From the moment he first laid eyes on her, Jonathan Wilkes knew she would be the last woman he would ever desire. He knew the rumors—that God had taken every fiance of hers before their wedding day—but he did not care. To him, it seemed, that they were meant to be.

It was early autumn when he first laid eyes on her. The sky was beginning to grey; the leaves had not yet fallen from the trees, but lit them up with bright shades of orange and red. The grass was still as green as summer; there was, at all times, the lingering scent of rain in the air. Jonathan loved all these things, as autumn was his favorite season. “Never too hot like the summer, and never too cold like the winter,” he said, making small talk with a very well off man he had just met but could not recall the name of.

“Ah yes,” the man spoke through his thick mustache, “I am partial to Springtime myself.” Despite being a frequent at the Duchess' parties, he never got to know the other guests well enough, and usually had to limit his conversation to the weather, food, and any going-ons that happened at the gathering itself. Today, the Duchess was hosting her last garden party of the year, held in her marvelous back yard. Jonathan had situated himself at his usual place beside the pond, beneath the old willow tree. It was a beautiful spot, and mostly the sort of folk that came to join him were either quiet or could speak of something a bit more intellectual than just the local gossip, something Jonathan found trivial. He did not know about the nobleman who currently, joined him, however. “And my wife really does enjoy our garden in the Spring. We have the servants pick a fresh bouquet for the dining table every day.”

Jonathan would have sighed in boredom if he were not so polite. “How lovely,” he responded. He turned his gaze just past the mustached man, seeing an old friend of his emerge from behind a hedge of roses. “Excuse me, sir,” he tried to close off conversation with the nobleman, “Very glad to meet you--”

“Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to pull Jonathan here away from you fer a bit,” the newcomer said to the mustached nobleman.
“Ah, yes. Good day to you both,” he tipped his hat, and started back towards the house.

“Jeremy?”Jonathan addressed his friend. Jeremy was a portly fellow, a middle class man dressed in his Sunday best, with his oily black hair combed neatly and parted to the side. Jonathan liked to drag his friend along to these gatherings, most of the time it gave him someone to talk to.

Jeremy waited for the mustached nobleman to disappear behind the rose hedge, but spoke with haste as soon as possible. “Jonathan, have I found a lady for you!” There was an obvious excitement in his tone, though muted. “The ol' duchess invit'd 'er friend Rosemary, and Rosemary's brought 'er daughter, Cynthia. Now I know ya don't much care for blondes, but she is gorgeous.”

Jonathan could have guessed it was something like this, the way Jeremy carried that smirk on his already slanted face. He always had that smirk when it was something about women. “Jeremy. . . You know I don't like it when you try to set me up with women.”

“Jonathan, just go look at her! You'll see, you'll change your mind. Ohohoho, I wouldn't mind waking up to that face every morning.”

“And Amelia knows you talk like this?” Jonathan was referring to his friend's wife.

“Amelia who?” Jeremy laughed.

Jonathan sighed.

They headed back towards the house. As usual, Jonathan had given way. “It isn't often ol' Rosemary brings her daughters along, ya know. Cynthia's in the parlor, talkin' with her sister. Just go have a look see, you'll change yer mind.”
Again, Jonathan sighed, then stepped in through the open windowed-doors of the parlor, leaving Jeremy to wait outside. The room was very inviting. The walls were painted a lovely shade of peach, with white crown and kick molding. The floor was of some light colored tree, Jonathan did not know which, and was covered by a large Persian rug that lay centered in the room. Opposite the doors was a large fire place, and a couch and two chairs which made a curve on the rug, facing the fireplace. A low coffee table sat between the sofa and the fireplace, with cups and mugs of various sizes strewn about. Among the occupants of the room were two ladies, one who sat on a very comfortable chair beside the sofa, the other situated at the very end of the couch, beside her sister. They were whispering and giggling to each other, facing away from Jonathan. He circled around the room, going around the lady in the chair, watching the blond seated on the sofa. She glanced up at him twice while he did so, smiling each time.

“Lady Cynthia?” he inquired.

She giggled again to her sister, and said “Yes, I am. And who is asking?”

Jonathan turned the corner, and stepped next to the table, facing the women, who stopped conversation and turned to look him in the eyes, placing their hands neatly in respective laps. Cynthia was a gorgeous woman. Her features were neat and small and pointed, she had a full bosom—which her low cut, frilly pink dress revealed all too much of--a small waist and wide hips. She was the picture of Jeremy's ideal, and yet, not Jonathan's type of woman at all. She carried about her an airy, flirtatious aura. A woman like her did not need to be romanced or seduced, he could tell. The way she smiled gave it all away.

