Chapter 14
In bed that night, Onora attempted to ease her worry about Aunt Maeve.
She made herself picture her two aunts together again: Clodagh entering the house they shared in Cowley Place, finding Maeve well, occupying the armchair by the fire with a pot of tea and a plate of hot, buttered crumpets on the table beside.
That’s how it shall be.
Of course, it wasn’t only Aunt Maeve who occupied her mind.
There was no denying her apprehension over her forthcoming marriage—of which there had been much talk that afternoon by the ladies, and at the dinner table too.
Even the gentlemen had expressed an opinion on how the celebrations ought to be conducted, which Onora had found most unusual.
Seton would arrange the lodging of the necessary paperwork with the British authorities in Cairo, that their union might be recorded and recognized, and the Reverend Griffiths confirmed his willingness to oversee their vows, which might be exchanged in one of the capital’s Coptic churches.
She’d brought with her a rather fine silk costume that would be suitable for the occasion, ruffled prettily upon the sleeves and the bustle, and embroidered through the bodice.
It lay folded away.
Aunt Clodagh had suggested hanging it with her others, but Onora had been loath to do so, making some excuse of bridal superstition.
Still, she knew it was there, within the trunk at the foot of her bed.
Waiting.
To distract herself, she picked up the book Aunt Clodagh had given her.
All Things Useful! I’ll be the judge of that!
Flicking through, she could see that the contents were alphabetical, with a chapter on bunions right next to one on bravery, then bloating, then…‘Bedroom Matters’.
The subject of conjugation between the sexes might easily consume a whole book by itself. It is enough to say that where affection exists, and a man is patient, physical coupling may become a source of pleasure to both parties.
A whole book on conjugation! Now that would be worth reading.
Was there affection between her and Seton? It did not seem the right word. Her own feelings sat somewhere between fascination and fright. As for his, she supposed he must be fond of her. He wasn’t marrying her for wealth or status, so what else remained?
As for patience, it was not a quality she associated with the Marquess.
She could but hope he would be gentle with her when it came to the consummation of the wedding night, but a quiet, persistent voice told her that it would not be his way.
There was more granite than softness in those silvery gray eyes.
It was hard to imagine how it would be, having one’s husband place a certain part of his body inside the most private part of yours. Not that she was entirely without an inkling. In her dreams of late, she’d spent an unholy amount of time imagining all sorts of things.
Except, hardly ever with Seton.
Rather, those thoughts came far more readily with a certain Jack Balfour.
Wanton!
The sooner she was married, the better. It might cure her of these dreadful impulses. From what she’d been told, conjugation took no more than a few minutes, and was conducive to sleeping afterward, which could be no bad thing.
She read on…
Where deeper feelings are present, the act is a transporting experience, bonding man and wife so that none shall come between them.
For those who lack such feelings toward their husband, bedroom sports are more to be endured than enjoyed.
However, allow him as many freedoms as you can bear, even where his practices may be against your own inclinations.
Only ensure that he does not injure you and, in time, you may take pleasure in what first seemed abhorrent.
To be endured, as much as I might bear? Abhorrent practices? And risk of injury!
Onora knew the first time could be uncomfortable, but it surely wouldn’t pain her once she was used to the process.
Seton wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, would he?
She wasn’t so certain.
As for ‘deeper feelings’ making a difference, she couldn’t see how that worked at all.
On occasion, a headache or other ailment may be professed to avoid the matrimonial act, but wives should beware employing this tactic with regularity. Better that your husband finds his release in your arms than in another’s.
She would have to remember that, if Seton’s attentions were really too much to bear. The latter part of the warning was more disturbing.
Seton was a man of the world, and she’d no doubt his experience of lovemaking extended beyond the realms of his previous marriage, for he’d been a single man well into his thirties.
And since the death of his wife?
Almost seven years had passed.
Was it reasonable to expect that he’d been celibate in all that time?
