Isobel admired herself in the mirror, eyes following the curves of her own perfect body. The mirror was floor to ceiling flawlessly polished glass, not a scratch or mark in sight. A wooden frame swept elegantly round the outside, giving it a smooth, lovely finish. Isobel stood before it, clad only a bra and panties. The set was black and lacy; matching - of course. Isobel detested those who didn't wear matching underwear. How could you possibly expect to appear beautiful to the outside world if what sat at the very foundations was imperfect? The brunette's hair was curled meticulously at tips to give it a slight wave. It hung down past her shoulders, the ends resting just above the swell of her breasts; a swell enhanced by the expensive bra she was wearing. To Isobel, it was all about surface. A personality could be faked, you couldn't see it and so someone could tell you anything they wanted you to believe. But the surface was the purest of all. You could have surgery or dress it up, but at the end of the day, the flaws were still there. Everything about them was laid out for you to see in the truest sense imaginable.
Isobel lifted a navy robe from the bed and swept it around her slim figure. She tied it tightly at the front, so it simply looked like a dressing gown. No one would know how scantily clad she really was under the soft, luxurious material. Isobel lifted a bottle of expensive perfume with a heady scent from her dresser and sprayed it into the air in front of her. She then stepped into the misty cloud of scent she'd created, letting it surround her. This was the real way to apply perfume. The middle-class in the old world would always spray it conservatively on each wrist and onto the very top of their chest. But this either made the scent far too strong when they applied too much and the delicate undertones of the perfume became overpowering, or too little and the scent faded before anyone could even appreciate it. This liberal method was in no way cost-effective, but it created a beautiful all over scent of just the right strength. She checked her make-up in the mirror and rearranged her hair until it sat perfectly, tumbling in waves over her shoulders.
With that, Isobel padded across her bedroom to the door and exited, closing it behind her. She walked slowly along the landing, admiring herself in every mirror she passed. As she walked along the corridor she saw Vivian knock on Philip's door. Perfect, Isobel thought to herself. The red head wouldn't be bothering her husband if she was spending time with the boy dubbed her "son", and so leaving Isobel perfectly free to do as she pleased with Marcus. Isobel flashed Vivian a saccharine sweet smile as she passed, regarding her with utter contempt. Though she was polite to Isobel and rarely fought with the woman, they were not friends by any stretch of the imagination. Isobel truly hated the woman with everything she had. Vivian did not deserve her position of power. She had snached it out from under Isobel's nose, in her opinion. And, although she was perfectly lovely to Vivian, there was nothing Isobel would not to take the power from her.
As Isobel approached Marcus' study she saw a teenage boy being dragged away by some staff. Maids were gathered outside the door and Isobel used her hands to shoo them.
"Make sure no one disturbs us until I leave," Isobel instructed the nearest maid who nodded obediently.
"Um... Miss Deramore," the maid tried to tell Isobel something, but Isobel chose to ignore her.
Isobel looked up at the tall, wooden door, eyes filled with an almost childlike delight. It was moments like this she adored. The excitement and anticipation that came before the thrill of seducing him. Isobel knew she had to be extra careful at first, he was clearly in a terrible mood, and Mark's temper was nothing to be scoffed at. He was known to kill on a whim in a bad mood, and, although Isobel doubted he'd ever harm her, she knew the only reason she was in this house was for him. If she fell from his favour, many would be perfectly happy to see her go. She doubted anyone would protest if Marcus' decided to cast her out.
"Marcus," Isobel said in a sing-song voice. Her tone was as clear as ice, high-pitched with a definite flirtatious undertone. She knocked on his office door and tentatively pushed it open.
But upon opening the door, she saw the High King's Advisor already in the room with him. Isobel growled softly in irritation, her expression turning from flirty to thunderous. She had a tenancy to swing from one mood to another very quickly. She was unpredictable and irrational.
The warm water poured down around Philip as steam rose from his body where the cascading crystal liquid from the shower head heated his skin. He washed himself quickly and stepped out into the shower, wrapping himself in a pure black fluffy towel. It too was warm, like his skin, warmed by the heated towel rail that was a necessity in every bathroom in the manor. Nothing said affluence like stepping into a preheated towel. It was these small luxuries that told Philip he was on the right track, that everything he'd worked for had been worth it. In his tiny little house in a particularly dodgy area of New York City where he'd grown up, they'd kept towels on the floor. His useless mother had never seen the use in a 'towel rail', let alone a heated one. Not that any of that mattered any more. This was the life he was living now. His mother had been killed in the war, good riddance, Philip had decided. But he was also certain both his sisters were killed too, that was something neither of the sweet girls had deserved. But, this meant he no longer had anything tying him to his old life. He was here now, among the aristocrats. This was his place, this was where he belonged. There was nowhere else for him now, anyway.
Philip left the en suite bathroom and entered his own room. He smiled a little, feeling his bare feet sink into the fluffy carpet, and he dried his body. Then, he pulled on a smart pair of jeans and a loose, long-sleeved top with buttons that started midway down his chest and rose up to his neck. He fully intended to change into a suit for the party in six hours, but he'd already arranged with Vivian the night before to help her choose out a dress. He knew if he left her waiting long enough she would come and find him, giving him the upper hand. And, once he'd helped her choose a dress, she could pick his suit, in exchange. And that would involve changing in front of her, a thought Philip was not at all opposed to.
He dried his hair, but still left it a little wet to give it a slightly messy, playful, flirty look. While he got ready, a maid came in, as she did every single day when he was out of the shower. She made up his bed and tided a little. Philip was a perfectionist and hated seeing anything out of place or imperfect. If his Californian King-sized canopy bed wasn't made-up with all his cushions and throws every single morning, there would be hell to pay. The maid quickly finished up and left. Philip sat down on the newly made up bed, anticipation flowing throughout his veins at the thought of being the sole recipient of Vivian's attention for even a short while.
Upon hearing the knock, Philip knew exactly who was there. There was no one else in the house with such an elegant, light knock. The blonde boy quickly rose and crossed the room, almost too quickly; too eagerly. Not wanting to seem like he hurried to meet her, instead wanting to give the impression that she was unimportant to him and could wait, he stood by the door for a few seconds before he opened it.
Vivian looked as lovely as ever, if not lovelier. She was wearing a long, fluttery, golden nightdress, encrusted with diamonds. Her pale skin was clearly visible beneath the negligee's thin, almost transparent material. It gave her pale, snowy skin a beautiful golden shimmer. It was a stunning effect.
"Vivian," he greeted her, his voice smooth and even, with genuinely friendly undertones. He gave her a charming, charismatic smile and lent forwards to kiss her lightly on the cheek, his lips brushing gently across her soft, smooth skin. He ushered her into his room and closed the door behind her, creating a certain air of privacy and intimacy.
"Of course, you wanted my help in choosing out a dress for tonight?" he asked with a questioning tone. Philip of course, already knew the answer. He'd been planning this moment since she'd first asked him for his assistance the evening before.