Chapter Twenty

Content Notes can be found here

Lord Forthenby was in a wild mood. 

Serafina dressed for the opera at the usual hour and awaited his knock at the door of her rooms, but the time passed, and none came. In the end, she went down to meet him, but although it was a little past the time they would usually depart, and their carriage stood ready, Forthenby was not waiting for her. 

Time continued to pass. She thought of the press outside the opera house, of getting late to their box, of – however fashionable it might be – missing the prelude. Almost, she was tempted to leave without his escort, but knew that not only would that cause scandal of stepping out unattended, it might stir her husband to a wrath she was not prepared to face.

She sat, therefore, in the carriage waiting, feeling the minutes tick by, with a growing certainty that she would not be attending the opera tonight. 

At last, however, her husband appeared and seemed, at first, some way from his usual cruel self. His courtesies to her were distracted rather than lascivious, and he made no effort to accost her. Instead, he fidgeted in his seat, and repeatedly drew a letter from his pocket, only to stare at it, and replace it without reading. His hands, when not twitching in their gloves, were forever straying to touch it, as though to check it were still there. 

Serafina knew that she should be pleased with his preoccupation, with the cessation of his attentions, but there was an energy about him which she could not like. Surely this intensity, this distraction, presaged... something. 

She remembered, again, the screams which she had heard. 

At the opera, the music seemed to soothe him. His frown softened away, and he reached less often for his pocket, for the letter within it. Instead, he went for his quizzing glass, his signet ring, his slipper of champagne. This last more than anything else, and with each glass he drained, his movements became less unsettled, his posture more relaxed. By the evening’s end, his distraction was replaced with a strange gregariousness that crackled about him like the threat of lightening in the sky. 

He began, once more, to pay Serafina attentions – taking her arm to sweep her about among the other notable faces, kissing her hand, gripping her fingers tight. His movements were rapid, fierce, his bows to his friends as swift and precise as the crack of a carriage whip, and his conversation, while genial, was as driven and forceful as any argument. 

A little fighting bantam, Serafina thought, but without Mary to support the pleasantry, she could find no amusement in it.

“Come,” Forthenby said, more than once, with almost savage flippancy. “Let us enjoy ourselves.” 

In any other man she might have thought it the symptom of some underlying turmoil, and felt some pity for him. 

But Forthenby permitted her no such tender feeling. A sort of rage was in every arm he put around her waist, every time he pulled her towards him with a swaying tug that was surely improper, in the way he grinned, showing his teeth as his glance flashed over her form. 

He would not leave her alone.

Most evenings, he seemed content to let her go about her own business between his harassment. Tonight, however, she was suffered to look at nothing but him, to hear no conversation but his own, to be subject, constantly, to his looks, his touch, his smile.

And, God forgive her, but she answered to it – relaxed into the tug of his hands, was fired by his frenetic, dangerous energy. He passed it to her, as though it were a disease, and by the time they returned to their rooms, she was flustered, half-drunk, almost afraid of the high thrill of emotion racing through her. 

After an evening of being whirled and caught and called to face him, in the dim, close space of their carriage, she could look at nothing else. Every detail of him seemed to blare across the space between them – the lace of his jabot, the embroidery-chased silk of his waistcoat, the dark jewel glinting on the white cloth over his throat. 

Bewitched, she was bewitched. 

Serafina swallowed the saliva that was building in her throat, and tried to make herself look away. 

Forthenby smiled, cruel and reckless, a little flushed by the wine.  “Oh come, my dear, what crime have I committed now?”

She could see his teeth, a little crooked, but still white and strong.

She turned her head away, unable to bear his scorching gaze upon her face, unable to force her voice past the tightness in her throat.

“No,” said Forthenby, and his gloved hand was upon her chin, pulling her towards him. “Come, madame, surely you charge me with something?” His breath was sharp with wine, his tone patronizing, “I would hear how I have offended you now.”

