Jocelyn trailed her bare fingers along the stone of the balcony wall. The gray stone had bathed in the sun's attention long enough that it had taken in some of it's warm, and yet, where the light couldn't reach, it was cool. The contrast appealed to the noblewoman, not just the warmth and coolness, but the sensations of rough and smooth where the masons had worked their trade skillfully. While she would not call her family's castle the prettiest thing, Jocelyn rather enjoyed the idea that it responded depended on how it was treated. Where tended, smooth and welcoming, where ignored, rougher and guarded. Where warmed, returning warmth back, and when left without that warmth? Decidedly cool.
Are you not touched enough? She asked it with her fingers, if you could feel, would you feel neglected or seen as just a means to the ends of my family? Well, I suppose it is silly to think you do feel, but I for one am grateful for the protection and shelter you provide, and more than that, for the views.
A wicked smile crossed her full lips, the curve twitching into the slightest of betrayals of an otherwise carefully cultivated mask of innocence. There were indeed many rich views to be had from Sudberg castle. It was mountainous country and while the flatter farm lands might be what any noble would desire, the Sudbergs took great pride in the display of rolling forested mountains that played like maidens making themselves up with just the right touches of fog or snow, depending upon the season.
But it was not outward she was observing from this balcony though it was outside. Rather, she looked down on the gardens. Her great, great grandmother had insisted upon them as part of her bride price. A place of beauty with flowers and trees of all varieties. Nature, fickle creature that she is, made it very hard for some of these interloping greeneries to thrive, and thus also had come the need to hire gardeners.
And while, if anyone asked, she would say she had come to admire the view down upon the flowers and other plants, in truth it was their keeper she came to gaze upon. His name was Spurr, and in warm times like this, he was prone, as many laborers were, to removing his top to spare his shirt the soiling of dirt and sweat that were sure to combine after a time.
Jocelyn noted with a languid delight that she had arrived just in time to see what she liked to think of as the grand unveiling. Spurr was not the biggest laborer they had, though he was certainly taller than the women of the castle, save perhaps Matron Gundred. Then again, Jocelyn suspected Matron Gundred had hag blood. Her disposition was certainly sour enough and she could be quite the tyrant in her way. She would never approve of Jocelyn's real reason for being here. No, far better to dwell on the great unveiling.
As Spurr's shirt slipped from his body, she observed that he bronzed well, oh of course, where the sun lingered most often he would tan more there, but he was not plagued by the red patches that seemed to clash glaringly against the pale flesh elsewhere. Rather, his skin seemed to flow from bronze to lighter hues gradually. If it weren't for the fact she was enjoying the display of his sculpted form, she might rather resent it. Women of high station were expected to be pale with rosy cheeks. Jocelyn herself was not as perfectly pale as some considered the idea, more a pale cream than some woman of white marble, but the fact she had come up short didn't keep her from burning.
Spurr's long dark hair spilled down his bare bronze back. She found it fascinating. Long hair was not in fashion for men at this time, and laborers often shaved their heads clean all together. No, Spurr was not the biggest laborer they had, but unlike many of them he was not a barrel with muscled armed and legs attached. No, his form was more like a dancer. How gardening had lead to this she didn't know, but she rather liked the results. He was broad shouldered without being bulky. He was lean waisted without being scrawny. And , on those moments when he turned so she could look at the front of him, she could see that chest was just as defined.
A tactile creature, Jocelyn couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to play with that wolf paw sized patch of sparse chest hair on his otherwise smooth chest.
Oh, I am a sinful girl. She thought to herself.
And yet, why should she not enjoy the display? Was she not poked and proded at ever social gala, figuratively speaking of course, by those who were considering her for marriage? Why she'd even had comments made about her teeth. Not her pleasant smile, but her teeth. As if she were some mare being checked for true age and health.
It irked, and by the gods, she was due a little enjoyment for her trouble. Spurr at least was not being asked for dances by men thirty years her senior that stank of strong liquors and smelled of powders far too literally applied. She was not asking him to turn about and let her take a look at him (though she sometimes wished very hard for him to bend over at a particular time), rather she just admired him as the handsome fellow he was.
It is possible I'm a hypocrite, but I think, she thought looking him over again as he did bend over showing his taut haunches, I can forgive myself.
His slender fingers were surprisingly strong as he tore out a weed trying to twine it's way about flowers without hurting the flowers themselves. Power and deftness in his motion. She supposed his hands might be on the course side after such labor, but it was just supposing. Alas, she would never know. For all her wicked thoughts, she hadn't the nerve and she knew her duty. She would give up herself only to the man she married thus ensuring her worth as a prospective mother. And yet, she did sometimes wonder what itw would be like to surrender that on her own terms. To take a man to please herself, and that she wanted to please in turn not out of a sense of duty, but her own desire if not love.
Atimes, she pondered what it would be like to seduce Spurr. To work him like smiths worked a forge, building the heat of him until he threatened boil over. Did forges actually boil? In truth she didn't know, she'd only seen them from a distance. Still, at least in her thoughts there was no one to correct her. She felt her own heat rising at the notion of playing the siren for one such as Spurr. Alas, even if she were so truly wicked, even if she had the nerve ,she knew she wouldn't.
Spurr was a simpleton.
She did not mean that cruelly. It was just known. He had arrived and shown a talent for plants, but he seemed rather dim and dull witted. He gave simple answers. His vocabulary was sparse, and often when one looked at him, it appeared that his dark eyes, which could have been so handsome otherwise, were void of thought beyond whatever task was before them.
And that rather meant he would be the object of fantasy alone. It wasn't just her choosiness of wanting a lover that was brilliant as well as handsome, but rather the ethics of it. She had once seen a woman who, while grown, was little brighter than a child, kept as a play thing for a noble man, though noble was not the word Jocelyn wanted to use. The advantage taken offended Jocyelyn, and her tolerance of her hypocrisy had it's limits. This world was full of injustices, unfairness, and abuses that made her want to scream, but that did not give her the right to add to that.
Lovely, Jocelyn thought to herself sarcastically, she had destroyed the enjoyment of the show with matters real and ethical. How deucedly annoying was that?