The room seemed smaller than it had been: four walls imprisoning her, and her jailor the man she was supposed to marry.
CHAPTER 15
Her dreaming that night was the most lucid yet. Seton came to her door and, this time, Onora made no effort to rebuff his advances. Instead, it was she who led him within. They were not man and woman but creatures of flesh, bestial in their desires, and there was no end. All the while, a presence filled the room: something which exalted in their frenzied mating, feeding on the scent of their bodies and their abandoned moans.
Please, stop! I beg you.
Onora jarred awake, her heart pounding. Bolting upright, she clutched the bed sheet,scouring every corner of her chamber. There was no one, but a sense of someone lingered.
A familiar call through the door made her jump. “Morning, dear.”
Taking up her dressing gown, Onora made herself presentable.
“Goodness! You’ve slept late.” The Reverend’s wife bustled in with a breakfast tray. “The others wanted to wake you, but I insisted you must need your rest. It’s the heat, don’t you think? Turns one peculiar, and you’ve a lot on your mind, no doubt.”
Onora could hardly meet the other woman’s eye. Did anything remain in her face that might give away her carnal thoughts? She was certainly glad of the tray. Presenting herself for the inspection of the others was beyond her at this moment; nor did she wish to see Seton.
Mrs. Griffiths motioned for Onora to sit but showed no sign of leaving. Instead, she pressed Onora to take a bowl of fresh fruit and creamy white yogurt with honey drizzled on top. Shepoured from the coffee pot, adding the cream and sugar as Onora liked it.
“We heard something last night, and Wilfred said to me that it sounded like a to-do. A lover’s tiff, perhaps?” The Welshwoman gave her a knowing look.
Onora almost choked on the spoonful she’d swallowed. How much had the two of them heard? She dreaded to think.
Seton’s language had been foul.
Was everyone aware? No one had come to her aid, except the duplicitous Monsieur Auvray.
It was too mortifying to contemplate.
“Now, don’t you be worrying. Men do say things in the heat of the moment, and then regret them after. Lord Seton was most concerned at breakfast and gave me this note to pass to you. It will be some sort of apology, I’m sure.” Mrs. Griffiths held out an envelope from her pocket. “If you need a listening ear, you know where to find me.”
Once alone again, Onora read.
I cannot recall half of what passed between us last night, but Auvray tells me I overstepped the mark. I must blame the digestifs, of which I consumed more than is usual, and an over-eagerness on my part. If I shocked you, I beg you will forgive. Once we are married, nothing shall hold us back from what is natural and pleasurable.
Yours,
Seton
In distaste, Onora folded the elegant notepaper, returning it to the envelope. It was a poor apology and hardly set her mind at ease. Seton had indeed shocked her, though there had been signs all along of his nature. As tofinding what he’d attempted ‘natural and pleasurable’, she begged to differ.
And yet…
It was not the thought of consummation that disgusted her, despite Seton’s forwardness, and her dreams causing her distress. The acts she performed in her sleep were disturbing because they seemed beyond her control.
The whispered conversations with her friends at Lady Margaret Hall had not prepared her for these awakened feelings, brought on by the knowledge of her imminent marriage. As for Seton’s behavior, part of her had rebelled, but she’d begun to go willingly into his arms. Despite all, she might well have given herself to him.
Had the strange, entrancing spell not been broken.
Onora shuddered. Time was running out, and she had to decide what to do. Was it possible to tame a man like Seton?
I need to get out of this room. To clear my mind. To think.
The others were gathereddown by the river, and Onora did not feel ready to engage in small talk, so she took herself farther, setting up her easel in the shade of a bottle palm toward the outer edge of the gardens, where the sands began. With her back to the villa, she began by sketching the familiar shape of the cliffs and their cragged shelves, dotted with shadows where tombs riddled the limestone. She kept her gaze determinedly from the direction of the sunken temple and the tent encampment not far off.
Before long, she was ready to apply the first wash of paint. She dipped her brush into the pot of water clipped upon the easel frame, then perused the tray of solid paints sitting uppermost in her box. Needing ochre, which was in the layer below, she lifted out the first tray, then the second, and was met by the items she’d secreted: the ankh, given toher by Tariq, and the scarab.
She drew back, not wanting to touch either. The scarab was an inanimate thing—a decoration and no more—but it represented an act that would forever smear her. She’d taken it when she had no right to do so, and she’d hidden the evidence.