Forced to look at him, she saw all the little details of his face - the smirk on his too-pretty mouth, the sharp, delicacy of his cheekbones, the tracery of golden stubble. 

She could not make herself speak.

His good humour fell away. His eyes pierced her, like two blades of tempered steel. “I expect an answer, madame.”

“Need… need you do anything new?” The words came out like panting breath, she stumbled over them. 

His fingers stroked upwards, wetting themselves in her mouth. She should bite him, should teach him that... 

Motionless, she permitted herself to be touched, flinching away from his gratified smile. 

“I wonder what my wife can want, to stare at me so and spout such hatred.” As he spoke, he caressed her face, her hair, her neck, and pinched his fingers, lightly, upon her ear. “My, my. What would she have me do?”

Shaking, hardly able to form the words, she said, “Leave me a…” but the pressure of his gloved hand on her neck broke her thoughts, shattered her words. 

She sniffed in breath and forced herself to start again, “Unhand –”

“Ah, uh, uh?” he mimicked, tracing the line back to her jaw again, pinching her lip. “No. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Unhand me,” she said again. Her eyes closed to shield herself from his gaze, her lower lip slipping from his grasp. As she spoke, she heard how timorous her voice had become, and detested it. “Unhand me this instant, sir,” she said with rather more force.

“Oh, my sweet bluestocking.” He released her. “There. Look. I’m not touching you. What else might I do to serve your pleasure?”

Confused, lost, Serafina searched vainly for some fury, some venom, “I–”

“Yes?” 

And still he did not lay his hands against her blazing skin, still he did not close the gulf between them. Instead, he leaned back a little, let that odious smile spread a wider upon his face.

She could think of nothing to say.

“You need only command me. I am your devoted servant.” He pursed his lips, pouting at her silence, “No words, my darling? No tender endearments for your spouse?”

“I despise you,” she managed at last, but it was mumbled, and she did not convince even herself. 

“Oh,” and he drew the expression out, leaning towards her, one hand upon his cane, the other finding a resting place upon her thigh, “I see. That makes sense. You revile me and repudiate me, and would that I were gone?” His voice was soft but mocking.

She flinched back, or tried to, but the pressure of his hand on her thigh arrested her. 

No. It did not. He was barely touching her. 

If he were trapping her, then the bonds he had lain were upon her mind. She felt she might cry. 

“Naturally, there is nothing I might do or say would persuade you to endure my loathsome embrace. No?” And he splayed the fingers on his hand.

Serafina felt a thousand needles of heat spread from every point where the pressure of his fingers lay. She shivered.

“Yes, you cannot endure a second spent in my company, can barely bring yourself to gaze upon me. Is that not so, madame?”

She turned her head aside, unable to face him.

“Is that not so?” He hissed it, each word separate, fierce and demanding.

And, cowed, cornered, she shook her head.

“Say it aloud.” And there it was, in those cruel words, that edge of victory, “Say it so I can hear you.”

“No, my Lord.”

His fingers were under her chin again, forcing her to look at him. “No, it is not so, or no you will not speak aloud?” He barely paused. “Come now, which is it to be? Do you wish me to begone and never touch you again? You need only speak, and I’ll obey.”

And detesting herself, she whispered, “No.”

“No,” he confirmed. There was something grim in his voice, “You’re enjoying this.”

She nodded, even though it had not been a question, even though – as her head moved in assent – she wanted only to run and hide. Instead, she stared into that shadowed, beautiful face, and watched stark, gloating villainy there. 

Forthenby touched her hair, and gave a long, long sigh. “Very well, Miss Tooting. I suggest we descend, and I shall join you above.” 

That was when she realised that the carriage had not moved in some time, that they were halted, waiting for my Lord’s signal. 

Serafina felt a rush of liquid terror.

Forthenby rapped his cane against the roof of the carriage and for the barest of seconds, she could have sworn the expression on his face was of sorrow. 

Or of shame.