The Unwanted Wedding

Chapter 28- Stupidity

Dearest Diary,

Tonight was a fairytale of such heartfelt titanic proportions. The room was full of splendor. It was the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen. Everyone was dressed is such spectacular whimsical fashion. The room was filled with the scent of expense and riches. Jewels, silks and hair so styled you'd think them royalty. It had taken my mother months to save enough aside of her costly lifestyle to afford me a coming out ball. Even if it was with a lot of other girls. It was my first ever event. I had worked all afternoon on my appearance for this evening. Making sure my hair was curled enough, that my gown of pale blue and a light fawn was perfect, that I had enough roses, enough pearls. I was desperate to make a wonderful first appearance. My mood was as high as the ceilings of this grand ballroom.

I danced blindly with the anonymous men attempting to court me as my suitors. Charming men. Beautiful men. Old men. Rich men. Like a candy store for a life set for luxury. A smile curved my lips. One could moisten at the thought of not feeling the hardships of life. My mother had always told me stories of such a life. Where a princess will met her prince. And I was my mother's little princess.

Though the night seemed dimmed in its heartened glory compared to meeting him. I looked up to simply find him staring. His face youthful yet contained the experienced age I knew he held. His dark hair was queued back. He shaved yet his jaw was beginning to stubble once again. His tall leanly muscled frame stood so intoxicatedly dominative. But his eyes. It was his eyes. Such beauty in those glittering oceans captured in his irises. The blue was so light and striking, it was almost impossible to look away. And that brilliant smile, so breathtaking. He was the most handsome man I have ever laid my eyes on.

Crispin. He said his name was Crispin.

--Diary of Abilia Silvan, October 14th 1704.

The bleak and darken days seemed forever lingering on an ever present scale of grief. My heart seemed to beat absent sound or motivation. My world hollowed upon nothing and everything. Every breath demanded a struggle. My eyes lay on a constant of swelled, sore and sapping. I thought they would be dried up by the ocean of tears that have been shed, yet tears nevertheless rained from damp lashes. To my surprise even my solider-like husband felt the burden. He had unshed tears at her funeral, yet he'd them finally in the private intimacy of our bed as we cradled together. And he held me as I cried and mourned and begged to have her returned to me. But not even God could sacrifice an angel like my sister to give her back from her peace in heaven. But sadness also leaves weakness. Stupid, petty weakness.

That's what this was; stupidity. That's what lead me to travel for hours to the house I knew he used, the house he sent a letter saying he was waiting.

It was like my mind refused to even think, it was empty. Like I was some living doll, not even living just...moving. I said nothing when he kissed me, I did nothing. I didn't respond when he undressed me, or lay me down on the bed. He didn't seem to notice it when he entered me, he didn't seem to care. It felt so strange to have him inside me, to have him take me as Vincent did. I pondered over what he had said to me the first night we had made love together as my lover's whispers were numbed inaudible to my ears. He had told me that what we did would be nothing like what I had ever had with Cris. And he was right. It was absolutely nothing alike. Vincent...Vincent was just so attentive. He remained focused on concentrating upon what pleased me, what I liked, what made me feel connected to him. And I did. I loved loving him. I loved knowing the feel of his trembling. The sound he makes when he comes. The way his heart pounds and how it makes his breath shutter. I knew all this because he allows me to know it. This, this was different. One-sided. Isolating. As his ramming jolted my body I finally put a name to what sex with the duke was; impersonal. It was simply an act, only lust, desire and pleasure. The first time he hadn't even cared for my consent. The second he'd been too angry and careless that he almost injured me. The third time I had thought of Vincent. And the fourth, it actually was Vincent.