(Second part of ‘The House of Sophie De Frontenac’)
The doorbell rang out its dull alarm, rousing Sophie from her manipulative thoughts on how to remove her servant, Abigail, from the arms of her newfound love, and take him into her own arms. She watched jealously as Abigail scurried out of her room to attend to whoever was calling.
She was feeling almost content, the sex-scent of the recently departed young man was still upon her, she savoured it along with the emptiness within her, her hunger, not yet returned. She knew it would, and soon. She looked forward to it with a mixture of dread and excitement. Sex was her opium. It dulled her to the reality of her life, a life she had chosen willingly and indeed took great pleasure from, but she always wanted more. More than the men that she knew so briefly could give her. Always more. She felt again that knot harden inside her and twist. She hated Abigail her love. Hated her easy ability to love.
She slid her hands down over the round softness of her body and across the dampness of her sex. Then she wrapped the silk dressing gown tightly around herself impatiently, almost as if the thin material could form a barrier against her uncomfortable insights. She brushed aside her thoughts. She was not weak, not like Abigail, and she would not be a fool like her either. Love was for fools.
“Mistress, Mr Cornwallis is here, and asks permission to see you” Abigail announced, returning from answering the door.
“Mr Cornwallis? At this hour?” Sophie was surprised, George Cornwallis, her husband’s friend rarely called unannounced.
He was such an aloof old man, in his sixties and seemingly uninterested in her or her charms, and that irritated her. She had no desire to seduce him of course, he was far too old and ugly, but most men she knew, old or young, she could mould to her whims and bidding. Not so George. She wondered nastily if he maybe preferred boys.
She disliked him and rightly suspected the feeling was mutual, though he was always far too careful to allow his feelings to be easily read. She treated him with respect however. And he was never less that courteous to her. He was a powerful politico who had some serious contacts that her husband valued.
She was not properly dressed to see him, she knew, but then, that might just give her an advantage over the old goat. She might be dressed in a way that just might disarm him. She smiled inwardly and decided to see if he could succumb.
“Show him in”
Abigail eyes opened in surprise, “Mistress?”
“Show him in… now please!” Sophie repeated to the shocked girl, who then nodded and turned to do as she was instructed.
“Mr Cornwallis” Abigail announced with a little embarrassment as she showed him into Sophie’s bedchamber. before quickly retreating out of the room.
George Cornwallis was only slightly surprised at being sent into her bedchamber, the antics of this despicable woman no longer really shocked him. Nevertheless, when she turned around to greet him, the sight of her obviously nude body, barely hidden by her flimsy gown, made him draw in a slight gasp of shock.
The silk gown clung to her form like a second skin. Her long hair was down and tousled, resting heavily and luxuriously upon her shoulders. The dark almond of her eyes challenged him openly, while the hint of a smile played upon her lips, daring him to look where he should not.
But he could not prevent a quick and admiring glance sweep over her body, his almost automatic male reaction to her, annoying him even as he did so, for he was instantly aware it weakened his position, as he also knew was her plan. He cursed him self silently, for she had wrong footed him again.
Sophie did not miss his glance, however quick he was to replace it with a neutral expression. She had seen it clearly, and it was real. Once more she felt that sense of empowerment. So, he was a man after all. She saw her advantage and pressed it home.
“George, such a pleasant surprise!” She said as she walked over to him, leaning against him provocatively as she kissed each of his cheeks, making sure as she did so that the soft press of her breasts made themselves felt upon his body.
He responded stiffly and formally, trying desperately to ignore that other stiffness springing unbidden within his pants. He was suddenly confused, shocked at his bodies response and at the same time unsure in that very peculiar and English way, about how to respond to such intimate French customs.
“Madam De Frontenac, always a pleasure” he told her with a cold smile and in such a way that she knew she would clearly recognise as false.
