I sheltered in the Orangery.
Neither wind nor rain could stop what I’d begun.
She was everything. My desire to possess her, all consuming.
Wife to another, I cared not for convention or the opinion of others. She was everything.
The turn of her head. Her profile in the half light through a window. The way her eyes reflected the light. The coils of her chestnut brown hair. The way I would unfasten the parade of buttons at the back of her dress, given the opportunity.
I sheltered in the Orangery and tried to control my breathing.
The click of a door catch. The creak of the hinge. The stiffening of the hairs on the back of my neck as I anticipated her approach. I knew it was she. I sensed her scent on the air.
She walked slowly, trailing her hands across the leaves of exotic plants. I heard her footsteps bringing her closer. I pictured her eyes, now grey, now green, now blue, always frank, and suddenly she was upon me.
I rose from the wooden seat on which I effected my repose.
“Mrs Grey,” I began, but her mouth found mine, hot and urgent, and I ceased.
In response to a Past Postcards tweet.