It pained her to admit, but it seemed inevitable that he’d have sought ‘release’, as the guide put it. There were women who accepted payment for that sort of thing, or else men resorted to mistresses.
A mistress!
Her stomach turned.
Did Seton have one? She’d heard tell that some men kept their mistress, or more than one, long after they were married.
That was something she did find abhorrent.
I want a husband who’ll only have eyes for me. I want to be his everything!
Was it an unrealistic notion, born of reading too many romantic novels? Seton was no Mr. Knightley, nor Darcy.
More like an inscrutable blend of Rochester and Heathcliff.
She feared she was drawn more forcibly to the morally dubious elements of those characters than the upright principles of Miss Austen’s heroes. That being the case, she was likely attracting what she deserved.
Snapping the book shut, she tossed it away. Regardless of her ambiguous feelings for Seton, she wanted him to be a steadfast husband, faithful and devoted.
Ready for sleep, she wriggled under the covers, making herself lie still. She refused to spend half the night tossing, regardless of her crowded thoughts.
No sooner had she closed her eyes, however, did she hear hushed conversation. She would swear it was Seton and there were two other voices…Monsieur Auvray and Herr Müller. She’d thought everyone long since retired, but it appeared not.
Going to the window, she peered through the voile curtains. The men appeared to have come from the library and were crossing the courtyard, approaching the Auvrays’ room which was next to her own.
They stopped beneath the pergola, out of sight but close enough that snatches of conversation were audible.
“There is nothing to stop us.” There was excitement in Herr Müller’s voice.
Seton appeared to be in a similarly heightened state. “All these centuries! Wanting to be found, to be worshipped again, waiting until the perfect moment to command the winds and the sand, to reveal herself.”
“Until tomorrow, mes amis! Sleep well, and may your dreams be…satisfying.”
Onora craned her neck. Monsieur Auvray embraced the others, then she heard a door open and close again.
She let the voile drop.
They were clearly referring to the temple, and it was natural that Seton should discuss his plans for the site with his guests. Both were experienced; Seton would value their opinions.
And yet…
Something about the exchange was perplexing; fevered, almost.
Awe mixed with elation, as if what he’s been waiting for all his life is now within his grasp.
The discovery was momentous, and clearly a gateway to much more.
It was to Seton’s credit that he’d kept things quiet, seeking neither accolades nor renown—as would surely come once the newspapers were informed.
His dedication to the scientific recording of the temple’s interior these past years was commendable.
When three raps were sounded upon the door, her first thought was that Mr. Balfour had come. He was looking out for her as he had before, checking on her, knowing that her aunt was gone. No matter that it was late, and to come to her room alone and unbidden would be inappropriate in the extreme.
She rushed forward…and found herself facing Seton. He was leaning against the frame, impeccable in his evening wear but with a louche look that spoke of him having imbibed a great deal of alcohol.
“Not abed, my love?” His gaze roamed the chamber behind. “How promptly you answered my knock; almost as if you were expecting me.”
“I assure you, I wasn’t. I know we shall soon be married, Seton, but—”
He took no notice, sliding his hand round to cradle her nape.
“I always did like to see a woman in her night attire.” His gaze fell to her lips then to the lace-edged bodice of her nightgown.
“All that frippery, and so very little holding it together. Such flimsy fabrics you women do wear; the sort that tear so easily.”
“You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on you, Seton. I hardly think—”
Without warning, his fist grasped the plait into which she’d secured her hair. “Much as I enjoy games, my dear, I’m eager for something more direct this evening.”
The smell of whiskey on his breath made her recoil.
“Conventions are so dull, and I do hope you’re not going to bore me.” His grip around her hair tightened.
“Seton! Please! You’re hurting!” She tried twisting away but his hold was too firm.
“Look into my eyes.” He tugged her plait, making her head jerk back. He was so close she felt certain he was going to force his mouth upon hers. “That’s it.” Something gleeful entered his expression. “Look at me and nothing else. Part of you wants to fight but the impulse to surrender is winning.”