He glanced over to her sister—and found himself thanking Jeremy for putting him up to this. His friend would never have noticed this woman, she had a quiet, serene look about her. She was older than her sister, perhaps late twenties, and very thin. She was a brunette, with rather plain facial features, though in no ways unsightly. She shared her sister's icy blue eyes, but they seemed colder and more distant on the brunette. He could tell her smile was a facade, she was playing nice at the party, just like he was.

“Jonathan Wilkes,” had he been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it at this point; it wasn't as if he wanted to be rude. He just didn't have a hat. “And you, my dear?” He gestured toward the brunette.

The blond answered for her, “That's my older sister, Therese,” she smiled glaringly at Jonathan. He couldn't help but think how many men had been swallowed up by that pretty little look; it was something he found marvelously unattractive. Therese, on the other hand, was a mystery waiting to be solved. Every slight movement of her features alluded to some strangeness that he took as mystique. The way she would subtly glance about the room, the slight gestures from her fingers, even the way she turned her head—they hinted at something, some intention he could not read as clearly as he read her sister.

He knew, then and there, that there could be no other woman besides Therese.

He turned to face Therese now; without him being the wiser, she housed his full attention. “How do you do?” she peered up at him from beneath her wide brimmed, sky blue hat which matched the dress she was wearing.
“Splendidly, now that I'm with you ladies,” he answered. It made the blond smile wider, ecstatic with the hope of male attention. Therese, however, did not seem bemused; she continued the painted smile she held before. With that, he became determined to cause a real smile on her face. “Would either of you care for some Merlot or Champagne? I'm told the Duchess is serving excellent years today.”

“Champagne would be lovely,” said Cynthia.

“If it's no trouble, I would enjoy a glass of Merlot,” spoke the brunette.

“I'll be back shortly, ladies,” he excused himself, and looked back to watch them giggle. The blond tilted her head towards her sister with eager whispers, and he hoped that Therese would have some happy gossip to say about him as he stepped through the doorway into the hall.

Jonathan stepped out from the dining room to the backyard through two white windowed doors that matched the ones leading in to the parlor. He caught eye of his friend, and Jeremy paced briskly towards Jonathan, rubbing his fingers together eagerly. He glanced at the glasses in Jonathan's hands, then back up at his friend—he was smiling.

“I take it Cynthia's just about as gorgeous as it gets, eh? Wasn't I right?”

“She's not my type, Jeremy. You know that.”

“Then who are the glasses for?”

Jonathan handed the Champagne to Jeremy. “That's for Cynthia, be sure to get something for yourself. I want to talk to her sister.”

“Therese?”

“Yes.”

“Nahh, you don't want to talk to Therese,” Jeremy held the Champagne out towards Jonathan, “Take the Champagne, I'll talk to her sister so you can be alone with Cynthia.”

Jonathan was puzzled. Ordinarily, Jeremy would be more than happy to talk to a beautiful woman like Cynthia. “Why?” he held a confused look about his face.

“I'll be frank with ya, Jon--there's rumors about 'er.” His voice became hushed, and took a serious tone, “The woman's cursed. Every man who's ever courted 'er has wound up six feet under. You don't want to talk to Therese.”

Jonathan was not stirred by his friend's warning. After a brief moment of thought, he responded as if his friend had insulted him, “Come on Jeremy, you don't expect me to take that seriously, do you? You know I'm not a superstitious man.”

Jeremy stepped back. “You may not be, but the coincidence is strong Jon. Think this through.”

“I'll be fine. Conversation is harmless . . . please, Jeremy, talk to Cynthia for me.”

Jeremy was reluctant. “Fine, but just this once, and ya owe me.”

“I owe you? For talking to a beautiful woman?”

“Heh, alright, ya don't owe me. But not a word to Amelia,”Jeremy meant his wife.

Jonathan nodded, “Of course not.”

“Oh, isn't he handsome? And such a gentleman,” Cynthia smiled wide. “I think he's a bit younger than the fellow I danced with last week. Do you know him?”

“I can't say, I don't think we've ever spoken,” Therese's answer was spoken with a relaxed straight-forwardism.

“Jonathan Wilkes. . .” Cynthia thought as hard as her pretty little head could. “I don't think I've heard that name. He dresses nice enough but. . . Oh, you can never really tell who has money and who hasn't.”

“Very right, sister,” Therese sighed with every lack of care she could muster. her sister did not notice.

“You didn't see the way he was looking at you, did you? Because he was.” Cynthia was excited for her sister. Therese eyed her oddly, not knowing what to make of the situation. “I know that men usually look at me first, but, oh, wouldn't it be lovely? And he is so handsome and such a gentleman. . . Just what you need, even if he isn't the wealthiest man.” She peered over her shoulder, watching Jonathan's figure emerge from the hallway. “Oh, be quiet now,” she warned Therese, who had not even opened her mouth to speak, “here he comes.” Cynthia turned her head back to face her sister as Jonathan entered through the same hallway he had left, holding two glasses of Merlot; behind him was Jeremy, holding Cynthia's glass of Champagne, and a glass of Chardonnay for himself. He sat himself on the couch, scooting up all too close to Cynthia as he handed her the drink.

