Unmasqued

She had done what she had to do to save Erik; she had no regrets in that. She had hurt him once before by removing his mask, and baring his deepest secret, his greatest pain, to her. Choosing this… captivity in order to assure his freedom was a small price to pay. And she believed him when he said he would come for her.

He would.

But until then…

"Where is your comtesse this evening?" asked Christine, her voice rusty. She sipped the golden sherry, surprised at how warm it felt cascading down her throat, burning gently into her insides. But then, when had she ever had anything better to drink than cheap wine or ale? This was even better than the wine she'd had at dinner after her debut. She drank again, a larger sip this time.

"I am glad you like the sherry; please, drink. It will help you to… shall we say… relax. And Delia will be joining us shortly. She is not one to keep to her rooms, unless there is a reason for it. Ah, and here she is now," Philippe added as the door to the drawing room opened.

In walked the comtesse, and Christine nearly dropped her glass. The blond woman was tall and beautiful, her hair piled high on her head with corkscrew curls brushing her bare shoulders. But her gown… if one could call it a gown… it was enough to make Christine blush.

The gown had no bodice. The woman's breasts sat perched in two gentle cups of corset, edged by lace, completely bare to the air and anyone who cared to look. The sides of the corset hugged her breasts, rising to just under the arms and then around low in the back. Her nipples jutted dark pink and pointed, jouncing delicately as she glided across the room to her husband, who waited with a glass of the same golden liquid he'd given Christine.

"Ahh, my lovely. You look delicious this evening," he told her, handing her the drink. "Delia, meet Christine, Raoul's… guest. I'm certain you two will become intimately acquainted during her stay here."

When Delia turned to look at her, Christine felt her belly tighten. The woman's gaze passed appraisingly over her, her lids half hiding her expression. "I look forward to it," she replied in a throaty voice that left no doubt about her meaning.

Christine did not care to contemplate that thought, and she put down her drink. "I must excuse myself," she said, starting toward the door. "I find that I am not feeling so well."

"Oh, no," Philippe said, barring her way firmly. "I think not. After all, you are a guest here, and we must ensure you are properly entertained. In fact, I do believe-ah, yes," he added as he tipped his head toward a faint chiming sound, "dinner is served. This way, please."

"I find I am not so very hungry-"

Philippe took her arm, and suddenly Delia was at her other side, grasping her other elbow. Christine's bare arm brushed against the side of Delia's bare breast, and the woman turned to smile meaningfully at her.

"You will join us for dinner," Philippe said, "or I shall find myself very offended. I am certain Christine does not wish to offend me, does she, Delia?"

"Indeed not," Delia replied. "Although I rather hope she does… so I can watch."

Christine was thus prodded toward an ornate door at one end of the parlor and, taking deep breaths, decided she was better off in the dining room with servants about.

She could force herself through a meal with the comte and his half-clothed wife, and their lascivious looks and unsubtle double entendres.

She expected to be led into a dining room as vast as the other chambers in this massive chateau, but to her surprise, the room was not at all what she had expected. In fact, it hardly looked like any dining room she'd ever seen, or imagined. Instead of chairs lining a long table, illuminated by a crystal chandelier and a multitude of candles, the seating choices appeared to be large cushions and hassocks. There were several of them, perhaps a dozen, of all shapes and sizes. Some of them surrounded a square table set low to the ground, that one sat on the large pillows in order to reach it. Candles burned in sconces along each of the walls, and a candelabrum perched on the center of the table. Some odd scent hung in the air; it was nothing that she'd ever smelled before, but it permeated the room in such a way as to be not too cloying, yet impossible to ignore.

Her heart began to beat faster when the doors were closed firmly behind them, and the comte paused to look at her with an odd smile that made her heart lob awkwardly to one side.

"Have a seat, my dear. Anywhere you like."

Christine stepped reluctantly into the room.

The comtesse had chosen a generous blue velvet hassock in the shape of a flattened ball. Her breasts jounced as she settled herself next to the table, arranged on one hip and propped on an elbow. As Christine watched, she selected a small purplish fruit from the table and bit into it.