Guilty Pleasures

Chapter Two


As Tarell sat through the quiet ride back to his home, the only sounds he could hear were the clicks of the horse’s hooves as they trotted down the stone streets. He heard no voices, no commotion, and no people. The streets were quiet in this late hour and it was just as well. Solitude was a welcome companion to him as he mulled over the immoral deed he had just committed. He had slipped up, that’s all. It was a momentary loss of his senses. He told himself that he took no mental or emotional pleasure from committing the adultery, it was purely physical pleasure that had needed satiating, and that had been accomplished, hadn’t it? Carnal pleasure was something no man could live without, he had tried. Through the long years of his lifeless marriage he had tried. It was a shame that he still loved Mary, since no passion could arise between them. He wasn’t sure if she shared the same feelings for him or if she was just living out her days as a rich wife, content with playing the part for an audience whenever one formed but behind the closed doors of their manor the temperature dropped from her detachment, making Tarell feel like an unwelcome stranger in his own home. A tolerance, if you will. And that spun the loneliness that eventually encased him. He was quite good at hiding it though, displaying well received smiles that never fully reached his eyes if one cared to look beyond his straight teeth and come-hither grin. No one ever seemed to though. And why should they? They were all mindless snobs who led just as cold a life as he. Sleepwalking through their days and nights while contemplating ways to make more money and become more powerful, as if they needed it. Tarell didn’t care for the money as much as Mary and their “friends” did. It was just another burden to him, weighing him down. It was nice to have the security, of course, but it was only something to hang over less fortunate heads when you wished for their discreet services. Large quantities of wealth were not essential to life, but they did make it easier to fall prey to temptation, which was always waiting eagerly around some corner. Money gives you the illusion that you are the powerful one. Tempting offer, no? That you can get away with anything. Invincibility is its trick, you cannot be caught and conquered if you have sufficient funds and connections to back you up and buy your way out. It gives you more opportunities to live out your fantasies no matter how unusual they may be or how much sneaking around you have to do. With money and power, comes seduction. Whatever your poison may be, the forbidden fruit is displayed openly for you wherever you go. Whether or not you reach for it and take a bite is up to you. Tarell Sheridan had done just that before he had boarded his carriage in front of Sara’s forbidden temple. Now all he had to do was live with it.

Back in her bed, Sara was fast asleep from the physical contentment still coursing through her veins. She dreamt blissfully of passionate hands and hot kisses as given by her dream man, a pleasurable touch that she wanted to never end. Unfortunately, whilst in the grip of her dream she had no idea that she would soon wake to find her arms empty and her room void of company. It should be just another chip in the ice of her heart, but this time it may have melted a smidgen during her night with Tarell.

The carriage pulled to a halt in front of Sheridan’s illustrious manor. Stepping from its custody, Tarell emerged onto the stone pathway leading to his front door. Quickly glancing at the sky, he noticed the darkened clouds moving in. The distant rumble of thunder was not too far off, in moments the city would be taken captive by a storm. He informed the driver to retire the horses for the rest of the night and then excused himself, walking up the steps with a profound sense of dread, which came over him whenever he was about to step inside the diseased walls of his real life. He saw no lights shining through the many windows when he had pulled up, so he knew already that no one would greet him as he returned home. The servants had already turned in for their early start in the morning and Mary had no doubt retired early anyway, as was usual. She was not one for late nights, always preferred her beauty rest to her husband’s company. She preferred it to anyone’s company for that matter.

There were no children to speak of, never had been. The manor had never been blessed with the pitter patter of tiny feet, as it was Mary’s wish to never bear children for it would ruin her figure. Her wish conflicted with Tarell’s wants and that was the first in a long line of problematic disagreements that would plague their marriage in the years that followed. After they had taken their wedding vows, Tarell had put up some protest about her decision but after awhile he had simply given up, and it was all for the best. The idea of bringing children into that household was farfetched and preposterous. They would never be able to receive the proper love and care that children needed to grow up proper. Especially from Mary, she wasn’t exactly the doting mother type. Tarell often wondered if she cared for anything, even him. He had come to terms with the fact that she loved money and beauty above all else. It seemed as if she would wither away to nothing if she couldn’t have those things. He did not know if she cared for love, and never asked. He didn’t even know why he still loved her. She had done nothing but suck the life from him since she was carried over the threshold, really. But, he still returned home every night. His demented state of mind kept telling him that maybe things would be different when he walked through the door. And every night it was the same. No passion, no welcoming committee. Only dark rooms and ghosts of their former selves greeted him.