“This is my friend Jeremy Smith,” Jonathan said. “I happened to meet him in the dining room, I hope you don't mind if he joins us.”

“Champagne, milady?” Jeremy spoke as smoothly as he could while holding the Champagne out towards her.

“Ooh, thank you,” Cynthia took the glass by the thin base, and forced a smile. She turned her head, and watched Jonathan gracefully hand Therese her wine. This time, she smiled with glee—until she turned back to face Jeremy again. Cynthia took a long sip of her Champagne as daintily as she could. “You know what I would really fancy? If you would ask me to dance,” she batted her lashes at Jeremy. “I've heard the music coming from the ball room for the past hour, and it's been all too tempting.” She glanced briefly down into the glass, raised it slowly to her lips, and took another long sip.

“Oho, but of course, milady,” he stood up, and bowed gentlemen like, his round torso barely missing the empty glasses that littered the table. “Would you care for a dance?” He extended one of his hands, and she placed her lacy gloved fingers in his as she stood up.

“Gladly,” she did all she could to keep from gritting her teeth as she spoke. Jeremy was definitely not the type of man she would normally dance with. She stepped past her sister, with Jeremy close behind as they headed for the hallway. She looked back at Therese, sighed heavily, and took another long sip of her beverage. “Let us be on our way, I want to get there before this song is over.”

Therese watched her sister disappear through the doorway, taking the glass of Merlot. She did not drink it, but stared into it, watching the dark red wine swirl about inside the crystal. Jonathan looked about the room, observing the party goers who laughed and mingled about. He turned his gaze back down to Therese. “This room is very noisy; you wouldn't be opposed to a stroll in the garden, would you?”

She looked up at him as he spoke, then back down in to the glass. “I suppose I wouldn't,” she stood up, reassuming the painted smile.

He grew glad with the slight victory, and reached his hand out to hold hers. It took her a brief moment to contemplate his gesture, then took his hand awkwardly, as if she did not know what to do. He placed is thumb over her fingers, then raised her hand, and bowed his head to kiss her across the knuckles. He kept his eyes on hers, however, observing her reaction. His intention was to cause her to blush, smile, unleash a girlish giddiness. Her reaction was one of a wide eyed trance. Bewilderment over came her, her lips cracked open, revealing the base of her white teeth; she bit her bottom lip.

The reaction awkwarded him. What could he do? All of his knowledge on women seemed useless, what had been reliable in the past was in vain with Therese. She was not familiar with the courting rituals, the giggles, the flirts, the slight feminine reactions, and would not know what to do when he presented her with flattery. Awkwardly, he let her hand slip from his, and she took hers back in a very natural motion. “I'm, I'm very sorry.” He didn't really know what else so say. He stood up straight, looking her just below the eyes, afraid to meet her gaze.

“It's quite alright, really,” she looked up at him, into his eyes for the first time, stepping forward so his eyes would meet hers. It was as if she did not know where to stop, and now, he was the one who did not know how to react. “You're . . . very kind.”

He took the compliment with dignity, and gathered himself. “Yes, well, I try,” he brushed it off almost, perhaps a mistake, he thought, “Well, then, to the garden.”

They had been sitting for a while on the bench beneath the willow tree. She spent the entire time staring in to the nearby pond, watching the water rippling. Occasionally she would hold her glass up, attempting to see the water through the wine, as if it were even possible. Jonathan spent that time in quiet contemplation, calculating his next move. She was . . . elusive, to say that least.
A strange sensation struck him as the air grew heavier around him. The scent of rain had thickened; he looked up—the clouds were greyer then before, but it did not look as if rain would fall till later that night. From the corner of his eye, he spied Therese with her neck craned and her eyes to the sky. Without looking away from the clouds, she spoke: “I detest the rain. Always falling like that,” she then turned to face him, and he to her. “Is it so strange, then, that autumn is my most favorite of the seasons?”

He smiled. “No, I don't think so at all,” he tried to imitate her calmness with words, but failed. In addition he had wanted to mention that autumn was his favorite as well, but it seemed like an odd conversation piece for someone he was genuinely interested in getting to know.

“Do you enjoy the fall as well?”

“To be frank, it happens to be my favorite,” the line was quick, he wanted to end this talk of weather, find a real topic. She, however, was delighted—and there it was, what he had hoped for: a genuine smile wove it's way across her face, lighting up her eyes and making the skin in her cheeks glow. It made her otherwise plain features beautiful, and in Jonathan's eyes, not even Cynthia could compare.

