me and that smile grows wider still. Her carriage draws up outside Arabella’s town house, the coach door with the Gormley coat of arms flies open and her beautiful, blonde, head pops out as we race outside and then jump up and down with excitement at her arrival. Two gusting maelstroms of surreal beauty at our door near the break of dawn. Bethany arrives along with the falling snow. ![]()
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