He growls and rounds the desk.
He kisses me, opening me with his tongue, stoking what flutters inside of me.
To my delight my body warms and begins to demandmore.
I push Alfred onto the desk. Then I put myself between his legs and set about to kissing him deeply and thoroughly, luxuriating in the warm desire that courses through me.
I can have him right here, right on this desk—wouldn’t that be the best way to christen it?
Then dimly, through my haze, I realize that something is wrong.
While Alfred kisses me back, there is something unsure in his kisses, something slow to respond. And when I press myself to him, there is no hardness in his trousers.
I draw away from him in confusion, looking into his face, my hands falling around his waistcoat.
There I feel a crinkle of paper. Without effort, my hand slips into thepocket and out comes a broadsheet.
When I see the image on it, I shut my eyes tight.
Stupid. Absurd.
I have seen many such things over the years and I have learned to laugh at them.
But this time when I open my eyes I can’t laugh.
“Annabelle,” Alfred says. “I am sorry?—"
I look into his face, which has gone rather ashen.
The image is a terrible one. It shows me, fat and leering, pouring wine down Alfred’s throat. Forcing him to bed me. To marry me.Seduction a la de Laceyreads the caption.
I drop the broadsheet as if the paper itself is aflame.
And then I realize what is happening. The scales fall from my eyes.
I was so focused on my own lack of desire that I failed to notice my own husband’s. Over the past three weeks he made no overtures. I merely thought he was being delicate, given my condition, given what I told him on the night I instructed him on how to pleasure himself, but now it all appears different.
The broadsheet.
The lack of responsiveness to my touch.
The story that I told him about George Garrison and Terrence French—how could I expect him to want me after that? To love me? Yes, I told him about Frank Holster, but in that story I was young and naïve. Even I can see that Frank Holster was not my fault. But with Terrence and George, I was no victim. How could I expect my purehearted husband to understand such a thing? I thought perhaps he could, but I see now how foolish I was to expect it.
No, hehastired of me—but not because of the reasons I supposed.
He has tired of me because he finally realized what it meant to be with the notorious Annabelle de Lacey. He seesme as I actually am—as depicted in the broadsheet that he kept in his waistcoat.
I step back from him.
“Annabelle, what is wrong?” Alfred says.
“I understand now,” I say, anger and humiliation growing within me. “I apologize for forcing myself upon you.”
“Forcing yourself—Annabelle don’t be ridiculous.”
The words rise to my lips and I say them before I can stop them. I want to hurt him. And this secret is the only one I have left. If he hates me now, I can make him hate me more. If he is going to reject me, I can reject him first.
“You should know that I was not honest in that little story,” I say, gesturing towards the papers I left for him this morning on his desk. “You are right. I knew the letter was too small. I had a plan. I once told you that I was going to bed you and dismiss you from your post. But I left out a crucial detail. I wanted an heir. And you were handsome and weak-willed and I decided that I would get a child by you. That I would get with child and then dismiss you from my life.”