He sighed as he turned the key and opened the door to the darkened entryway beyond. It creaked on its hinges, giving the house a haunted feel, and he stepped quietly through. Not particularly eager to wake anyone, he removed his cape and hung it up. Walking over to the nearest candelabra, he lit the few small candles which only looked as if they had an hour or two of light left before they gave out. He picked up the heavy object with a gloved hand and walked lazily to his private room on the ground floor. He was not in the mood to sleep just yet and needed to unwind from the tenseness that was coiling around his heart from his act of guilty pleasure. Upon entering he poured himself a glass of scotch from the private bar and collapsed into his favorite chair near the fire. He removed his gloves to crack his knuckles, stimulating the circulation through his fingers once again as he heard the faint pop while the joints shifted. They were stiff from the cold and he wished he could light the fire and immerse his hands in its warmth but knew he wouldn’t be down there long. His body had gone cold again. It no longer held the warmth that had been ignited with the passionate lovemaking he had experienced earlier. He could feel it sinking into his bones as he sat there sipping his drink, staring hard at the dark fireplace, also devoid of warmth much like himself. When he was young he never once imagined he would end up this way. Never imagined that he’d be sitting alone in a dark room, drinking his sorrows away, while thinking about his wrongdoings and deteriorated hopes. His marriage was nothing more than a joke, his home a large vessel of empty stone, and his heart a bleeding mess. Yes, he was far off target from where he had wanted to end up. Nobody wants to walk around feeling like they are dead. That’s exactly how he felt most of the time. Except while he had been bedding Sara, he actually felt alive in those moments, short as they had been. But it was over now. No sense reliving it. It was time to turn back to his commitment of being a loyal husband, to love and honor. He repeated his vows to himself, wanting to abide by them and live the life he was used to. It was almost unfeeling and routine but it was his life just the same. He still had responsibilities and he couldn’t let one impulsive, free-spirited night with the local lady of pleasure get in the way and ruin it all.

After finishing his nightcap, he left the glass on the table and fetched the candelabra from its resting place. He left the room and ascended the stairs that would take him to the bed chambers he shared with his almost non-existent life partner. He walked in, taking care not to disturb her as she slumbered in their bed. He looked at her once as he crossed the room to remove his clothes, which now felt soiled. She was beautiful, yes, and probably always would be even as she reached her older years. Her hair was loose and splayed pristinely over her pillow, fanning her head. Its fiery hue was evident even in the low light of the room, in such striking contrast with her pale skin. She had no freckles, she abhorred them, taking care to protect her skin from the sun on warm days with hats or a brolly. Her long-lashed eyes were closed, hiding the deep blue marbles within and her body was slightly twisted beneath the covers. After removing his clothes, he dressed in the appropriate nighttime attire and climbed quietly into bed alongside his wife, blowing out the candles. Pulling the covers up to his chest to try and warm his frigid skin did no good. He glanced over at Mary’s profile at the features he had once found so appealing in her face. The cuteness was deceiving. They were past the “cute” stage. He knew what lay beneath that fair façade, and it was anything but cute. But he always tried to hold on to the past, remembering days long gone when they would spend full nights in passionate embrace and fevered lovemaking, when they had kept their promises they had made to each other. To love, honor, and obey, isn’t that what it was? But those promises had been broken. He realized he had broken his that night by gaining pleasure from someone else. She had broken hers when she stopped loving him. He couldn’t recall when that had been exactly, perhaps that meant it was gradual. He could never think of a reason he had given her up until that point to stop treating him like her husband. It’s like she woke up one day and decided to be distant and unresponsive to his requests. Her wifely duties were nonexistent except on rare occasions. And he never forced himself on her, always respected her wishes. She just found no joy in being with him anymore, which made him ponder the possibility that he had just been some phase she had gone through in her youth and was now all too willing to discard and replace him with something new and “useful”. He hoped beyond hope, looking at her sleeping body, that he could cuddle up to her and feel something other than bitter resentment radiating from her body. But he was well aware that to touch her would just present him with a cold shoulder and he was not willing to deal with that tonight. He’d muchher her stay on his side of the bed alone than feel rejected, so he turned over roughly on his side and worked on getting some sleep. But his wishing that he had his life back kept getting in the way.

