Literary Work
TO OWN HER BODY Kat Devitt
C “
an you believe I’m handing in my bachelor’s cap for a wedding band?” Alexander Courtenay, the fourth Viscount Belgrave, asked, languishing in the sunlight streaming through a bay window as he cocked up a silver-backed mirror to check the crevices between his pearly white teeth. James, his nearest and sheerest friend, stood at his favorite place in the room; the sideboard lined with crystal cut decanters filled with an array of Eaux de vie. He splashed the fruit brandy into two cups, giving himself the more generous of the portions. “It still confounds me how you’ll be a married man before sundown,” James remarked. “Why is it surprising?” Alexander stared into his reflection’s cerulean blue gaze, his auburn curls shimmering red and gold in the morning light. “What’s difficult to comprehend is how handsome God molded me. It comes as no surprise I’ve had scores of women vying for the position of my wife.” “Oh, stop your preening.” A white cloth fluttered over Alexander’s head, eclipsing his view of the stunning face in the mirror. “James Percival Haverleigh.” Alexander clawed the handkerchief off his head and flourished it over his shoulder. “How many times must I tell you not to throw articles of fabric at me?” Alexander glowered at James from across the study. James met his ire with an unapologetic smirk. “Only my mother is allowed to address me with my full Christian name.” “Shall I call for your mother on my behalf, then?” “You make your face an enticing target when you behave like a peacock.” James sipped straight from the decanter, smacking his lips together, whetting his taste for more. “Tastes like pears. Oh, how divine.”
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“Don’t tipple without me,” Alexander scolded. “I’m the one who needs fortification. It’s my wedding day, after all.” “Right you are.” James plucked up the two glasses and stumbled towards Alexander, his steps already heavy with liquor. “Don’t spill,” Alexander said, setting the silver hand mirror on a nearby mahogany drum table. “Oops.” James pretended to stumble over a gold tassel sewn to the corner of a burgundy and forest green Persian rug. He twirled to avoid the scrolled arm of a settee, recovering his bearings in front of Alexander. A laugh tickled in the back of Alexander’s throat. “Wait until after my vows to break your neck.” James chuckled as he handed off a glass. The one with the least brandy, of course. He raised his glass high, nudging Alexander’s elbow to encourage him to do the same. “To your husbandly rights!” James cheered before downing his brandy in one swift gulp. Alexander preferred to sip on his liquor. He enjoyed the path it burned down his throat, a hint of pears lingering on his tongue. Warmth slowly seeped into his belly from the fine eau de vie, mingled with thoughts of Della, his lovely bride. Once Della changed hands from her father to Alexander, she’d belong to him. Bound by man’s laws and holy vows uttered in Cottersbury’s little church. Alexander craved for total possession of his Della. Of her body. His tingled in anticipation of the wedding night when she’d be splayed out beneath him, her champagne-colored hair fanning across his feather pillows, her skin lustrous in the firelight burning low in the hearth. Alexander enjoyed another heady sip. “Della is a lovely lass. She compliments my empyrean looks.” James fell onto the settee, throwing a casual arm over the backrest. “And her large dowry and familial connections compliment your ambitions.” “I wouldn’t be the first gentleman in England to marry a pretty face tied to wealth and status. Someday, it’ll be your turn.” “Let’s hope that day is far away and over many horizons.” James eyed me skeptically. “You’re certain Lady Della is who you want to be leg-shackled to for the remainder of your life?” This wasn’t the first time James had tried to prod Alexander away from Della.
