Holy, are the bells of her laugh.
“Really, there’s no need to laugh so much.” Cole runs a hand through his hair and pouts at the slickness of his back. Falling in the fountain hadn’t been one of his more Darcyian moments.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But thank you. Sincerely.” Molly holds her first edition Pride and Predjuice to her chest like a stuffed bear. “It was very kind of you to fetch it.”
Sinful, are the thoughts her laughter give me.
“Yes, well. Next time be more careful when reading next to water.” He mutters, wringing out his hair.
Her smile falters. That look, that very Molly look of resentfulness that tells him he’s said something daft and she’s about to turn on her heel and throw a scoff his way.
“Next time I will go in and fish it out myself, thank you very much.” And she does, turn. But not without a look back at him that makes his heartbeat quicken.
Heavenly, are the way her eyes make me burn.
The Larkspur Sonnets (follow!!!)
His fingers twitched above the keys. He could feel her behind him, watching him, possibly thinking of that morning like he was.
“Watch it!” Molly was running down the hall towards the washroom he’d just left. This wasn’t unusual. Molly ran everywhere. What was unusual was her state of dress. Or, state of undress.
Long, pale legs bare for all to see running down from a impossibly small set of black satin knickers. She held a man’s shirt on at her chest, unbuttoned, hair loose and a waving flag of curls behind her.
“Well, Mr. Ward! It’s a party, do you plan on courting that piano or playing it?” Playful, was her voice and hand brushing his shoulder before standing next to the instrument and leaning one hip against it.
He mumbled a ‘sorry’ she didn’t hear as she swept into the loo. It wasn’t his fault he was stuck standing in front of the door, frozen by the assault of her so early in the morning.
He smirked at her as his fingers danced out a tune. The beginnings of “Good Golly, Miss Molly” filled the room and everyone in the room began to nod their head and smile, getting up to dance.
“Oh, wait!” Just when he had pulled his feet from the floor, she called him back. Just a glimpse of rosy shoulders, a soft belly and her arms over her chest before she threw the man’s shirt in his face sending him into darkness. “Sorry, nicked it from the laundry, didn’t realize it was yours.”
Her skirts moved around her legs as she danced to his song, legs he couldn’t help remember as he missed a note thinking of that morning. Something in her laughing eyes told him she’d noticed.
The Larkspur Sonnets, a modern inspired Victorian romance
Loyal fans might remember The Larkspur Sonnets. If not it’s alright, since I’ve been so creatively blocked on everything lately it went where all my good ideas go to die.
But I’ve decided it would be a modern inspired Victorian world. Where things like our music and fashion would blend in amongst the history of the era. This is not so I have more images to use.
Pretty much.
She was far younger than him. His schoolmate’s sister. She was loud and somewhat rude and she smiled at him like she thought him a joke. She wore her hair loose like she didn’t give a damn and the way it framed her face after a run down the stairs, curls bouncing against a pale pink cheek in mid blush made his fingers itch for a pen. Or for to run them down that slope, over to her lips and quiet her remarks with touch, kiss, breath.
She was driving him mad.
The Larkspur Sonnets
“You’re a poet, Mr. Ward? What is it that you write about?”
“Things, places, people. Whatever inspires something in me.”
There were sonnets in the air. Around every corner of the estate, beneath every bed cover and behind every wardrobe drawer. In his cup of tea and spot of jam on his shirtsleeves. He could taste them, feel them. They were on her tongue and along her fingers, written in the pores of her skin and caught amoungst her words when she spoke to him in that snobby, teasing, maddening way.
There were sonnets in Larkspur. There were sonnets in her.
The Larkspur Sonnets (Or Victorian/Regency/Whatever romantic period of time Pronz, or Another Tumblr Film That Shan’t Be Made)
