The conversation between the two men hums like wasps in her ears. Their words sound muddy when they talk numbers—what is Claudia worth, down to the dollar? She is pretty enough, with moon-pale skin, sparkly eyes, and a pouty smile. But can she manage a house? Does she know how to clean? Can she sit still enough without making a sound so that she can be admired by his colleagues as if she were a painting above a mantel? They discuss her age—plenty of time to give Lord Fournier at least three children if not more. They ask her to stand, turn, bend. They comment on the swell of her breasts, the width of her hips. Every inch of her is appraised.
She had once thought that she was just like her snake—sharp tongue, sharp teeth, always ready and able to strike. Now, as she stands before her father and her betrothed, still and breathless as stone, she wonders why she is not fighting back. At this moment, she should be wicked. Ugly. Undesirable. Whatever it takes to ruin her betrothal to this man. But she looks around their home filled with tattered curtains and worn furniture and empty glass bottles. She can’t stay here. Then she thinks of her harsh rejectionfrom Cygnus University. What other choice does she have? Where else can she go? A marriage to a wealthy man is her only hope for a decent life. It is a miracle, as her father loves to remind her, that they were able to find a man of Lord Fournier’s station who would accept this proposition in the first place. Merciful, her father called him. Merciful is the man who would take a girl from a terrible life and give her a new one that may or may not be worse.
The men come to some sort of agreement about her fate. Now that Lord Fournier has approved of her, he will stay the night here in a guest room. Tomorrow, the two of them will be wed, and Claudia will be taken away.
Despite the wintry air, they take to the park for a promenade. The trees are thin as bones, dressed in stubborn black leaves. It’s so cold that the breeze turns white. Claudia’s donned multiple layers for warmth—tall boots, green cloak, black scarf—but this wind has teeth. It bites through everything from velvet to leather to skin. In places like London and Paris, the marital season is in the summer when it’s warm, but Kulden has its own customs. Here, the marital season begins at the end of the year in hopes that couples begin the new year as one.
Lord Fournier stumbles through the walk, so Claudia serves as his cane to steady him. His hot breath moistens her cheek. He won’t let go of her hand.
It’s humiliating.
Walking toward them is Genevieve Thornington, previously Genevieve Marlow, who lucked into marrying Lord Thornington, the richest man in town. Claudia’s father had once tried to pair her with him, but Lord Thornington declined for two reasons: He had no interest in paying off Lord Jolicoeur’s debt in exchange for a bride, and mainly, he found Claudia to be “far too disagreeable to be a wife.”
Claudia dislikes the termdisagreeable. It’s too passive. It’s inherently reactionary. Claudia prefers to be thought of as opinionative, and argumentative when the situation calls for it.
Lord and Lady Thornington are a pair out of a Kulden postcard—white-blond, icy eyes, lips that look like wet wounds against their pale skin. Both dressed in fine garb in the same shade of yellow, they are like drops of sunlight gliding across the shoveled stone path. The newlyweds smile at Claudia and her betrothed when they pass by, then follow with snickering at their backs. Claudia’s cheeks burn. She wants to turn around and spit out insults, but she holds her tongue. She needs to make this betrothal work for her, and all she has to do is keep her composure until they say their vows. Once her future and her fortune are secured, she can open her big mouth again.
Until then, she’ll keep this tight smile plastered onto her face, even as her cheeks twitch and ache.
From across the park, an angry Lord Wexford—face red as his hair, exaggerated by his heavy black overcoat—eagerly spots the two of them and circles the stone path to speak to them. Claudia has met him several times, though never under happy circumstances. Her father owes him the most. Lord Wexford has sent threatening letters; he’s cornered Claudia and her father in town; he’s even shown up on their doorstep in the middle of the night demanding to be paid. In a drunken daze, Lord Jolicoeur once offered Claudia in lieu of money. Lord Wexford said no, for he’s already married and, in his words, “no woman is worth the amount you owe me.”
“Hello, Lord Wexford. You lookrouged,” Claudia says mockingly. Lord Wexford doesn’t deign to look at her.
“Lord Fournier,” Lord Wexford says. “I spoke to Hubert”—Claudia winces at hearing her father’s name without the title; how little these people think of her and her family—“and he instructed me to speak to you about retrieving what I am owed.”
Lord Fournier nods. “Tomorrow, Lord Wexford.” He squeezes Claudia’s hand. “Once she and I are married, I will keep my word.”
With a tight scowl, Lord Wexford nods. “Tomorrow, then.No longer. I’ve already waited for the better half of a year.” He looks Claudia up and down. “Do right by him. You cannot grasp the magnitude of the favor he’s doing for your family.”
Claudia’s eye twitches. Lord Fournier is no savior—he’s a bargainer.
While they walk, Lord Fournier says, “Darling, I can sense your concern, and I’d like to offer some words that may put that at ease.”
Claudia smiles at him, hoping he’ll say something miraculous likeI plan to give you lots of money and leave you alone forever!Or maybeDon’t worry, darling, I’m already terminally ill!
That would be perfect. She could escape with the Fournier fortune and fall for someone from his house staff—a handsome footman, or maybe have a forbidden affair with a gorgeous handmaiden. She gives him a dreamy, hopeful look while he clears his throat.
He looks down at her with tired eyes and a soft, thin-lipped smile. “You fear you will not be an adequate wife, for you’ve faced so much rejection.”
Claudia swallows down a laugh. She doesn’t fear being a bad wife—she doesn’t even want to be a good one. She doesn’t want to be a wife at all. No dismissal from a suitor has ever hurt her. The only truly painful rejection she’s ever received was the one from Cygnus University.
“But do not worry,” Lord Fournier continues. “From what I have seen, you are a good, quiet girl. You are submissive and obedient. You are polite, decently groomed, and a pleasure upon the eyes.” He pauses, narrowing his gaze to gauge her reaction.
She’s frozen. The way he just described her is everything she never wanted to be. Somehow, he reads her face as pleased, and he nods happily.
“See? Nothing to fear, darling. I’m confident you’ll suit all of my needs, and in turn, I promise to care for you so long as you are mine.”
Mine.His word loops in her mind. It’s the threat that wakes her up. She can’t accept this. He’s not offering her a life—he’s forcing her into a slow, sad, boring death. She can see it all now as if it’s already happened; she’ll surrender her body to this man, bear his children, and then he’ll die. If she has no boys, her father will take over Lord Fournier’s estate and Claudia will watch him drain another fortune. She’ll be too stretched and used and old to convince another man to take her hand, and she’ll be left in a worse position than she’s in right now.
There has to be another option. Something. Somewhere. Someone.
When they return home, Lord Fournier kisses her hand before he retires to his room, and she feels entirely numb. Once she and her father are alone, he says, “Good.” That’s all. Not as a compliment to her or a remark upon her behavior. Just an observation of the situation. No more debt. No more daughter.
Good.
Bishop slithers out from beneath the couch. Claudia carries him back to her room, noticing his slanted smile and his fat belly.
Her stomach churns. The mouse has been swallowed, and so, too, has she.
