Masquerade

The morning after her birthday is a quiet one. Nobody is there to wake her from her dreams, and it seems the birds have moved on to someone else's home, waking them for their own special day. Quietly she makes her way downstairs, holding her robe closed and tight against her torso. The faint murmurs of her parents float in from the dining room, and she walks in hesitantly.

"Good morning, my sweet parents." She mumbles, kissing them both swiftly upon their cheeks.

They smile warmly at her, and as soon as she's seated Ramona has food placed before her. A hearty breakfast of oats and toast, even a few slices of still sizzling bacon. She's not even halfway through her oats when her mother clears her throat, a dainty sound.

"Do you care to share details about that Jameson fellow with us?" Her mother inquires, dabbing at her lips with a soft linen napkin.

"To be honest mother, there's nothing to tell. We danced one dance and then he disappeared for the rest of the evening. It wasn't until everyone was leaving that I saw him again, and then it was just so he could wish me a happy birthday one last time."

Across the table, her father snorts. Whether from amusement or disgust, she cannot tell. "Poor fool doesn't realize a great thing when he sees it. His father never did speak highly of him. More concerned in creating havoc than settling down."

"Father," Delilah scolds, "You set us up in the first place. You really have no room to speak ill of him."

"I did no such thing!" her father protests, shooting her a sharp look. "Is that what he told you?"

Her heart leaps inside her chest and her hands get clammy, suddenly unsure of the man she thought she knew yesterday. And yet she finds herself defending him, feeling a weird sense of protectiveness.

"No, no. I just assumed.." she mutters, her sentence trailing off at a knock on the door.

"Go upstairs and get decent, I'll see who's calling." Her father says brusquely, shoving back from the table.

With a heavy sigh she does as she's told, but as she's bounding up the stairs she sees a familiar shock of dark hair against pale skin through the window. Her heart races, but whether from anxiety or anticipation she cannot tell.

An hour later, after a much awkward sit down with Jameson and her father, the couple are strolling about the grounds of her house. It's a sunny day, with sparse clouds and few birds. The bee's are busy as ever however, and she can't help but laugh at the frequency of Jameson's hand batting what appears to be thin air.

"If you're not careful, the workers are going to think you crazy." She advises.

"Let them think what they may, I'm just protecting your beautiful skin."

"Oh," she breathes, and then a manly laugh erupts from her swan-like throat. "That was rather cheesy."

"And that...was something unexpected, that laugh of yours."

A warm, burning heat spreads across her cheeks and she looks away, her eyes cast downward, embarrassed. But almost as soon as she casts her look elsewhere, a firm hand is turning it back and instead of gazing upon soft green grass she's meeting icy, cool blue eyes.

"Don't be embarrassed. I like that laugh of yours." He murmurs, and his rough calloused thumb brushes across her bottom lip.

For a moment Delilah leans into his hand, reveling in the feeling of male company. But then from the doorway Ramona yells, and she breaks quickly away. Over Jameson's shoulder she can see the maid watching, and even from the distance there's a distinct disapproving feel about her stance.

"I should go. I had a nice stroll though, thank you." She says, turning to leave.

"Wait," Jameson mutters, catching her hand before she can go further. "Can I come around tomorrow?"

"Well I don't see why not. I've no plans that I've been informed of. So I'll see you tomorrow, for another lovely stroll through the grounds."

"Oh, I had something else in mind. Something entirely different than a stroll beneath your father's watchful eye." And with that he's jogging away, heading who knows where. She assumes home, but she doesn't know much about the man.

"Don't hold your breath." She calls out, and he glances back, shooting her a wink and wiggling his brows.

By the time she's reached the front porch, her mother is standing beside Ramona with her hands upon her hips. Inside the doorway she can see her father sitting in the study, a cigar propped in the ashtray beside his reading chair.

"You're 10 minutes late Delilah, does that boy have no respect for rules?" Her mother fusses, pulling her inside.

"It's just 10 minutes mother, and I was right outside. Right under your watchful eye."

"Do not talk back to me, miss. Go upstairs and wash for tea."

"As you wish." Delilah says on a sigh, and she just barely restrains from curtseying.