War. 

Edward thought of it later as he dressed for the opera, thought what he had done with Dickie, of how it had always felt that way, attack and counterattack, defence and defence and defence. Of how it had felt always to be on the back foot, so that all he could do was to keeping the very heart of himself covered, taking damage, and fighting on in the vain hope of a hit. 

But that wasn’t what Jean had meant. No, he’d said it with that insinuating, French inflection which meant that she was trying to put one over on him sexually. 

If only. 

Because, while he had never thought it of her, that morning Lady Forthenby could have been another his angels of pain. Before this morning, her anger – however real – had always had something of his own playful quality to it, had never seemed more than an invitation to dance. 

Today, though, she had been glorious, blazing with the kind of controlled, focused fury that made him want to fall down and kiss the hem of her gown, to beg her forgiveness in a thousand and one ways, to feel the sharp heels of her shoes trampling his bare back. 

He deserved it. 

That was what Peaches’ would never concede, what Dickie had always understood. Edward didn’t take the beatings for fun of them. He needed the punishment to be fitted to a crime, and Dickie, ah, Dickie had never failed to find crime after crime to tally up against his name. Peaches would tell him when he had done wrong, and she would take the skin from his back, but she would never make the connection between the two. Fierce, possessive as she was, to her, it was never more than a game. 

Serafina would link the two, though – for all she would run a mile from the very thought.

Not that he could blame her. 

Not that she owed him anything. Some crimes went far beyond such things.

Oh, Lord, he was a mess. 

Easier to let it all slide away, to lose himself in Peaches, to seize the gorgeous bawd in his arms and kiss her lovely mouth until she smacked him and told him he was getting powder everywhere and that he should bloody well stay still if he wanted his cravat tied right.

Except that, even as she said such things, she ran her wicked hands over his thighs, driving her thumb in to every single welt, just to see him wince. 

It was easy, so easy to watch her playful grin and sharp fingers as she unpicked the button his trousers and licked her red, red lips, “Should have let me pierce it, my Lord. Only one other way to stop it sticking out like this...” 

Yes, easier to surrender to it, to put it all behind him, and think only of her tongue and her lips and forget all about the pig’s ear he’d made of his life.

In in the carriage though, with Peaches up on the box, he could not slip away so easily. For the first time in a long while, the opera held no charms for him. He’d rather saddle up and ride some long, lonely road far too fast until his horse lost its wind and his legs ached from gripping the saddle. Better to race his cabriolet against some other drunk young idiot, to pick out all the points on a playing card in some pointless bet, or find some tavern where he could feign offense at an idle word and get himself caught up in a duel. 

Better to fall to his knees and let his Countess hear it all, let her have her revenge on his skin. 

No hope of any of that.

She sat across from him, composed and disdainful, as though she were the type he liked best: chill, and hating, and vicious. Yet, when he had seized her, she had yielded in his arms, and – even as the force of his grip must have pushed her to the point of pain – her breath had come low, and soft, and sweet. 

He could barely look at her.

But Edward had his part to play, and so he stared vague and aloof at some point behind her shoulder, bored, repulsive, and complacent, hoping that they would not need to talk. 

Instead, bloody-minded as ever, his wife said, “Is it necessary that you accompany me, my Lord?”

“Is this not our honeymoon, madame? Are we not but a pair of love birds, unable to bear a moment’s separation?” Edward had never struggled to find the most provocative, the most aggravating thing to say.

“My Lord knows full well my thoughts upon the matter.” Her tone let him know that – although the fine silk of them was literally upon her plump, white fingers – in the figurative sense, the gloves were off. 

“As my Lady knows mine. Come. Are you ashamed to be seen beside me?”

“Would anyone not be ashamed to see themselves beside an acknowledged villain?”

“Yet you are willing to take my name? Madame, the intricacies of your conscience astound me.” He took great care not to appear anything more than bored.

She flushed at that, gorgeously pink beneath her powder. She was so beautiful – but then Dickie had always had exquisite taste. 

Edward wanted to kick his heels against the seat, but the Lord Forthenby of his wife’s imagining would do no such thing. 

Not that it mattered. She barely looked at him. 

She never did, if she could help it.

Edward had always liked to be admired, to feel his lovers tousling his hair, staring in to his eyes and spouting out flattering metaphors. He liked the way they stroked his lips and eyelids with wondering fingers. Even Dickie had done that. Yes, when he actually spoke, he had mixed every compliment with venom, but with his hands he was capable only of sincerity. 

But not for Lady Forthenby these pouting lips or long lashed eyes, not for her his crooked smile, or the long, golden column of his throat. All his assets, all his talents and weapons, all of them beneath her notice.

Perhaps it was no wonder. His own prettiness was too human, something of flesh and blood that begged for rough hands and hard kisses. He wouldn’t look twice at himself if the choice was between him and Dickie.

Dickie’s beauty had always been godlike, untouchable. 

Or, no. Not quite. It was the kind of thing to be caressed with reverence, the way you might run your fingers over the smooth marble of an ancient carving, admiring the artistry of something precious, sacred. 

Cold. 

One never quite expected his skin to yield to the touch. 

And, of course, the bastard had the manner to go with it. Every imperious, ruthless turn suited him down to the ground. 

It made perfect sense for the Countess to be besotted with him. Edward had seen how she watched Dickie, the same way he used to, the way she wanted her fingertips in the hollows of his neck and throat, wanted her lips to feel the smooth strength of his neck. 

Though it would have stubble, now, of course, just as Edward’s own did. 

That had shocked him, at first, when he had gone up to Oxford and met with him again – the rasp of it.  But then, old Upright had always been swift with the razor – a clean shave and a touch of powder on his skin, and he was as flawless as he had ever been. 

So, yes, if she could have had Dickie, why on earth would she even glance at Edward? The only times he quickened her pulse, the only times she appeared to melt in to his arms, or turn her head for his kisses were when he played the unconscionable tyrant.

Edward reminded himself not to pout, not to sulk. 

It wasn’t in character. 

To hell with character. It wasn’t like him. 

Whenever someone else was being admired, Edward Valance only laughed and added his voice to the adoring clamour, making himself the most charming of their suitors so that everyone could be reminded who the real centre of attention should be. 

If he could only do that now – sweep her in to his arms and swing out of the carriage door, leap astride a horse and away. 

Did she like to drive? He wondered, Would she get a thrill from a cabriolet racing full-tilt along moonlit paths? If she knew him, the real him, would she be happy to dance every set with him, wearing out her three pairs of shoes in a night and pushing all the darkness away? 

Or did she like sweet things – macaroons and dates, and silvered almonds? Would she let him press them to her tongue and toast her with champagne.

Would she laugh?

He remembered her laugh, from when they had first met, before he had hatched his idiotic schemes. 

If he could just make her laugh for him again.