Sea of Memory

The carriage was dark and a velvet black enclosed the three; Lupin, Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien. It muffled the space and intensified the atmosphere. Lupin felt Uncle Moritimor's discomfort and Lord Maximilien's almost triumphant energy as if they were waves flowing and undulating throught the thick blanket of dark.
The inner lanterns had not been lit, in order to preserve Lupin's anonymity till the last possible moment. The orange and gold lights of night-time Paris slashed thorugh the carriage from time to time, however - bursting in and radiating slantingly across Lupin's enormous rouched silks, Lord Maximilen's thick, expensive stin and illuminating Uncle Mortimor's muted gold and soft gray.
She sat upon the fine velvet squabs, looking straightly across to the opposing cushions, her chin even and here eyes quiet, though tense. The moments ticked past, the rocking of the carriage making its way over the Parisien cobbles was like the intensifying silence before thunder breaks directly above. Suddenly, Lupin's history converged upon her, crashing about her like so many waves and obliterating her as if she were consumed by the deep sea of memory:
Long hours alone in the townhouse surrounded her, lost slivers in Lord Grefham's stable slashed through the dark, Graye stood before her dark and gray, then in the golden sun. The moments lit by the library fire's golden glow washed across the background, Lord Grefham handed her his ring and held her close, curled against him, as in front of this warm tapestry, she leapt from his carriage in the cold, damp London air - another carriage hurtling towards her. It was only Lord Grefham now - and the dream. Their encounter on the stairs. His explanation in the positing-house. His eyes as they watched her. Perhaps she had never realized how deeply he had looked into her when she had questioned him. The grace in his eyes. Te knowledge and the willingess to know of her pain and her past. She was viciously glad she had not told him more, that he knew only enough to love, that she had not left him with her sadness; only her deepest feeling.
Then her last moment with him. He held her hand to his lips at the supper room in the antiquated posting house. His eyes and the warmth of his hand took up her entire vision. She had longed to run to him and embrace him before departing to her chambers. But she had witheld herself. Perhaps, mayhap, it had been for the best. Certainly he might have grown more worried. His anger must have been great; his sadness had been unmistakable at the inn on the port in England.
Yet it had been two months. Surely a short romance such as she would be forgotten by a gentleman-rake such as he, her mind reasoned cruelly, defiantly. A two-week romance with a young and odd girl, it could not have compared to his dames de nuit, his impassionadas, his countless aventures. Could it have?
A frown grew between her eyes, as they also deepened a little with a strange emotion - was it worry, fear?
The carriage halted. It was the absolute halt of arrival. The carriage rocked a little as the horses settled toa stop. Lupin surfaced from her memories, or rather, they flew away from her, leaving her once again sitting still on the cold ground of consciousness. Uncle Mortimor looked rather green, and his lips were ursed. Lord Maximilien looked as if he were more amused than ever, his brows raised as if mocking the entire situation, but his eyes were too hard to mirror simple facetiousness. Lupin's hands were clasped more tightly in her lap, but her expression was urbane. Teh door opened, and the footman lowered the steps easily. They were movements so very familiar to Lupin, but now separated from her by the insupperable distance of position.
She rose slightly, and sweeping her skirts behind her in a quick, efficient twitch, she stpped from the dark of the carriage into the staring glare of the Parisien ton.