"The Golden Thread" - "Victoria" ITV Erotic Fanfiction - Chapter Two
Victoria’s wedding night looms. Unschooled in love and afraid, who else would she turn to but her mentor in all things, her beloved Lord Melbourne? USUAL DISCLAIMERS APPLY
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Chapter Two
Never leave the grounds. That was the plan. Two days after they had made their agreement, Lord Melbourne quitted the palace after his and the Queen’s daily meeting but upon his carriage reaching the gates, he remembered he had left an important document behind. Telling his driver not to wait - that he would take the opportunity for a constitutional - Lord Melbourne made his way to the derelict orangerie she had shown him earlier. Night was already falling. Twilight suited this place. It was somewhere half-dead and half-alive, abandoned by all, with broken pots and other garden paraphernalia scattered over the black and white tiled floor. Certain plants had flourished, however, grown wild in their neglect. Grapevines and other creepers seemed to have exploded against the walls, lay in shadowy, bestial mounds in corners or else reached reverent fingers towards the moon. The place was as fecund as a young woman’s imagination.
Lord Melbourne, feeling over-civilised in this green wilderness, picked his way over to a back room where provisions had been left, as promised. From there, he could keep watch for a light in the window of a room in the sparsely-occupied north-west corner of the palace. It was the room Victoria would escape to and where she would sit in the flickering silence, waiting for him.
He should not feel this way about her. He had succeeded in suppressing how he felt about her for some time, telling himself the tenderness he experienced was paternal only. As he removed his coat and shirt, and performed his ablutions with soap and water, he considered his exposed skin, silvered by moonlight. Often times these days, he felt old. Old inside. Sometimes his back ached for no reason. Sometimes, his joints refused to work when he rose from his bed, making him stiff as an Egyptian mummy. Yet the arms he now sponged looked strong, the muscles well-defined and the dark hair sprinkled over his forearms was mixed with grey only here and there. He ran the sponge across the back of his neck and under each arm. His torso was still that of a man in his prime, only a little thickened about the waist and perhaps it was only he who noticed a certain looseness of the skin in the creases of his body. He paused. She had laughed and told him he was not old. This child-woman saw no trappings of age, only the vitality within him. She could not have known how joy had rushed through him at those words. On that day, at that moment, she had reanimated his heart and a sense-memory of the powerful male animal he had once been considered to be had galvanised him. From that day onward, he had found that to be in her presence was to have his soul dance again.
He sighed and gave a wry smile. How had he not realised it before? This coming moment was inevitable. As he completed his toilet, he fell to enumerating all the ways he might please her, what she might or might not enjoy - what he must and must not do. It was so dark by the time it came to fastening his white shirt, he struggled to see the buttons. Besides which, his hands were shaking. As was the rest of him.
Was that a faint glow? Lord Melbourne stepped up to the glass, eyes penetrating the gloom. Yes - a growing glow, as that of a fire building in a hearth. Not that it would be needed - the weather had turned unseasonably warm for February. Perhaps that is why he strode from the orangerie leaving his tailcoat and stockings behind. Softly he went across the lawn. This part of the palace grounds was so quiet, all he could hear was the huff of his breath and the thud of his feet on the turf. As he neared the casement, the bottom half of the sash lifted and a figure leant out; a tumble-haired Juliet breathlessly searching the night.
“I am here.”
She started but, fortunately for them both, did not call out. “How will you reach up here?” she whispered, concerned. She had not realised the casement was five feet from the ground.
In an instant, his foot was against a drainpipe and an arm was thrown over the ledge. Victoria staggered backwards. One thrust and there he was, squatting in the casement, all his blood turned to quicksilver.
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Chapter Two
Never leave the grounds. That was the plan. Two days after they had made their agreement, Lord Melbourne quitted the palace after his and the Queen’s daily meeting but upon his carriage reaching the gates, he remembered he had left an important document behind. Telling his driver not to wait - that he would take the opportunity for a constitutional - Lord Melbourne made his way to the derelict orangerie she had shown him earlier. Night was already falling. Twilight suited this place. It was somewhere half-dead and half-alive, abandoned by all, with broken pots and other garden paraphernalia scattered over the black and white tiled floor. Certain plants had flourished, however, grown wild in their neglect. Grapevines and other creepers seemed to have exploded against the walls, lay in shadowy, bestial mounds in corners or else reached reverent fingers towards the moon. The place was as fecund as a young woman’s imagination.
Lord Melbourne, feeling over-civilised in this green wilderness, picked his way over to a back room where provisions had been left, as promised. From there, he could keep watch for a light in the window of a room in the sparsely-occupied north-west corner of the palace. It was the room Victoria would escape to and where she would sit in the flickering silence, waiting for him.
He should not feel this way about her. He had succeeded in suppressing how he felt about her for some time, telling himself the tenderness he experienced was paternal only. As he removed his coat and shirt, and performed his ablutions with soap and water, he considered his exposed skin, silvered by moonlight. Often times these days, he felt old. Old inside. Sometimes his back ached for no reason. Sometimes, his joints refused to work when he rose from his bed, making him stiff as an Egyptian mummy. Yet the arms he now sponged looked strong, the muscles well-defined and the dark hair sprinkled over his forearms was mixed with grey only here and there. He ran the sponge across the back of his neck and under each arm. His torso was still that of a man in his prime, only a little thickened about the waist and perhaps it was only he who noticed a certain looseness of the skin in the creases of his body. He paused. She had laughed and told him he was not old. This child-woman saw no trappings of age, only the vitality within him. She could not have known how joy had rushed through him at those words. On that day, at that moment, she had reanimated his heart and a sense-memory of the powerful male animal he had once been considered to be had galvanised him. From that day onward, he had found that to be in her presence was to have his soul dance again.
He sighed and gave a wry smile. How had he not realised it before? This coming moment was inevitable. As he completed his toilet, he fell to enumerating all the ways he might please her, what she might or might not enjoy - what he must and must not do. It was so dark by the time it came to fastening his white shirt, he struggled to see the buttons. Besides which, his hands were shaking. As was the rest of him.
Was that a faint glow? Lord Melbourne stepped up to the glass, eyes penetrating the gloom. Yes - a growing glow, as that of a fire building in a hearth. Not that it would be needed - the weather had turned unseasonably warm for February. Perhaps that is why he strode from the orangerie leaving his tailcoat and stockings behind. Softly he went across the lawn. This part of the palace grounds was so quiet, all he could hear was the huff of his breath and the thud of his feet on the turf. As he neared the casement, the bottom half of the sash lifted and a figure leant out; a tumble-haired Juliet breathlessly searching the night.
“I am here.”
She started but, fortunately for them both, did not call out. “How will you reach up here?” she whispered, concerned. She had not realised the casement was five feet from the ground.
In an instant, his foot was against a drainpipe and an arm was thrown over the ledge. Victoria staggered backwards. One thrust and there he was, squatting in the casement, all his blood turned to quicksilver.