The next morning as the radiant fireball rose in the sky casting its glowing rays through the window, Tarell awoke to a solitary state. Glancing to his side he discovered that Mary had already arisen and had no doubt made her way downstairs to the breakfast table, leaving him to trudge down there on his own as he did every morning. Like most of their old pastimes, waking up together and getting some much needed loving care had long since become extinct in their marriage. Therefore, he was surprised that he felt a bit of disappointment that he was alone in his bed that morning. Shaking off his frustration, for he knew it would do no good, he threw off the sheets that entangled his body and rose from the bed that at least provided some warmth. Shivering from the frigid air that hung over the huge bedroom, he hurried to grab his clothes and in haste, threw them on. Looking out the window as he buttoned his shirt, he noticed that the storm had already passed, leaving blue skies and a cool temperature in its wake. By the time he exited the bedchamber, Tarell was only beginning to feel the blood flow in his legs and his fingers were numb to the bone. Cursing the cold weather while still alone in the hallway, he quickly finished giving his arms a rubdown, hoping the friction would spark some warmth in him. Luck was not on his side though as the heat vanished as quickly it came after his hands dropped back down to his sides, and he sighed woefully, thinking himself doomed to a life of numbing iciness. Dragging his feet, he descended the stairs and made his way to the dining room to grab some breakfast and pretend, at least, that he was a happy husband.

Sitting tall at the table like the self-proclaimed queen that she was, Mary Sheridan ate with all the enthusiasm that one of her stature could exhibit, which was to say that she ate with overwhelming politeness. Uptight even in the privacy of her own dining room, Mary was a picture of cataclysmic vanity. Whether she was born that way or it was a trait she picked up along her road to riches is not known. The important thing is to remember that this trait, embedded in her personality, was the destructive force within her soul, and perhaps her marriage as well. It was the heart of the matter, so to speak, forever impeding on what could be a truly happy existence. Never concerning herself with anything outside the physical aspect of things, she possessed a calloused heart and instead lived in her own world of selfish indulgence, only soaking up what was useful to her before discarding the leftovers. She, like many, lived in denial of her faults and it was only by that gift that she was able to live out her days as the lady of the manor without terminating her own bitter existence. She’d thought about it of course, at some point in time, but had come to the inevitable conclusion that she would never do it. Possessed of a materialistic nature, she found that happiness, if only superficial, could be bought. And being married to Tarell Sheridan was a small price to pay, even if their marriage was a failure from the start.
Upon hearing his footsteps from beyond the dining room door, Mary glanced up to note his impending arrival, but turned her attention back to her plate as he walked through the opening doors, his gait measured with calculated haughtiness. She picked at her food but didn’t look up as she heard the grating sound of his chair slide out as he took his seat across from her. No sooner had he scooted his chair in than the doors swung open admitting Stannard as he carried the tea kettle in a sturdy hand. Charles Stannard, or Stan for short, was middle-aged and stocky. The fluff of dark hair on the back of his head was slick with pomade and highlighted with gray streaks while the top part of his skull remained bare and shiny. He had been told many times that he had what’s known as a ‘kind face’ but his disposition was quick to crush that notion. A serious man, Stannard was as emotionless as a butler could get. Most days he simply walked through the manor like a machine, a robot following a master’s command. And whenever he served refreshments, he did so without the cheerful bounce Tarell had witnessed in the servant’s attitudes of some of his acquaintances. As Tarell watched him pour the tea into the cup, he found himself wishing for a bit of upbeat conversation but found no one else shared his hopeful enthusiasm. That only served to dampen his mood and he nodded his thanks briskly before Stannard removed himself from their presence, leaving Tarell alone to deal with Mary.
“Where were you last night?” she asked, noting the fact that he had not come home until some time in the late hours. Her tone was marked with suspicion.
“I was out,” he replied, silently willing her to leave it alone.
“At such a late hour? You had me worried, dear,” Mary couldn’t have hidden the sarcasm in her voice if she’d tried.
“That would be a miracle,” Tarell retorted, his voice low in volume.
Mary gave him a quick scathing smirk, but dropped it when she got no reaction from him. “So where did you go, hmm?”
“For a ride,” Tarell answered, not thinking to elaborate any more than that.
“Long ride,” Mary commented before pursing her lips together in a white line. Her husband’s nonchalant attitude about sneaking out in the late evening was beginning to wear thin the patience she perceived she possessed.
“Yes, well I’m surprised you even noticed I was gone. It wasn’t as if you stayed awake to wait for my return,” Tarell pointed out.
Nearly through with his tea he waited for Stannard to bring his food out, keeping himself busy in the meantime with his fork, which he was twirling on the table, grinding the utensil into the wood as he did so.
Mary said nothing for a moment, as if she simply shrugged it off and admitted his assessment was correct. Then her attention was drawn to his act of engraving and she decided to pipe up.
“This table is expensive, Tarell. Refrain from marking it with your own personal artwork.”
At that moment, Tarell was so tempted to scrape the hard edges of the fork along the delicate surface so as to permanently scar the piece of furniture just as his heart was scarred. He wanted to do it, if for no other reason than to thoroughly annoy her and see the look of shock upon her face. He wanted to see emotion in her eyes for longer than two seconds at a time, even if that emotion was a negative one. She didn’t laugh, she didn’t cry, she seldom smiled, afraid it would cause the wrinkles to spring up on her exquisite face. He wanted to shatter that glass bubble she concealed herself in, anything to give their marriage a jolt.