“I usually dislike talking about the weather,” the words did not break her smile.

“I usually enjoy it,” he smirked when he said this, regaining his confidence. “Compared to some things, anyway.”

“Gossip?”

“I don't like meddling in other people's business.”

“I just find it terribly depressing,” it was spoken as if she was admitting something. She raised her glass and took her first sip of the Merlot. It was quick, ladylike.

“How so?”

“Simply the way we obsess over each other's faults. It is painful to hear why I should dislike someone. If I'm going to like someone or not, I'll decide after we've met and conversed.” She took another sip after she spoke.

“What does interest you, then?”

Her smile lingered at the corners of her mouth, not as wide as before. It was undisturbed when she spoke; “I am most interested in a conversation when I can learn something. It is exciting to hear a man talk of something he finds truly fascinating, a passion. A man thrilled by his endeavors and knowledgeable in his field can find only the best and most interesting things to say about what he does,” she explained rather gladly. “So I would be enticed to know: what interests you?”

Without hesitation he answered, “Why, I can't think of anything more interesting than you, Therese.”

Her smile disappeared, becoming some neutral, default expression, and she faced the pond again. “I'll be earnest with you, Mr. Wilkes. I'll not be won by romantic gestures and flirtish suggestions.”

Jonathan sighed. He wished he knew just how she would be won, then, if not with romance. Clearly, she had a distaste for it. Fortune favors the bold, he thought to himself, and said, “Tell me, then, how may I win your heart?”

She stopped staring into the pond and closed her eyes—the question struck her suddenly and she felt it intensely, or she wanted to. “Please, Mr. Wilkes. That is a sensitive matter for me . . . and we are barely more than strangers. I pray you entertain my whim, and leave the subject be.” There was a sadness in her eyes as she opened them, and her words came out sounding somber, slower even than her normal calmness of speech. She raised her glass and did not look in to the wine, but took it to her lips and drank.

“Of course,” he did not want to bother her any further. There was a long moment of silence. “Do you have a passion, Therese?” He asked, attempting to reestablish himself.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said very simply, lowering her glass. “I am incapable of passion. That is why it fascinates me so greatly.”

He thought for a moment—it was awkward again, he realized he had dug himself into quite a hole. He tried again, “Well I do have a hobby; I keep horses on my estate. I'm not sure if you could call it a passion, really, but I do enjoy it.”

“So you fancy yourself an equestrian?”

“No, not really, I just enjoy riding. For the speed, mostly. I'm a man of excitement.”

“I bet you like to gamble, as well?” she smiled.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don't gamble any more.”

“Why not? If you enjoy the thrill, what's a few coins here and there?”

He was cautious, here; there was an excuse he usually gave, but something told him she would favor the truth. “I'm a sore loser, and I have a terrible poker face,” he explained.

She smiled again. “How very big of you, Mr. Wilkes. It takes quite a bit for a man to admit his faults.”

“I doubt it, you're--” he was going to say she was very easy to talk to, but noted her prior reactions and changed his mind, “You're not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Oh no, Mr. Wilkes. Your secret is quite safe with me.” She smiled and sipped her wine. “So, tell me more about your horses.”

“My favorite is a white stallion called Admiral. You know of White Lightning, the famous racehorse? They have the same sire.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. I'm not lying to impress you, or anything.”

“I wouldn't be, I don't follow the races,” her tone of voice caused a smile across Jonathan's face.

“I don't either.”

They both laughed.

“May I cut in?” a tall, lean figure stepped out from behind a hedge that lead in to Jonathan and Therese's seclusion. It was the Duchess' son, Nicholas. He was a tall, blue-eyed, well built fellow with clean blond hair combed and parted very gentlemanly. His clothes were made of very fine materials, as befitting a future duke. In one hand he carried a single pink rose, seemingly picked from one of the many bushes in the Duchess' garden.

Both of the occupants of the bench turned to face him. Jonathan hoped this would not take long, he wanted to remain alone with her. Therese's face lost the look of glee, but retained the smile. “Nicholas,” she stood up.

“For you, dear Therese.” He walked over and handed her the rose, and bowed his head.

As she took the rose, she said, “It's been far too long, old friend.”

“Far too long, indeed.” He turned to face Jonathan. “May I borrow the lady, just for a dance?”

Jonathan agreed, though mainly out of politeness, “That is up to the lady.”

“Of course I'll dance with you, Nicholas.” She set the wine down on a table beside the bench. Nicholas held out his arm, and she hooked her arm in to his—and off they went, disappearing behind the hedge.

Jonathan looked up towards the greying sky—perhaps rain would come sooner than he expected.