Page 180

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.”