The Countess - Part Two

The hour still lacked several minutes till the dinner gong but I went downstairs early in order to make a good first impression. Rather oddly the place seemed deserted, even of servants but as I did not think it seemly for a guest to wander through closed doors I spent my time casting a casual eye over the paintings on the walls of the empty hall. Or perhaps I should rather say that I began indifferently but quickly became absorbed by one large canvas, the subject matter of which was quite remarkable.

Depiction of the unclothed human form in art was frowned upon in those fastidiously religious days; or at least it was within the inhibited class wherein I was nurtured and educated. I knew of a certainty, having suffered at the hands of those worst kinds of hypocrites, that the very persons who seemed most puritanical in public were the ones likely to show the greatest prurient interest when in private.

But this painting would surely have prompted instant apoplexy were it to be displayed in polite society. The central figure was a young, fair-haired woman lying naked upon a couch and holding out her arms entreatingly to a dark-haired woman, also unclothed but seen only from behind. The luscious eroticism of the scene seemed almost palpable and I, who would previously have claimed to be unshockable, felt a blush rise to my cheeks.

“Do you like it?”

A mellifluous female voice woke me from my reverie and I turned in some embarrassment.

“I … well, it’s quite … oh, I don’t know. It’s … I’m not sure really.”

“Then I shall have it moved to your rooms, so after due study you may be sure.”

I did not know what to say and I fear I must have stared at the woman before me in complete confusion. She merely smiled and held out her hand.

Her serene air of nobility somehow seemed to command me and I took the proffered hand and curtsied without knowing who she was. “I am Lucinda Warstone, lady companion to the countess,” I said timidly, for her vivacious beauty and dark, violet eyes daunted me not a little.

“I fondly expect that we shall become rather more than companions, my dear,” she replied and leading me by the arm, escorted me to the dining room.

In my abstracted state the import of her words were lost on me and it was some moments before I blurted out, “Then are you La Comtesse de Lilitoux?”

“Yes. And you are most welcome in my home, Lucinda.”

“But you cannot be her,” I exclaimed, though immediately regretting my rudeness. “Why, you surely are not above ten years my senior and …” My voice faded as she turned her gaze to me and I lowered my eyes in mortification.

But she ignored my outburst and, giving a sign to the solemn butler to begin serving, said simply, “Please be seated, my dear.”

It was a strange meal. There were only the two of us at table and despite that I ate only sparingly, La Comtesse ate less. She had perhaps only two mouthfuls though she drank several glasses of the red wine that her wordless manservant provided for her.

We spoke of many things, though it was only later that I realised the central topic of conversation had been me and my life hitherto. I had learned nothing of her. As I ate, I was acutely aware of her scrutiny and I would have said that it made me uncomfortable if I was not flattered by her attention.

But I was flattered by it and often caught myself colouring in response. For my part, I had to be content with the occasional admiring look from under half-closed eyes though I suspect she was aware of the nuance of every glance.

La Comtesse was the most stunning creature I had ever seen. Her hair was very dark and straight but in the candlelight, it seemed to possess a lustrous sheen. She had full lips and an olive complexion that betrayed her Mediterranean origins though she was far taller than most, as tall indeed as myself who was generally considered to be of unusual height.

My disbelief at her age I had already forgotten and it was never again a matter on which I dwelt for long as my admiration for her swept it all away. At one point I must have smiled a little in remembrance of the care I had taken in choice of dress for La Comtesse was obviously no prude; her own gown was of a rich red, strapless at the shoulder and proudly displaying a décolletage that made me squirm with envy.

“What causes you to smile so delicately, my dear?” she asked, leaning forward and brushing my cheek with long, crimson fingernails.

For a moment I didn’t dare to speak for the movement caused her breasts to rise and fall and I found myself gazing at them. An unwonted fluttering set to inside me.

“I … I’m sorry. I was just admiring your gown.”

