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“Is there some problem, my dear? Have you finished playing?”

“No,” she said, and her voice was too meek, so she looked up, directly at him. “No, I have not.”

“Then why did you stop, madam? I had begun to indulge your desire for intercourse.” 

“Need we pretend, my Lord?” She pushed herself away from the piano, standing, “Your company is repulsive to me, your presence mortifying.” 

Her anger was taking control now, warm and welcoming. She remembered, too easily, her father’s hand flying, her mother’s cry, but the thought of it was almost welcome. 

Yes. Let him show his true self. Let this play-acting stop.

 “What is it, my Lord? Would you would have me feign some wifely adoration, some simpering propriety?”

“There is the Miss Tooting I recognise,” he said, with a condescending smile. “Your anger is so becoming. I believe I told you once that I appreciate spirit.”

“If you lay a hand upon me, I will break your fingers. You disgust me, my Lord.”

“Yet you consented to be my wife,” he laughed. “Oh, such inconstancy.”

The barb slipped through her rage. 

She faltered, falling back. 

“But then, your heart is with another, is it not?” he said, with the indifference of consummate cruelty.

She did not reply.

“Really,” he said, taking a step towards her. “How do you think your dear Mr Thornton will feel about your defection? Will he see it in favourable light? Will he be inclined to forgiveness?”

“He is an honourable man, and will understand my reasons.”

He took another step forward, closing the distance between them, “And will I, madam? Am I to be expected to tolerate it?”

“It is of no concern to me whether you tolerate it or not.” She turned her back. It would not do to show fear, to act as though she was afraid of what he might do were she to provoke him far enough. She would go on with her piece, unless he prevented her. 

But he did not prevent her. 

He did not seize her wrist, did not grab her by the collar or press a loathsome kisses upon her neck. It was not that she wanted any of those things, but surely the desire to do them seethed beneath his calm exterior. She thought of his villainy, of the way he had pressed her before his offer of marriage, of his breath upon her lips. Her skin burned for the confrontation, her hands were ready to claw out his eyes and shriek, even if – in the end – he overpowered her.

Instead, he said, “You have made your position upon that quite clear enough. I shall be in my apartments.”

Was that it? 

She wheeled about to face him, furious. “So you see fit to abandon me?”

“I thought my company was abhorrent to you, madam.” 

“You are a worm,” she said. “A detestable coward. I understand that you might be reluctant to face the reprisal of another man, but are you so wretched that you cannot face even the wrath of a woman?”

A little smirk, a laugh at the end of his teeth, “My dear, you are quite free to rage to heart’s content.” His gaze drifted over her with a cruel appraisal, taking in her breasts, hips, the wild blush suffusing her face. “When something is in my possession, I cannot bring myself to care whether it gains some sort of gratification from defiance. I’m sure you’re aware it’s quite futile.”

She raised her hand to bring it down upon his face, but he caught her wrist. For a moment, her entire body stiffened, and then the protest left her in the sight of his cold, impassive face. 

Suddenly, she was afraid. 

No, not exactly afraid. Overcome.

It was the strength of his grip, his warm, rough fingers, the way he was pulling her towards him. She wondered, briefly, horrified, how his lips would feel against her own, and why a part of her almost strained towards that, longing for surrender because struggle held risks she yet know. 

But she could not, she must not, and so resisted with a sort of half-hearted twisting that could have done nothing, had he not chosen to release her, smiling all the while. 

A show of strength. That was all it had been.

What did he want from her? 

She was his wife, practically his prisoner, unable to protect herself from him by force or by the law. Yet he, villain though he might be, did not force himself upon her. 

She fell back, staggering away from him until she sat again on the piano stool, struggling to hold back tears.

“Is something amiss, madam?” he said, “Are you entertaining yourself with this display, or do you seek to stir my appetites in some way?”

“I detest you,” she said, and her voice shook, so she reached inside herself for a last scrap of strength. “I despise you.” The words felt, sounded pathetic.

For the briefest of seconds, there was a flash of pity upon his face. 

“Come here, wife.” The mockery was gone, and all that remained was command, absolute. 

Something inside her answered to it, she felt so weak, so sickened. 

This was to be it, the consummation of his base lusts. She steeled herself for pain, for humiliation as she straightened her spine and went to him. 

Lord Forthenby seized her by the waist and pulled her to him, pressing his lips against her own, pushing the hair he had disordered from her face with one rough hand. His body was hard against her own, the buttons of his waistcoat cruel through the soft muslin of her dress and her stays. Half-resisting, she turned her face from his own, but then gave way to his mastery. His kiss was soft but passionate, his stubble rasping against her cheeks in strange friction. It was at once like, and so unlike the kiss that Mr Thornton had given her. 

There was no uncertainty here, no desperation, no love. These were lips that knew how to caress, that knew when to press harder, when to pull away, a tongue that thrilled against the sensitive skin of her mouth, teasing, drawing her out of her immobility. 

He stopped, held her his face not even an inch from her own, his breath hot on her mouth with an intolerable softness. She stared into eyes as bright as blue diamonds. 

A flicker of frailty passed through her, and she leaned back into his arms.

He kissed her again, lingering, one hand running down her back, following the curve of her spine, the wide softness of her hips and waist. A moan found its way, unasked, from her throat and he pulled back again, stroking her neck, kissing the hollow of it, working his way down to the tops of her breasts. It was as though he provoked her with gentleness, as though he would torment her with caress and tenderness, so that her body had no choice but to answer him. 

She could not allow him to do this to her. If he must touch her, she wanted him a monster, snatching from her, forcing. But, devil that he was, he would not even give her that comfort. Instead, he kissed her so that she must be complicit, must consent, respond to him willingly.

She pushed him away, wanting him to pin her hands behind her back, to force his lips upon her, to take from her what she would not give him. 

Instead, he fell back, releasing her face, smiling as though in on some private joke.

“Cur,” she shouted at him, fumbling for insults. “Wretch, villain.”

“How was that, madam?” he tipped his head to one side, all handsome cheekbones and sparkling eyes. “Was that sufficiently loathsome for you?”

“How dare you?” How dare you touch me?”

Lord Forthenby seized her, roughly this time, pulling her back in to his embrace. She struggled, briefly, desperately, and then, knowing that fighting would not avail her, surrendered. His arms were so hard, his lips cool, and knowing, and fierce. He bit. 

On the verge of tears, Serafina battled herself, at once aching towards him and desperate for him to stop, to pull away. Here, at last, was the force which she had expected, here the violence and the passion. With something like dread she knew that now, he would carry her over to the bed, would deflower her with vicious sensuality.

Instead, once again, he pulled back, dragging her up to feet, wiping his full lips with the back of one hand, “Or was that more to your taste?” 

And even as Serafina gathered her shattered wits together, readied herself to attack him, Forthenby turned, and stormed from the room.

Confused, overcome, Serafina sat down upon the piano stool, and wept.