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.
The interior of the barn is neither smelly nor rustic. Luxurious rugs of various shapes, patterns, and sizes cover the floor. Some of the rugs are crimson and gold, others are blue with creamy white tassels. Brass tripods hold censers that unfurl scented smoke into the air, opening the way to a decadent world of candlelight and sultry music, of couches and cushions, of mattresses cloaked in smooth sheets and soft woven blankets. There are several low, square tables, some with game pieces, cards, and dice scattered over them, others bearing platters of food, trays of cups, and decanters filled with liquor.
Some of the guests are clustered around the games, while others laugh and drink. A girl plays a violin languidly, her bare legs draped over a man’s lap. A young man plays a pipe while two other men stroke his chest and thighs. There’s a piano off to the right, which piques my interest. Mama taught me to play, and I used to practice every day for years until we had to sell the piano. I drift toward the instrument instinctively, as if it’s a refuge, an old friend. The bench is empty, draped in a gauzy bit of scarlet cloth.
Parts of the room are swathed in deeper shadow, but I’m too nervous to inspect those shadows more closely, fearing the things I might see. I want sex, and yet I’m terrified of it, too. I don’t know if that’s normal.
Music is seduction, but music is also safety. The piano offers me a way to nestle between the two, to find refuge until Beresford seeks me out.
Without bothering to remove my cloak, I sit down and place my fingertips against the keys. For a moment, I listen to the merged melody of the pipe and the violin, and then I join them with a flutter of twinkling notes. Behind me I hear murmurs of delight as the other guests notice the addition to the music, and I smile, feeling my rapid heartbeat ease a little. I can contribute something here.
The other musicians and I meander together through melodies that are akin to each other, floating in the same key, harmonizing, echoing, wandering and whispering. I lose myself in the music, in memories of how much I used to enjoy playing.
Until a large, muscular hand covers both my eyes. I smile, recognizing the pine and citrus scent. Though I can’t see, my fingers never falter on the keys.
With his other hand, Beresford drags my hood from my head, revealing my hair. His mouth brushes the curls by my ear. “I thought I recognized your soul in that music.”
My breath hitches. “You seem to think you know me. May I remind you that this is only our third meeting?”
“Some people only need a few encounters to understand the fundamentals of each other’s being.” His fingers slide away from my eyes, trailing along my cheek. “Your skin is exquisitely soft.”
“Thank you.” I’m trembling. Why am I trembling? I wanted this… Iwantthis. I just need a little courage to follow through with it. “I need some wine.”
“Of course.” He plants a bearded kiss on the side of my neck, and a thrill ripples between my legs.
His presence disappears for a moment, and I take the opportunity to unfasten my cloak with shaking fingers and let it drop to the floor by the bench.
Beresford returns with a corked bottle, which he sets atop the piano. “If you would allow me.”
I nod without knowing what I’m agreeing to, and before I can rethink my response, his massive hands close around my waist, and he lifts me, swinging me around and setting me on top of the piano. He catches my skirt in his hands, pushes it up, and tucks it around my hips so both my legs are bare.
“You have fucking gorgeous legs.” He grabs my foot, unbuckles first one shoe, then the other, and tosses them aside. Then he places my bare toes on the piano keys and begins playing around them, a bold, tempestuous melody that remains both majestic and coherent despite the way his fingers have to dance around the keys where my toes are perched.
I watch his face while he plays—the little dent between his dark brows, the way he bites his plush lower lip occasionally, the way the candlelight glows on his high cheekbones. The music seems to pour from somewhere deep inside him, some violent, glorious, passionate place that I ache to visit.
His loose white shirt is open partway down his chest, revealing flecks of blue hair across his massive pectorals. Unless he dyes the hair on his chest, the color must be natural. I’ve never heard of anyone whose hair was naturally blue.
