Chapter Thirty #5
The cold air swamped me as I caught myself on the edge of the desk, my mind still trapped in the haze of pleasure, my body
throbbing in time with my pulse. My breath came in shuddering gasps as I reached up to close my night rail in my fist.
My God. I had nearly . . . we had nearly . . .
I went cold to my soul, my body in torment, my mind in chaos.
I turned, wild-eyed and flushed, only to find Hugh’s back to me, his hands clenched around the edge of a nearby sideboard. His body was rigid, almost contorted with suppressed feeling. Desire. His own breathing seemed to rage in and out of him.
“Go to bed, Viola,” he said in a rough voice.
My cheek stung from where his stubble had scraped it, and I felt the ghost of his lips as though he had branded me with them.
I fumbled with my wrapper as I all but fled to the door, fighting the most infuriating flush of mortified tears. His voice
stopped me as I reached the study door.
“I want you.” His eyes burned with everything I felt. “But I refuse to be your regret.”
I spun on my heel, tearing down the hall with such speed and force that the wrapper billowed out behind me. My braid flapped
against my back like a retreating flag. The movement did nothing but worsen the heat he’d sparked beneath my skin.
My breath hitched as I climbed the stairs, but even as I reached my room, even after I slammed the door, I couldn’t stop moving.
I carved a path through the serene bedroom, my blood racing, my mind fixed on that last glimpse of him, the bleakness of his
eyes.
I refuse to be your regret.
“Oh, God.” I pressed the back of my hand to my lips, feeling faint again. I’d been so lost to the moment, I would have done anything
to have him closer, to bend his will to mine.
Including giving him his marital rights.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing a hand against the bedpost.
An unconsummated marriage could be easily annulled; we’d agreed to as much. And in the end, only God and the two of us would
know the truth of it either way.
Would I have regretted it? I truly didn’t know. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It had felt natural, inescapable—which, of course, was why religion and society delighted in finding new,
punishing ways to restrain a woman’s desire. It was the very trap Mama had fallen into, and I’d nearly thrown myself in after
her.
I want you.
Even before he’d said it, I’d felt it in the way he’d held his body back, as if it was the only way to resist touching me.
I saw it in the hunger of his glances, as though he wanted to steal every glimpse of my face to lock away in the dark chamber
of his heart.
Instead of being frightening, it was empowering. There was no reason to deny this—no reason the marriage couldn’t still be annulled if we kept it our secret. Giving in to a spark was better than allowing it to blaze out of control, wasn’t it? And once it was done, it would be done.
If only.
How deeply unfair that men could seek whatever pleasure they saw fit, dallying with mistresses and lovers outside of their
sacred vows, while women were forced into complete ignorance on lovemaking to “protect” our virtue.
I slid out of my wrapper, tossing it over one of the chairs beside the banked fire. The would-be captor’s essence had clung
to the dress I’d changed out of earlier, and I wasn’t surprised to find it lingering in the air, more potent to my nose now
that I had escaped it for a while.
Mrs. Keyes must have been up to look in on me after I’d gone downstairs, because the air was brimming with blood and the scent
of the trees carrying in through the open window. My skin was so sensitized, I swore I could feel the cool caress of the moonlight
as I crossed the room to the water basin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a pale slip of foolscap, half tucked beneath the bed. I knew I hadn’t imagined
something falling from the journal. I bent to retrieve it, bringing the paper into the bright moonlight to read it.
The parchment was soft with age, as if it had been handled countless times. I unfolded it again, a chill clawing down my back
at the sight of Mama’s handwriting.
Father,
There is nothing you can say or do that will change my mind. I cannot abide, nor forget, what you’ve done, and I want none
of it. For all the hideous accusations you have leveled at me, only one of our souls is bound for hell. My love for Dobbin
may have been a mistake, but I will not bring a child into this dark nightmare you have erected—
The letter fell from my nerveless fingers, fluttering back to the ground. I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to stanch the
bile and terror that rose in me.
Dobbin . . . Dobbin was . . .
A movement in the mirror above the washstand caught my attention, forcing my gaze up.
For a moment, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing.
A small figure was tucked in the velveteen darkness beside the wardrobe, as silent as a wraith: Mrs. Keyes, in her usual black dress, her face carved with terrible, focused malice.
And from her crown braid, she drew out a long, long black hairpin.
My heart punched up into my throat.
No. Not a hairpin.
A needle.