23. St. Erth
After Sunday services, we met my London friends Lord Sheringham and Mr. Westruther walking along the streets of Rosewood Village. I had totally forgotten that I had offered to house them for a weekend of ptarmigan shooting. They joined us for a cold lunch over at the vicarage, Mrs. Elton insisting we come back for a proper hot dinner soon.
Catherine nodded her head and said all that was most proper, praising the graciousness of the dining room and the cuts of the meat.
I watched her talk, the way a curl of her auburn hair hung artfully over her neck. It was lovely the way her hair was arranged. It was perfectly arranged for me to rip her long locks out of their pins, send them flying, wrap the strands around my fist and yank, pulling her closer to me, onto my lap, under my body, on her knees.
How had I ever thought she was a little unimpressive dab of a thing?
She was a fucking sorceress, a witch, because I burned for my own goddamn wife all day long.
Her white and rose gown was molded perfectly to her body, the swells of her breasts ripe and enticing, the dress sweeping down her curves.
Even visiting in the sitting room made me ache with need for her.
I couldn’t wait until her belly was swollen, round with my baby. I wanted that evidence that I had claimed Catherine, that she was mine in every way possible.
Everyone she talked to, every person she looked at made me burn with jealousy. When she wrinkled her nose up at a joke, the tiny freckles there crinkling adorably, I wanted to kill the person who made her laugh. When her skin pinked when someone looked at her, I was mad with jealousy.
Those blushes were mine only.
Catherine was mine. I took her because I could and I fucked her because I could. And because no one was strong enough to stop me.
The sight of Catherine’s little purse, filled with my cum, nestled on her lap, made my cock twitch. Every time her thigh or arm brushed by mine, I burned with lust for her.
Since it was customary for the gentlemen to retire to a different room after a meal, Mr. Elton pointed down the hallway.
“Would you care to have some snuff?” he asked. “I have some very fine snuff just brought over from India.”
“Not particularly,” I said. “I’m sitting by my wife. Maybe if you bring it out here.”
Mr. Elton looked startled, darting his eyes around to the other gentlemen. Lord Sheringham’s eyes goggled with open astonishment, while Mr. Westruther merely looked confused. But my wife had just taken out her needlework and I liked watching her stitch.
“Certainly, my lord,” Mr. Elton said uncertainly, getting up and exiting the room.
I watched him leave with narrowed eyes. I hadn’t forgotten his overly-familiar greeting to Catherine.
When he came back I got up to and walked over to the other side of the room to dip some snuff, but my eyes remained on my wife.
“How is married life treating you?” Lord Sheringham asked.
“Tolerably well,” I said, my eyes on my wife.
Was that the hint of a purple mark on her throat where I had savagely kissed and sucked and bitten her? Fuck, it was pretty.
“I heard the Wendovers are in a bad place,” Mr. Westruther said. “Rumor in the Ton is that they’re regretting this marriage and trying to look for loopholes to annul it.”
I laughed without mirth.
“They can try whatever they like. They won’t be taking Catherine from me.”
Mr. Westruther took another reflective pinch of snuff. “Went to the opera house the other day, dear boy. They said they hadn’t seen you since your wedding.”
I shrugged, feeling my skin tighten. “I have no interest in opera singers anymore.”
My eyes sought Catherine, as they always did now, flicking up and down her body, where her quick clever hands plied her needle through the cloth.
The Garden of Eden.
And Catherine was my Eve.
But, unlike the serpent, now that I had fangs in my Eve, I wasn’t going to let her go.