Edmund smiled, slow and predatory. “You think you’re someone special, telling me no, and no, and no. You think you have the right to say anything at all?”
“Please let me go.” She tried to smile, one last time.
“You little minx,” he said. “You little bitch.”
A bitch was a dog, and Celia did not even know the words he used next, his tone smooth and urbane, his smile wide and steady. She understood they were insults. She guessed the things he said he would do to her were sexual acts. She could not move, she could not walk, she could not call out, so she turned her face away and let her mind retreat into Irish, where his diatribe was nothing but syllables.
His words stopped. Hard fingers grabbed her chin, turned her face. He kissed her hard on the mouth; her skull pressed into the wall, the lines of his teeth sharp through his lips.
“Go ahead and scream.” His voice was like cream, his breathing ragged. “Scream all you like. They will come out here and see us together, and all the doyennes of society will insist that I make you an honorable woman and marry you. Me. Scream all you want.”
Celia knew this. She did not scream.
“First, let us set the scene a little, shall we?” he offered, as though he were passing her a glass of lemonade. “We wouldn’t want one of your pretty milksop boys to come along and get the wrong impression.” He abruptly shifted his grip, releasing her elbow but pressing a knee between her thighs, startling her as a new part of her body hit the stone. She was almost used to the cold scraping her shoulders; now the wet seeped through her thin petticoat into her legs, her buttocks. The longer she stood in one place, trying to balance, the more her slippers sank into the muck. She was trying to control her shivering, trying to think.
Celia had told her brother she didn’t want to go with him, his sleeve crumpling under her hands as she pleaded.You shall be fine,he promised, and yanked her fingers from his coat in one brisk movement, wiry fingers hard.For Killyreigh,he had whispered as he passed her limp wrist to Lord Edmund’s grip.
Celia was not fine. Edmund ripped at the lace ruffle at her neckline; it had only been added at the last minute and came offeasily. “There, my pretty. Do you think Lord Francis wants you anymore? Who wants a ruined Irishwoman, hm?”
Francis—would he come looking for her? Celia shivered harder. She must stay upright, because to collapse would be to lean into him.
Lord Edmund grabbed her wrists, which had been huddled at her chest, and pressed them to the wall above her head. His leg drove her against the stone. Celia turned her face away, held her breath as though that would stop time.
Yes, he would come. Rose would come. Clarence said he wanted her for one dance, the next one must have started by now, Mr. Bigelowe would know something was wrong. Meet by the purple and gold. He had said that.
Lord Edmund seized the V at the neck of Celia’s gown and ripped. An ordinary neckline binding was several layers of fabric—a solid panel of woven material was sturdy—but this dress had just been picked apart and remade much smaller. The new center front seam parted easily. Edmund laughed.
Cold—humiliation—rage—so very cold—
“Shall we call for little Penrose?” Edmund mocked, singsong. “He and I could fight for your honor—unless he fainted from the shock of seeing a woman’s undergarments! Ha!”
Francis would come, surely please God, but he might not get here in time. Mind blurred, not sure what “in time” meant because her imagination was blank with terror, Celia pushed back and tried to dive under Edmund’s arms, yanking his hands, kicking his shins. Edmund only laughed again.
Now he was working on ripping her stays, but those were well-made and well-fitted, and although he jerked her whole body back and forth like a terrier with a toy, he could not make any progress on pulling them apart.
She did not care about scandal. She did not care about tomorrow. Celia opened her mouth to scream—
But before the sound was even birthed, Edmund clapped his hand against her face, knocking her hard into the wall.
Pain. Cold. Celia shut her eyes.
In the moment that she was still, Edmund used both hands to yank, and the fabric tore away from the boning.
The sound of popping thread. His breathing. Frigid air on Celia’s bare skin.
“Penrose wouldn’t want you now, my darling.”
Celia tugged to the side, almost falling as her foot stuck in the mud. His hand shot out like a snake, pinning her to the wall. It was so cold, so cold. Celia covered her skin with her other hand.
“No one wants you now, my beautiful darling.” He took her wrist and slowly moved her hand away. “No one but me.”
So cold. He was staring at her. Her skin was cold and her heart was encased in ice.
Celia closed her eyes.
Killyreigh. The taste of blackberries. The warmth of sun on her loose hair as she sat with her feet in the stream while Clarence fished.
“Aren’t you going to cry? Oho, so you like this?”