But he didn’t do it. Even though he desperately wanted the passion to spark to life between them, he also knew he didn’t want to force it out that way. He was too afraid to. Yes, he wanted nothing more than to display his frustration at their distant relationship. But he didn’t do it. For some reason, he couldn’t. Perhaps it was the way she was looking at him, with an accusatory look that challenged him to arouse her anger. Perhaps because of the guilt he already felt about what he had done the night before. Perhaps because he was a frightened husband, not wanting to face the fact that he had relinquished all the power over to Mary years ago. Perhaps it was all of these things, perhaps it was none of them. Whatever the reason, Tarell put down the fork and scooted his chair out from the table. Placing his hands on the handles, he was silent as he pushed himself up with effort. Mary was silent as well, but her silence spoke to him with eerie victory. Whether or not she knew the truth of the situation was unimportant to him at the moment. What was important, he realized, was getting out of there without displaying too much defeat in his boanguanguage.
With carefully executed steps, he managed to exit the dining room with at least a shred of dignity still intact, even though that shred felt as if it was ready to snap from the weight of Mary’s aggression all these years. Wondering when it was exactly that he had lost his hold on their marriage, he left her behind that morning to see if he could figure out who felt more alienated, Mary or himself.

Like Tarell, Sara awoke across town to an empty bed as well but this was not unusual for her as her line of work didn’t call for a gentleman’s company beyond the nightly hours. It was not unusual for her to shrug this off and go about her business without a second thought as to what occurred during her business hours. But this particular morning was different than the others. This morning was spent thinking about her actions the night before and the man that shared them. The man that filled her dreams with visions of perfection. As she brewed the tea in her kitchen, she hurried across the tight apartment, which she imagined was only an eighth of the size of Sheridan’s manor, to grab her shawl. The temperature was a bit nippy, even indoors, and she stood by the fireplace, trying to warm her hands with the flames that sprung up, threatening to lick her palms.
A while later, as she sat sipping her tea, Sara began to realize that her mind had not stopped playing over the events of the previous night. Why she couldn’t get thoughts of Sheridan out of her head was unknown to her, but she knew she would have to put an end to her roving mind sooner or later. Deciding that she would have to arrange an appointment for that evening, for it was the only way she knew how to get her mind off of Tarell, she got up and went to her wardrobe. Throwing the doors open and rummaging through her dresses, which ranged from flamboyant to risqué, she grabbed a low-cut number in a deep purple shade. Its neckline plunged heavily, ensuring that any man with brains below the belt would flock to her like bees to honey. Tossing the showy gown onto her bed she went to fetch the necessary undergarments it would take to further entice the man she would share her bed with.

