The Truth About Love

Fleeting

This morning, she would not have believed that she would end up in the courtyard of the grand Manor, especially after the weeks of heavy rain.

The otherwise beautiful courtyard was practically flooded with undrained rain water mixed with grainy mud and branches of the bushes that had suffered in the storms.

It had clearly been cleaned for the ball that night, but the stone pathways were caked in dry mud and crawling with earth worms. It was certainly no place for a woman dressed in her fineries and a soon to be betrothed man to be silently waltzing while there was a lively ball happening steps away from them.

But there they were, with the soft light of the party shining on the nearby bushes and the distant sound of a particularly joyful piano piece being played inside the party. She knew the hem of her dress was dragged through the mess below them, that her unruly brown locks were most definitely coming free of its elaborate updo but she couldn't bring herself to focus on anything but the man in her arms.

All she could think about was the smoothness of his every movement, his ever so gentle glide across the stone floor, the hauntingly romantic way he held her. One of his strong arms was banded securely across her waist and the other gently perched on the expose portion of her evening gown.

At first, his actions had been visibly tentative. His hand, larger than her own and bronzed by the sun, was placed on one covered shoulder while the other hesitantly rested on her waist. His expressive blue eyes, warmly lit by the silvery moonlight, sought for her permission to relax his hold. Not a word passed between them, in fear of breaking the tender, passionate air around them, she smiled in consent.

She refused to think about the events that lay ahead, she had exhausted herself from thinking of them over the last few weeks. He was promised to another and tonight was the night that he held fast to that promise. There would be no declarations or oaths of love that she loved to read about in her novels. Life wasn't a novel, life was practical, almost cruelly practical.  

In a few short moments, he would come to his senses and release her from his hold. He would rehearse his proposal before heading in and sealing both their fates. But for now, she would savour every second that she spent wrapped tightly in his embrace,  softly swaying to the chirps of crickets and to scent of the intoxicating night air.

She would resolve herself to be content with the little taste of happiness that she got. Every detail of this waltz, from the muted sound of his shoes against the muddy pavement to the way her silk skirts swished between his trousers would be committed to her memory.

And once they disengaged from their waltz, she would not delude herself or dare herself to dream for more. She would remember this night for what it truly was.

A fleeting taste of another woman's forever.