She watched him sweep across the room, softly, gracefully. And the colours danced and the wind was in her hair and her heart thudded a tad louder to beats so unfamiliar it made her breath bated.
Her eyes scanned his moving frame; tall, athletic, kissed by the sun to a golden tan. And again, in a room devoid of the free flow of wind and bright as day, colours danced before her eyes and her hair was sailing in the wind and over her face. Her heart literally thudded its last and she choked on her breath when he looked in her direction and blew her a kiss.
Or did he? Then she trailed his gaze and saw the center of his attraction, the one to whom the kiss belonged. Fair, petite, chic, having all the grace of royalty. Then her heart was failing, falling into the pit of her stomach. She felt as plain as a milkmaid and wished she hadn't let soar her hopes of love. What a helpless romantic she was to think the Lord would have noticed her amongst the bevy of beautiful society ladies.
On her bed at night she'd stir restlessly and pierce the stillness of the night with staccato sighs, imagining herself in his arms, sweeping delicately to the hum of the orchestra, not taking her eyes off of him, conscious of his bouncing hair, staring into those deep brown eyes, seeing her future as his Lady and he, her Lord. Then she'd dry the corners of her eyes aswam with tears and squeeze the pillow to her chest, imagining it was his arms around her pulling her to himself. Then she'd sleep and dream like a mortal; of green hills and stone castles and white milk and fine linen and of the Lord. And she'd smile in her sleep and Mother would notice when she came around putting out the lights. And Mother would smile and kiss her sleeping face. "Bless you, my child."
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