Chapter Eighteen

Serafina took of her gloves, finger by finger, and hurled them across the room. 

Then, with a huff of furious breath, she stood, walked over to them, and picked them up, smoothing them as she carried them back to her dressing table. When she could trust her face to stay tranquil, she touched the cord to summon Laurette, and permitted herself to be undressed, her hair let down, her jewels returned to their boxes, her shoes taken from aching feet. 

After weeks of hauteur, Laurette finally seemed satisfied with her mistress, and so fussed and praised, making fond, disparaging comments about the way “Milord’s attentions” had disarrayed their careful work. She implied, although not strongly enough to be insolent, that if ‘Milord’ had began to pay attention to his wife, it was in no small part due to Serafina’s eventual willingness to submit to her maid’s judgement.

Serafina pressed her lips together and tried not to feel sick. If she heard more screams tonight, more sounds of violence, she would...

No. No. She had given Forthenby what he wanted, had acquiesced to his desires, let him walk laughing from the scene. That was the reason she had complied with his demands – to spare some other the effects of his wrath, to keep his violence, his cruelty, focused solely upon herself. 

 That was the only reason. 

Serafina felt herself washed with hot, dreadful shame. 

Laurette noticed the blush, of course, and made knowing comments about men and their desires, inviting confidences. 

Serafina looked away, trying to seem coy, girlish, pleased. Trying not to alienate the one possible friend she had in this household. 

She remembered how it had felt: Forthenby’s lips against her own, the slight taste of his powder, the softness of his lips, the way that they smiled. Her own mouth still seemed to tingle with it – a kiss pressed upon her against her will, against her stated desire, a kiss snatched in a moment of passion. 

She had felt so frozen, so trapped.

And she had not wanted to deny him. 

Admit it. To yourself, if no one else. 

She had wanted seize his neck in desperate hands, to pull him to her, to feel his tongue against her own, his teeth scraping gently on her lips, wanted to press against him, to bind them together. 

No. 

It was worse than that. 

Forthenby was right. 

He had always been able to see in to the darkest, vilest corners of her mind and to paint those desires upon her, the way that Laurette’s rouge brought false flowers to her skin. She had not wanted a mere kiss, a great swell of nearness and passion. She had wanted his hands slamming her back against the seat without a thought for her comfort or her pain, had wanted his mouth against her resisting lips, had wanted to struggle, even to cry, and for it all to be in vain. 

She had wanted him to have his way with her. 

Oh, sweet Lord. 

Unable to bear the teasing, the affection any more, Serafina said, “Thank you, Laurette. That will be all.” 

Alone, pacing her room, the music from the opera rang in Serafina’s head, beautiful beyond measure, and tarnished by the heat of Forthenby’s thigh against the palm of her hand. Again, and again, she scrubbed her palms in the basin of water in her dressing room, but however much scented soap she used, there was nothing that could cleanse her of how very welcome the warmth, the strength of his flesh had felt beneath the cloth of his britches. No way to rid herself of the way it had felt for her fists to unclench, her fingers to come to rest upon him, the way they had almost itched with the temptation to press down, to caress. 

It would not do, it would not do. 

Almost in a rage, Serafina threw herself to her knees at side of her bed, clasped her hands together, and prayed like a child: Oh, Lord, take this uncleanness from me. Do not let me sin against Richard, against myself. Lead me not in to the snares of such wicked thoughts. 

Almost weeping, she asked God to make her clean, to wash away the sins of her actions and her desires. She asked Him to keep her truth to Richard, whom she loved. She asked for strength.

And even as she did, she thought of Doctor Dunning, who had managed to speak to her alone in the weeks before her wedding, leaning on his capacity as her spiritual advisor. Gentle, hiding whatever fear or disappointment, he had reminded her of the seriousness of the marriage contract. He had said that – though the mores and behaviours of the Society she was about to enter may be very different from those she had been raised in – the shape of virtue and vice remained the same. That no man in England could force a woman into marriage, and that if – in the truth of her heart – she could not honour and esteem her husband, she had no business giving him her hand. 

Marriage, he had told her, was a vow before God.

Yet, here she was, praying to that same God, and all her prayers, her hopes, her very steadfast love, was adulterous. Even Dr Dunning – gentle, kind, quietly radical as he might be – would condemn her for it. 

However her heart might be bestowed, her husband was Lord Forthenby. 

Perhaps she should be praying for something else altogether. 

Perhaps she should not be praying at all. 

Sickened, tired beyond measure, Serafina wrung her hands together, as the soft, ardent invective of her words stopped. As a girl, she had read Shelley and Hume while her mother looked the other way but, comfortable in a faith so easy it had seemed innate, she had given no serious thought to their beliefs. 

Never had she felt so bereft, so helpless, so alone. 

Childhood stories, school room morals shouted at her that her faith was being tested, that her devotion was being tried, but what aid or comfort did such convictions provide? How would that would protect her, or any other poor wretch, from Forthenby’s wrath?

For Serafina’s husband was a wicked man, of that, Serafina had no doubt. He had betrayed Richard to the Watch, framed him for murder. More than that, he was a debaucher, violent, and disdainful of the rules which kept society safe. He made his underlings suffer, taking out his frustrated lusts upon those whom he did not respect, and as to his wife, why, he punished her by... by...

Still on her knees, Serafina brushed the pads of her fingers against her lips. It was as though they had been kissed smooth. 

He punished his wife with shame, forced her to look at the ways in which she was like him, the ways in which he knew more about her darkest, most private thoughts, than she ever wished another soul to see.

Serafina was prepared to swear by everything she held dear that she detested Lord Forthenby – yet when he kissed her, her body had answered him. The greater violence, the crueller the disregard of that kiss, why, the more eagerly her body answered. 

She remembered her whimpered protests, her faint struggles, and they struck her as disgusting, almost flirtatious in their lack of sincerity. She thought of his mocking blue eyes, the sharp, dangerous lines of his face. His laugh was like a sword-thrust. When he deigned to look at her at all, he watched her with such coldness, such unashamed lust.

Had some fate drawn them together? Did she, on that base, dreadful level, deserve his attentions?

Would she ever be worthy of her Mr Thornton again?

No. She was not worthy of Richard.

She had debased herself. For all that she need only think upon him to see him in her mind, the memories were tainted, corrupted by thoughts of Forthenby. Richard had touched her, held her, so seldom, and now her whole skin seemed to be aflame, rioting, desperate for contact.

Her wrists remembered the way they had been gripped, twisted, to the very verge of pain. Her palms remembered the heat of Forthenby’s chest through his clothes. Her lips remembered spitting on to that smug, youthful face.

 And, oh, the way he had laughed at her, and the strength in the hard muscles of his legs. The, God forgive her, the swelling in his britches beside her hand. Then, like a poison seeping through her mind, it was only a step to think of how Peach – Henry – had smiled down at her, how he had gripped her ankle, how masterful his hands had been...

She should not think so – might as well think fondly of Laurette because of the firm hand with which she tightened stays, the hard press of her fingers keeping Serafina’s head still as she pushed the painful hair-pins in to place. 

But was there no pleasure to be found in such things? Had she not always thrilled, just a little, in giving her body over to another? In letting herself be moved about, controlled, made to do things which she had not chosen?

No. No, it was not so.

She had always railed that she was her own creature, that she would never bow her head, or admit herself the possession of another, and some fierce, sane part of her still believed that to be the truth. 

Yet how, how could hold fast to that faith when her whole body seemed to long for mastery, for tyranny, for control?

Serafina Valance clasped her hands together, and set out another desperate prayer to a God in whom she was no longer certain she believed.