“Ah yes. You have taken care to avoid any accusations of immodesty though I perceive that such self-restraint does not come naturally. Please be assured that, whilst in my home, you may dress as you please. Indeed, I feel it would be a shame if you were to hide your undoubted charms. You are very beautiful, my dear and should dress to attract the admiration you deserve.”

Her words had an extraordinary effect on me. I felt as though I suddenly blossomed but with it came a realisation that it was her admiration I craved above all.

When later she bade me goodnight at the door to my chambers, I was rather breathless and the wine I had drunk was making me lightheaded. It was with a conscious effort that I confined myself to a slight curtsey but she put me in a state of excited agitation by kissing me full on the lips.

Astonished at how this made me feel, I watched her walk away, my heart pounding in my breast. I entered my rooms on shaky legs and leaned against the door as a groan of suppressed emotion escaped my lips.

With trembling fingers I undressed, extinguished the candles and laid myself on the bed to sleep. The only light in the room now came from the glowing embers of the fire but it was sufficient to reveal that, as she had promised, the disturbingly suggestive painting now hung on the wall in my bed-chamber.

I drifted off to sleep with the sinister but seductive image seeming to burn itself into my brain. My dozing fancies took flight and the sight I’d had of La Comtesse as she’d walked away merged with a vision of the voluptuous, dark-haired woman in the painting.

I was left completely to my own devices on the day after that first meeting. I admit I felt resentful and I expect that the servants who were made to suffer my indignant flouncing considered me to be a spoilt child. However, I cared nothing for their opinion and I was unable to think of anything but the woman who had haunted my dreams.

Towards evening I’d taken a bath, the water as cold as I could bear, but the heat of my own body had quickly rendered it lukewarm. I languished miserably in the water and cast around for something to distract me and my eye fell on the wall facing me. My first reaction was one of dismay, a creeping dread that caused me to slip in the tub and grasp the sides lest I drown. The painting that had tormented me all night had mysteriously moved and was now hanging above the fireplace.

Just as hitherto, cunningly and insidiously, it drew my attention and I could not look away. Then, as I gazed, the tableau appeared to shift for a moment and though it quickly settled into the scene that I found so unnerving, my perspective had altered and I saw it as if anew. I do not recall it having previously occurred to me but the form and colouring of the naked girl was familiar. Slowly it dawned on me – I was recognising the body as my own. Truly, I do not know whether this was illusion or fancy but it was a feeling so puissant that I began to identify with the passions that the painter had so skilfully etched into the girl’s posture and features.

I felt a yearning deep inside and, as though mesmerized by some outside agency, began to lather myself with the soft soaps that had been provided for me. My hands and fingers dwelt where they should not; teasing, stroking and caressing.

The experiences I’d had with other girls when much younger and the more satisfying encounters at finishing school swam into my mind but the vague sense of guilt I’d often felt was completely absent. Of course, I had revelled in the touch of other girls lips on my flesh and had wickedly craved for more but the aching I felt as I lay in the bath was of a far profounder intensity.

My youthful remembrances faded, overwhelmed by this newfound self-seduction. The fantasy took hold, and the suppliant girl on the couch and the body writhing in the bath became as one. But … I could not reach fulfilment.

I dragged myself out of the tub and vigorously towelled myself dry, trying to banish some of the frustration. When my hands and arms had grown tired from the exertion and my skin was tingling I repaired to my chamber. I stared forlornly at the bed and the clothes I had laid out to wear.

I wanted …I knew what I wanted and yet I hesitated.

Caught in this dilemma I began to dress. I remembered that earlier I had given thought to my appearance and had been acutely aware of what La Comtesse had said on the subject. I had therefore chosen the garments carefully, eager for her to look upon me kindly even if she felt only amusement at my juvenile and fumbling endeavours.

As I tied bows and laces some measure of my former self-regard returned and I boldly resolved to present myself to her before dinner. Perhaps I harboured the hope that she would be charmed or was it that I had rediscovered the flirtatiousness that had always served me so well?