On the morning of her wedding, as her mother’s maid primped and fussed at her, Serafina Tooting stared into the looking glass and tried to find either a measure of bliss or despair upon her own face. 

Her father had, at last, left her alone. 

Since their return from Forthenby, his eager attentions had been a poor cover for the way that he had watched her, his glee edged with menace. All the letters she received came to her opened – he did not even trouble himself to hide it. When she met with her friends, or spoke with her mother, he sat brooding at the edge of the room, guarding every word in case she let a name slip from her, in case she ruined this whole facade, or revealed some plan of escape.

But there was no escape. She would walk down the aisle. She would become Lady Forthenby. 

At first, yes, she had entertained images of Richard coming riding in like the hero of some fantastical narrative, snatching her from the jaws of infamy, stealing her away from drab reality to some prettily pictured fulfilment: Virtue Triumphant. 

Had she even the slightest idea where he was, how he had concealed himself – even whether he still lived – she would have run to him, risking her father’s fury, her honour, her reputation, everything. But there had been no news. He had pulled the trigger on an innocent man and vanished. There was nothing more to say. 

She did not dare walk among the laurels now, too afraid of the memories which they brought. It had been there that Richard had kissed her, there he had uttered the words which had seemed to assure her happiness. And it had been there that Lord Forthenby had pushed her back in to the green leaves and spoken words that were two parts lust, and two parts venom. She recalled the hot breath of his anger against her lips, the very strength of his hand upon her wrists. Hate him as she might, a part of her – a mere fragment of her – answered to it. 

To be wanted so, to be desired with such a fierceness that ignored propriety and decency and honour. To have a scene from a novel played out against her body, to have those wild, thrilling feelings racing through her breast, who could remain unmoved by it? 

Serafina scowled, making Ivy mutter things about the wind changing and her staying like that. 

But how could they expect her to smile? Of course, she was heartbroken. Naturally, she was devastated. This was the apotheosis of her misery. 

But it was a misery she had lived with for two months. A misery that had kept her company through her presentation at Court, the introduction to a dizzying array of dazzling acquaintance, that had sat with her through two months of parties, congratulations, celebratory Balls while she had played the part of the blushing bride. 

It was an old friend now, that misery.

 It could barely touch her.

Yes, when she thought of her dear Mr Thornton, it hurt. When she thought of the character of her future husband, she was afraid. 

Yet, every morning the sun rose, and every evening it set, and neither of those things changed. She could not weep endlessly. 

She could not weep at all while she was in her father’s house, watched by his bright, prying eyes, not where the avaricious grasp of his hands closed upon bannisters and chair arms, his knuckles white with anticipation. There was a hungriness to him. He watched her for any misstep, any break in her facade. His watchfulness felt like insects crawling upon her skin when she might not use her hands to brush them away.

Compared to this, the bombastic tyranny of Forthenby was almost a relief. With him, at least, she was not expected to be submissive and serene as he paraded her about like a prize heifer at a fair. Yes, he too watched her cruelly, but he did not threaten her with the consequences that would follow if, for a moment, she forgot the role he expected her to play. 

She thought of her father’s hand flying, of the bruises on her mother’s face. 

That she might, finally, be free of this house was something that she could not view with anything other than stark relief. Free from his boasts and gloating, his recitals of Forthenby’s luxury and Forthenby’s influence. Free to have a quiet afternoon with her books, or her piano, an evening where he did not summon his acquaintance around them, intrude upon gatherings of their neighbours, and let everyone know that he was about to marry his daughter to an Earl. 

At every word, every look of Mr Tooting’s, Serafina wanted to rebel against him, to flee, to hide, but she knew that she must only smile, and smile, and look gracious. It had grown, pressure after pressure, until she wished she could scream and tear her hair, until it pushed all her grief and fear for Mr Thornton down underneath the imperative to hold herself together, to survive until the wedding.

Until today.

That she had scarcely seen Lord Forthenby since they had returned from his seat only strengthened the sensation. Indeed, when they did meet, he was somewhat different from his usual, obnoxious self. Yes, he was cold, reserved, and repulsive, but now that he had possession of what he wanted he seemed to feel no need to make himself especially offensive. 

He was almost neglectful. 

And, when she was not thinking of Richard, because she must not think of Richard, that neglect felt like freedom. Like peace.

She must not let herself believe it. 

This was no escape. Tonight, she would be alone with him, in the comfortable inn they would visit before they took the boat to the continent. He would have access to her rooms. His face would be close to her own, his breath upon her lips. There would be that look of lust in his eyes...

She tightened her hands to fists, trying not to move her head, not to disturb the careful curls which the maid was arranging. 

What would she do? Could she resist him? 

She remembered the contemptuous strength of his arms, the hard-breathing violence of him. 

Why did you challenge him, Richard? Why did you need to set yourself at odds with him?

If only she had not wept that day. If only they had both been able to bear it, to keep their head down and weather the insult of Lord Forthenby’s attentions, then it might be their wedding for which she was dressing herself. 

There. There came the tears, there was the misery. There was her pain.

“Oh, miss,” said her maid, “all girls cry on their wedding day.” She smiled and gave Serafina a square of linen. “Though do try not to make your face blotchy.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, of course, Ivy.”

“I’ll get some rosewater for your cheeks, miss.” Then the smile. “And you do look beautiful, even if it is all my work.”

“I’m grateful to you,” she said, and then because she did not sound convincing, “I mean it, Ivy. You’ve made me look splendid. I wish...” and there it was, the grasping fear. “I wish that you might come to Forthenby with me,” she said, although she barely knew the girl. Ivy was her mother’s maid, borrowed for the occasion. But what she wanted was comfort, to seize this homely, familiar person in her arms and drag her off into the uncertain future, away from this deathly house and its cruelties.

“Oh,” Ivy cried, and buried her face in her apron, “you’ll get me started, if you say such things. There, now. You won’t want me at Forthenby. You’ll have a proper French maid and real silk, and fresh flowers every day. And they’ll all have to call you My Lady and—”

Yes, Serafina thought, with dawning and terrible realisation, they will. 

But it was easier to comfort Ivy than to give way to whatever turbulent thoughts rushed through her own mind. “But they shan’t have your touch. I doubt any of them could do half so well as you with my hair.” She dabbed at it with cautious fingers. “It seems almost a pity to put a veil over it.” And she smiled as best she could, to make it seem as though she meant it.

In fact, looking in the mirror, she saw only her own face, with all the things which she liked about it, and all the things that she did not. She knew – for she had been told often enough – that she was pretty, but the words did not touch her. This was her face, that was all. Round cheeks and dimpled chin and, yes, alas, a threat of freckles. If it were plainer, she would be plain, were it handsomer, she would be a beauty - but were either of those things to happen, it would no longer be her own face. It did not matter what Ivy had done with her hair, or what the drops of belladonna had done to her eyes.

It seemed such a foolish thing for a man to have ruined himself over.

Ivy pinned the veil in to place, a white cascade of muslin held in to her hair with pins and hope. “There,” said Ivy, pressing a bouquet of orange flowers into her hands. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen, even I do say so myself. Done up fit for a Queen.” A little sly smile, “Or a Countess, at the least.”

Serafina did her best to smile at that, for it was kindly meant, and rose from her toilette to where her father waited outside her door, ready to take her down to the carriage, and then up the aisle.