After that evening, things changed between Forthenby and Serafina. 

Oh, her husband still rode out during the day – dining, meeting friends, doing who-knew-what – leaving Serafina to her own concerns. Likewise, when they went to call upon his respectable connections, he would still play cards or discuss business with the men of the house while she was left, shy and struggling with her French – but he no longer sought to avoid her company or her eye. 

She began to see that, among his own set, he was not the aloof forbidding man she had met at a public ball. In his bright clothes, he was still very much the strutting bantam Mary had described, but his behaviour was gracious, energetic, even charming. 

Serafina did not allow herself to be fooled. One did not judge a man by the way he treated his equals, but rather by his attitude to his underlings and inferiors. 

She thought of Richard. Of herself.

Yet that was harder to keep in mind, for she herself appeared to have received a promotion in his esteem.

Forthenby’s arm was forever held out to take her own, his lips always pressed against her hand, his fingers busy – taking her shawl, her cloak or parasol, before passing them on to a servant. The attentions were constant, pronounced enough to set all the wise matrons shaking their heads and fluttering their fans at the sight of such a handsome young nobleman so helplessly besotted. His language positively dripped with those needling, insincere endearments, his visible affection a clear sign of everything in him which she found most odious.

So, she tried to remain aloof, imperious, accepting the tribute of his affection without returning it, fighting every day the sense that she was nothing more but an animal in his menagerie, that this apparent affection was little more than a tug upon her leash, to reminding her of who was master. 

Meanwhile, her little store of savings grew too slowly to be of any help. 

So it stood, that night at a ball in some grand private house outside the city when Serafina sat beside her husband, and watched the couples dance. 

One of the more minor trials of being a woman too recently married to have tired of her husband and taken a cicisbeo, was that the eligible young blades eyed her husband warily, and kept their distance, leaving her the far slimmer pickings of gallant, married men. 

It made balls a far duller affair, and dancing somewhat less of a pleasure. Forthenby, meanwhile, seemed to take pleasure in playing their romance to the room, taunting her with the thought of his admiration, his desire. 

Thus tonight, he had danced every set so far with her, and when she wearied of it, protesting that she was tired, that she was over-hot, that she must sit, he attended no-one else, but procured her a quiet seat, a glass of cold champagne. His eyes were upon her decolletage, and there was a wicked, lopsided smile upon his face.

She felt her facade of ice falter and crack. 

“Enough, my Lord,” she said.

“Fire again, my sweet?” Forthenby’s was a little flushed with wine. “And I thought I had been so gentle with you.”

“Must you persist,” she spoke low and swift, “with these ridiculous attentions?”

“And open myself to the charge that I was neglecting my lovely, young wife?”

“It had never troubled you before, my Lord.”

“Then someone must have explained to me the error of my ways. Or perhaps it was your kind attentions at the opera, my love.”

She raised her gloved hand, and slapped him. He made no move to stop her. 

Serafina stared, terrified of what people might think, at what he might do next – but Forthenby did nothing, and the room continued around them as though there were nothing amiss. 

She realised that they were seated in some kind of alcove which kept them out of general sight. More than that, Forthenby stood between her and the room.

She flushed as her husband smiled down at her. 

“Have you worked out your frustration, my dear?” He asked, then caught her hand, which still hung in the air near her face, pressing her wrist just hard enough to bring an edge of pain. “Please do not allow me to impede you if you have more to express.”

“Unhand me.”

“But you’re struggling so prettily.” He closed his grip a little tighter around her unresisting hand, leaning in and kissing her full on the mouth. His breath was richly sour with champagne, his lips cool and light. He pulled back slowly, releasing her hand, his eyes searching for something in her own. 

“How dare you? In public? How dare you even-?”

“Because our hosts are the most discreet people imaginable. Besides, what is the advantage of rank if it does permit one to behave as one wishes?” His hand brushed against her face, “Now, wife, kiss me.”

“No,” she said, shrinking back, “I do not wish to.”

“You do not wish to?” but he was closer to her now, bending over her, one arm hooked about her waist, holding her fast, his fingers tracing across her thighs. 

Serafina stared into his face, not quite believing what he was doing. All around them were the noises of the ball, but it seemed the alcove concealed them utterly. 

Forthenby bowed until his mouth above hers, lips parted, almost touching her own. “No?”

She tried to move, or rather she tried to tell her body to move, but there was something hypnotic in the warmth of his breath on her lips, in the sudden sincerity of his bright, blue eyes. 

“No, you do not wish to kiss me?” he said again, his voice singsong, hardly more than a whisper. 

She wished to scream that she did not, that he should release her, that he should take the burning pressure of his fingers from her ribs, that she would otherwise fight him away and see him off. 

Yet, now that she was held, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to relax in to the strength, the certainty of that grip. Forced to look at him, to see that face which she despised, she could only acquiesce. 

She could not move. She could not move an inch as her self-respect and something else battled in her. 

“You would rather I forced you?” Forthenby tightened his grip.

She could not look at him. Her breath was short, no longer in her control. Every muscle in her was taut. She felt herself at the brink of tears. 

“Is that the truth, wife? You want this villain to force your lips against his so you can play the martyr? So you can believe yourself a virgin abused?”

She said nothing.

“Well?”

She turned her face away from him. 

“Don’t think that I could not, madame.” His voice was low, gentle, his touch on her face like a caress. “I could take far more than a kiss from you.”  

Surely, she thought, surely you would not, but somehow it was easier to resign herself to the thought that he might, that she had no power, that he would have his way and she need not consent to him.

“Oh, you like that idea, my love?”

Had she moved? Had she made any sound? 

Forthenby began a slow caress with the hand that pulled her towards him, ran his fingers up and down along the line of her stays. It sent tremors through her and she fought herself, fought the urge to protest, fought the need to have him near her.  

“I expect an answer, madame.”

Serafina tried to speak, but she could not make sense, could not make the usual flow of language come to her mouth. 

Forthenby brushed his lips against her own, but nothing more than that.

“You’ll have to repeat that,” he said, still soft.

“No,” she said, her voice coming at last, but too small, too uncertain, “No, I do not like that idea.”

“Then you shall have to kiss me of your own free will.” She felt the breath of his laugh. “If, that is, you want a kiss.” 

She thought that he would pull away if only she did not move, that he would laugh and call her a prude, but he only held her, so gentle, so absolute.

 She should struggle. If she fought him, then perhaps she would be herself again.

 Instead, she felt her body give out a long sigh, her head slipping forwards, her lips touching his with some unknown surrender. She felt all her good sense fall away and almost, almost, she welcomed whatever came next.

But Forthenby only lowered her back in to the chair and touched his fingers to his mouth. 

Serafina’s face flushed hot and scarlet, and she snatched up her fan, fingers curling and tense, eyes starting with tears. 

She must not let him see her face, must not let him see this uncertainty.  

“Lost for words? Why, my dear Countess, that is entirely unforeseen.”

“I hate you,” she whispered in to the fan.

“I will try not to lose sleep over it.” He raised his hand to his lips again, smiled. “Tell me, does it trouble you, madame?”