After Tarell had left, Mary pushed her plate aside in annoyance. The fact that her husband had just walked away from yet another argument was proof enough to her that there was no love to their marriage. No shared love, anyway. If there were, he would have stayed and at least tried to work it out. But his constant avoidance of her only proved her theory in her mind. Like her husband, Mary didn’t know exactly when it was that their marriage had begun to crumble. She suspected, however, that it may have been back when they were still newlyweds and Tarell had mentioned his want of children only to have Mary inform him of her dislike for them. It wasn’t that she hated kids, far from it. She actually adored other people’s children. She just wasn’t interested in having any of her own. She knew the physical strains it put on a woman to bear children. She had seen it too often in her youth. She was the second child in a clan of six, a bit unusual for a wealthy family but society had accepted it comfortably. She had watched her mother during each pregnancy, struggle and strive to maintain her appearance. She would put on pounds of extra weight and try and lose them after the baby was born, but never being able to regain her lithe figure that she had possessed before the pregnancy. Mary did not want to be like her mother. She wanted to remain beautiful and perfect in every way, even though her husband evidently no longer saw her perfection. Picking up a spoon she looked at her reflection in the silver, checking her teeth to make sure no particles of food had lodged themselves between them. She sighed woefully as she replaced the silverware and dabbed her mouth with a napkin before getting up. She felt a stab of longing within her withered heart as she walked out into the hallway, searching the long corridor for any trace of Tarell. But she found none.
Wondering where he had gone off to, Mary walked into the library to pen a letter to her sister, Constance. She found that her sisters were all she had to turn to in her time of need, and when she needed to talk they were always there. Which is more than I can say for some people, she thought as she sat at the desk. In her letter she discussed her worries about Tarell and where he had gone off to the night before. It was only to her sisters that she would reveal such private information about her personal life, as she knew they would keep it all a secret within the family and safe away from the loose lips of society. She mentioned the dinner party that she, well her and Tarell, were hosting in a week’s time, and inquired if Constance would attend. That should be fun, she thought cynically, perhaps Tarell will grace us with his presence for more than five minutes. Memories of their last dinner party crept into her mind at that point. Everything had gone smoothly at first. The guests had arrived on time. The food was set out nicely. Everything was grand. Until Tarell took it upon himself to drink more wine than was needed that night. After telling Mrs. Lumley, a prim woman married te are architect Peter Lumley, that her dress resembled a tablecloth and asking the portly Alexander Smith to save some of the food for the rest of the hogs, the evening had been lost. That was a year ago. It had taken this long for Mary to squeeze herself back into their good graces and arrange another party, having to promise that Tarell would not pull a stunt like that again. She only hoped her promise would not be broken this time around.

Upon leaving the dining room, Tarell had decided to simply remove himself from the manor for the time being, just so he wouldn’t have to face the accusation in Mary’s eyes or the guilt that hung around him from the previous night. He knew he was not the only wealthy married man to stray from his wife and seek comfort in the arms of one of the ladies in the various brothels in town, but he suspected he was one of the few to actually feel guilty about his actions. Although his marriage was cold and the love seemed non-existent, he still felt badly it. As he called for his carriage, Tarell had a thought that sent a hearty helping of unease down to the pit of his stomach. As he stood there mulling over his guilt, he tried to figure out what shamed him the most. Was it the fact that he had cheated on his wife for the first time in thirteen years of faithful marriage? Or was it because he had enjoyed it?


Author\'s Note: chapter three will be coming as soon as I finish typing it all up.