His gaze was overwhelming. The protest in her mind emerged as barely a whimper.
“I know all the things you’re hungry for.” He brushed light fingers over the front of her nightdress.
To her dismay, her anguish was laced with something far more powerful. A primal pulse radiated through her limbs and, as Seton eased the flimsy nightgown from her shoulder, she moaned. The air was cool on her skin, but his touch was hot and his caress gentle, working the bare flesh of her breast.
He bent to her ear, whispering. “Forget what you’ve been told. There is no good or bad. Only want. Only desire.”
She could hear nothing but his voice and the dark hum of her blood.
His fist no longer held her captive. Instead, he stroked down the length of her back, resting his palm to the hollow place above her buttocks.
His other hand gathered up the fabric of her gown, skimming her thigh, finding the curve of her bottom.
Possessively he pulled her to him, bringing her soft, yearning place to meet the hardness in his trousers.
Entranced by Seton’s words and the velvet pools of his eyes, she raised her leg, not caring how exposed she was, nor that they stood in the open doorway. She could not tear her gaze from his.
Instinctively, she knew what would happen. Seton was freeing himself. He was going to push inside her, joining his body to hers and, regardless of how much it might hurt, she wanted it.
His hand moved from her bottom to cup between her legs and he rubbed there, pushing with his finger, touching her in the most indecent way. “That’s it! Slick and wet for the one who owns you. A tight virgin cunt.”
The crudeness of his words sliced through the haze.
Seton was rubbing the head of his thickness where his finger had been. Bending his knees, he grasped her behind, hoisting her up.
“Against the wall like a tuppenny whore?” He smirked as he swung her round, pulling her knees around his hips. “All the better to fuck you, my dear!”
He was trying to breach her but she was resisting now, closing her mind to him. Wriggling, Onora escaped his pushing insistence, though she was trapped against the wall, pinned by his weight.
“Hold still!” He endeavored to make her look at him but she thrust the heel of her hand beneath his jaw, shoving back his head, and kicked with all her might.
Unceremoniously, he dropped her, and Onora crumpled to the floor.
Seton stood over her, his rage palpable. “You’ll pay for that!”
Curled in a ball, she dared not raise her face, nor make a sound. She was saved by someone calling from outside.
“There you are!” She recognized the Frenchman’s voice, his tone out of place, considering what had just passed. He was positively playful. “We have opened another bottle of champagne and Virginie is asking for you. Come, Seton. You know how she gets. She will have her way and is most insistent.”
There was a pause before Seton answered. “Very well. There is nothing here to hold my interest. Go to bed, Miss Montague, and think on how next you’ll greet me when I come to you.”
The door clicked closed.
For a time, Onora was unable to move, so great was her shock.
It was unfathomable! And Seton’s reaction when she had ceased obeying his will! Never would she have guessed how uncouth he could be.
The door had been open when Monsieur Auvray appeared.
What had he witnessed?
Humiliation engulfed her.
Seton had cared nothing for it, as if it were of no consequence who heard or saw them.
Her thoughts were interrupted by laughter on the other side of the wall.
Seton had gone to the Auvrays’ room, and they were drinking champagne, and…
Onora could not bring herself to contemplate the rest. She was not so innocent that she hadn’t seen the signs. Whatever Madame Auvray wished from her host, she didn’t doubt that Seton would oblige, and it seemed Monsieur Auvray was complicit.
An image flashed before her of the three of them, Seton doing to the other woman what he’d been about to do to her, and the Frenchwoman’s husband watching.
Or was his role more active?
She wished away the obscene picture.
Where do these thoughts come from?
I’m losing my mind!
Steading herself, she stood, going to the door, bolting it shut.
What is to become of me?
The room seemed smaller than it had been: four walls imprisoning her, and her jailor the man she was supposed to marry.