“Think it over,” he says. “I’ll send the carriage for you on that night, at half past eleven. It will wait for a quarter of an hour, then depart. If you decide to attend, I will ensure that you have safe transportation back home before dawn, or whenever you decide to leave. As far as the activities I have planned, you can participate as much or as little as you wish.”
I swallow and nod. “Thank you.” I withdraw my foot, and he rises, extending a hand to help me up. I accept the offer, solely for the chance to touch him. There’s a tingling buzz between his skin and mine, everywhere our palms and fingers press together.
Rotating his hand to encircle my wrist, he tugs me closer. “If you decide to attend, you may enjoy yourself with anyone you like.” His voice is low, his eyes fierce. “But know this—I would kill for the chance to make you come.”
A shattered breath trembles on my lips. I can’t speak.
Beresford leans in, bringing his face near mine, letting his warm breath ghost over my skin as his beard tickles my cheek. “Come back inside.”
Somehow I find my voice. “Will you dance with me?”
“If I do, I will forget myself and touch you in places I shouldn’t,” he rumbles. “No, I will not dance with you, but I will introduce you to a few men who will… if you promise not to enjoy their company too much.”
My mouth is upturned to his, our breath blending as I whisper, “I promise.”
He frowns, his eyes on my lips, his face darkening as if he’s in pain. His teeth are bared, and I feel the strain of his body through the hand clutching my wrist. His breath heaves through his clenched jaws, and for a moment I feel infinitely fragile and consumable, like delicate prey in the grip of a powerful predator.
But he lets me go. Spins on the heel of his boot and strides back toward the greenhouse.
I follow him. I smile when he introduces me to several gentlemen, including the one who nearly asked me to dance earlier. Encouraged by Beresford’s obvious approval of me, the gentleman requests my company for the waltz, and we whirl away from our host, arm in arm.
After that first dance, several other men ask for one. I try to focus on them, to pose polite questions and make cordial conversation. But my attention keeps straying to the tallest and broadest man in the room, the one with the blue beard and the devouring eyes. He smiles at his companions, twirls them prettily, and makes them laugh, but his eyes find me over and over. Every time our gazes meet, it’s a thrilling arrow to my heart. He’s the hunter, shooting bolt after bolt into my chest, even though I want to tell him it’s enough, because he already made the killing shot.
I already belong to him.
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 helphimself, that hemusthave 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.
