Chapter 4
I’ve read vague references to debauched parties in books, but I never thought I would be given the opportunity to participate in one.
I’m not cautious by nature. Caution has been forced upon me due to my curse. Still, I try not to be impulsive about this decision. I spend the next few days evaluating my options and considering all the benefits and dangers of attending Beresford’s night of sin.
He said I could participate as much or as little as I want, which is reassuring, I suppose… although I don’t know him, so it could be a lie. There might not be anyone else at this “party.” He could be luring me in so he can get me alone and ravage me.
If that’s what he wants, he could have done it in the garden. Perhaps he feared I would scream and he would be caught. Maybe he wants the estate to be silent and empty when he brings me into his mansion and violates my body.
The idea doesn’t scare me as much as it should.
In fact, when I picture him throwing me onto a couch, ripping desperately at my clothing and swearing that he can’t help himself, that he must have me, I become undeniably wet.
Once, during such a fantasy, I slip away to my room and put my fingers between my legs…
but I’m interrupted by my mother calling for me, so I can’t finish.
The frustration of unsatisfied desire seethes inside me until the appointed day arrives.
On the morning of the party, I have almost made up my mind to attend. If I don’t go, I will regret it. It will be a missed opportunity, and I have so few of those that it would be a crime to let one slip by.
But am I ready to let a man like Beresford have me? What if I summon a demon in the heat of the moment? What if I can’t climax? What if Beresford is rough or cruel? What if people find out what I’ve done?
Virginity is not as highly prized in our kingdom as it is in others.
Women can have sex before marriage and still find a husband.
But I have a feeling that our neighbors would balk at the idea of a local landowner hosting wild sex parties on his estate.
Those who participated would likely be shunned—or at least the women would.
The social expectations for men are more relaxed, of course—unfairly so.
Then again, people already view me with caution, so there’s no real harm in letting Beresford have me. I have no marriage prospects, so my participation doesn’t rob me of some predetermined future.
What does give me pause, however, is keeping a secret from Anne.
She and I have always been close, and we tell each other everything.
After the dinner at Beresford’s estate, on the way home, she confided to me and Mama that two young men had asked if they could call on her, and that Henry Partridge had reaffirmed his interest in her specifically.
Of course I was thrilled, and I said so, but it felt strange not to be able to share my own exciting experience.
I couldn’t tell her about the way Beresford touched my thigh, or his invitation to the secret party, or the way he said, in that ferocious tone, “I would kill for the chance to make you come.”
Every secret I keep puts a little more space between me and my family. Maybe that should scare me, but it makes me feel stronger, more mature. I’m already an adult, but this is a new level of maturity—protecting my privacy, making bold choices for myself. Growing up.
I think I’ll go to the party. I need this. It’s what I want.
What’s the worst that could happen? Rape and cruelty? The summoning of a truly dangerous demon? Public ridicule?
Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t go.
I’m still debating at eleven o’clock, when I rise from my bed, put on the best undergarments I own, and slip on a simple red dress over it all.
I leave my hair loose and long, and I apply touches of the lip and cheek tint that Anne and I make ourselves, from the same berries that lent color to our ball gowns.
I darken my brows and lashes, too, shading them more heavily than I did for the dinner.
If I’m going to be bold and daring, I may as well look the part.
The house is deathly silent, and every movement I make seems loud as a thunderclap, even though I try to manage the wood-handled brushes and the little tins of cosmetics as quietly as I can.
By candlelight, I stare at myself in the mirror, pleased with the way the dress shows off my collarbones and cleavage.
My hair tumbles over my shoulders in silky waves, and my lips look like crimson velvet.
My eyes shine softly, framed by my dark brows and thick lashes.
Tonight I feel more beautiful and sensual than I ever have.
It would be a shame to waste this feeling.
When I’m old and I look back on this night, I want to know that I was brave enough to take a risk.
To claim some pleasure for myself. To spend one night being dazzlingly sinful, instead of living in a perpetual state of apology for my own existence.
With my shoes in hand, I creep to my bedroom door, ease it open, and emerge into the hallway.
I take care to step in the least creaky places as I navigate the second-floor hall and then the stairs.
After taking my red cloak from its peg, I leave by the kitchen door, knowing it will squeak less than usual because I oiled its hinges earlier today.
I suppose I had already decided what I was going to do, deep in my heart, even though my head was still debating.
Closing the kitchen door behind me, I pause to buckle my shoes before walking around the house to the lane.
My transportation arrives a minute later, its wheels barely making a noise against the dirt.
It’s not the big coach that carried my family to the dinner—it’s a lightweight cabriolet, just big enough for one person, drawn by a single horse with unusually long ears.
There’s no driver, but the moment I climb in, the horse sets off, as if she knows exactly where to go.
The lack of a driver is odd. The horse’s rabbit-like ears are strange. Then again, everything related to Beresford is unusual. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him. Like calls to like. Mystery answers the mysterious.
Guilt nibbles at the edges of my consciousness during the drive.
Not only am I deceiving my family, but I failed to check on Grandmother Riquet this week.
Not for any good reason, but simply because I didn’t want to.
Selfish of me, yes. Cruel, even. But I did speak of her to Marduc, the owner of the general trade shop in the village, and he said he would send his boy Herron out to check on her.
I’ve never liked Herron—he’s been a cheater and a sneakthief since we were both in the village school together.
I attended school in the mornings from age six to twelve, at which point my summonings became too frequent and Mama decided to teach me at home.
I remember that Herron would peep through a crack in the outhouse when one of the girls was in there.
We told the teacher many times, but he never punished Herron for it.
I saw Herron a few weeks ago, and even though he has a patchy beard now, he’s got the same lazy swagger and beady-eyed sneer that always made me uncomfortable.
I’ve also heard rumors that he takes ammercy, a mineral potion that gives users a prolonged sense of euphoria but gradually damages the brain.
It’s supposed to be banned, but he must have a source.
Herron Marduc is not the sort of person I would trust to check on Grandmother Riquet. I doubt he would even have the fortitude to walk all the way to her cottage.
I salve my conscience a bit by promising myself that I’ll visit her tomorrow or the next day.
We can’t spare much food since we’re stocking up for winter, but surely I can find something.
Or perhaps I can sneak a few treats away from the party tonight, something that won’t spoil that I can offer her as a gift.
I’ll bring her some packets of herbal tea as well, the blend that Anne and I perfected together.
I’ll devote as many hours as I can to caring for her and cleaning the cottage.
Even if she frightens me again, I won’t leave.
She’s an old lady. As long as she’s not wielding the crossbow or a pitchfork, she can’t actually hurt me.
I owe her for all the years she invested trying to help me control my ability.
The cabriolet halts, and a footman opens the door and helps me out. “Welcome, miss. Please follow the lights.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward a path bordered by hedges and lined with torches. Then he goes to the horse’s head and leads her away.
It seems I was brought to a different part of the property this time.
I spot the towering shape of the mansion in the distance, boldly black against the dark sky.
There’s a light in one of the windows. But the torches lead away from the main house, their flames torn and smoking in the cold midnight breeze.
Holding my skirts up with one hand and pulling my cloak tighter around me with the other, I forge into the tunnel of the hedges and follow it deeper into the vast gardens of Valenkirk.
The route takes several twists and turns before depositing me in front of a huge barn made of giant logs, with a sharp triangular roof.
The chinking between the logs is solid, with no light seeping between them. Everything is dark.
In front of the barn’s entrance stands another footman. He pulls back one of the doors for me without comment, and I duck inside.