Page 8 of To Ensnare a Duke

Sigh heavy on my lips, I lay a hand on Hardon's shoulder. "Could it be your sister acts out because she had no maternal influence to help her through the Season?"

"I haven't thought about that. She hasn't mentioned it, if that's what you mean. But now that you say it, I can't help but wonder. Her moods have been far more mercurial. Certainly more so after their death. But it's been a year or so. She should be passed it. No?"

"Have you even met a woman? They hold on to the most sentimental things. A death is not easily forgotten. It would do you well to make sure there are no surprises headed your way after you're gone. I can most certainly use my influence to have her meet the proper type of man, but even I am helpless against a sudden fit of pique. I only know one way to cure that, and it is ill advisable for me to act as such to your sister."

"Damn it man," he barks out, a hint of laughter in his tone. "I wish for you to assist the girl. Not break her."

"Knowing her delicate disposition, she will crumple far quicker than I have the patience for. Better to make sure she's mentally well situated before you leave."

His lips turn down into a frown as he studies the empty room. "I shall see how she fares. The London air should help put her back to rights."

Again, I study my friend, noting the slump to his shoulders. “There’s something else. Isn’t there? Something you wish to speak of elsewhere?”

He turns his face to mine, his lips thinning. “You know me far too well for your own good, Portswell. But I cannot discuss it here and now. I have invited Norhaven and his brother Whiteport, and Redleigh to bring their sisters and ward with them to give my sister some much-needed company. I will confide in you then.”

Curiosity eats at me as he rises and sees to his sister. It all sounds sinister indeed. Hopefully it’s not something that cannot be rectified.

CHAPTER 5

AUGUSTA

My fingers curl into my pillow as tears finally fade. I cannot say what put me into such a mood, only that I feel so confined, so stifled. But there's nothing to be done. Rising, I smooth my fingers over my hair, doing my best to put on a happy face as I sit at my desk and stare out onto the London roads.

Damn Greyson for forcing me to come out here. I was far happier in the country where I could be free without donning on trousers or being so secretive. Guilt gnaws at me as I look at the portrait of Mother and Father. It's for them I do my best to hide my peculiar urges.

Mother would be scandalized if she knew about my nighttime activities or daytime excursions when I feel I can get away with it. But what else am I to do? At least in the country I could frolic about to drive out this madness which constantly plagues me.

Here, in London, where even the clothes for walking about are confining, I'm stuck with mundane activities like the blasted pianoforte or the drudgery of needlework. What is so wrong with me that I cannot find it within me to want to do these things? Other ladies have no trouble being still and quiet.

But not me. Never me.

Looking over to the door with a deep yearning, I force myself to stay still and wait until the cover of nightfall. Then, I can truly be free. An ache blossoms at the base of my skull, giving credence to my affliction, should anyone ask. Though it would be easy enough to slip out and find one of my few hiding places, my brother will no doubt come look for me.

There was something in his eyes when I left. Some unnamed emotion flitting through. He can't possibly know my plans. He wouldn't have allowed me to escape so unscathed. No. This is something else. Something different.

There's a heaviness in the air, one that speaks of ill things to come. I've never claimed to be clairvoyant, but the same feeling nearly smothered me before finding out news of my parent's demise. It coils in my gut, combining with the unknown flutters to turn into something truly horrid.

Curling my fingers into my palms, I dig into the flesh of my hand with my nails. Pinpricks of pain blossom along the skin and race up my arms, quieting the buzzing for a moment. For a brief second, I can think. I can breathe. I can reason. Tears dot my eyes and I slump forward, my brain racing with thoughts and questions.

Could it be some affliction that has no cure? Could I be ill with some new, unknown ailment? Greyson does not seem to suffer the same, and I'd hate to worry him. Especially when it blossomed after our arrival here in London. It has to be this feeling of stricture that holds me tight, robbing my breath.

Until I know otherwise, that will be my diagnosis. Besides, I've heard tales of omegas who have gone feral. Whispers of horrific stories from the bowels of Bedlam make for ribald tales around the gambling tables. Though I should not have listened in, I could not help but be trapped by the angry speech flying from the lips of rejected men.

It would do no good to give my brother a reason to worry about me. Though I'd like to think he would never force me into such an asylum, I cannot know his thoughts. If convinced it was for my own good… Again, air catches in my lungs at the very real possibility of being bound and helpless, subjected to all manner of horrors.

Instead of being terrifying, triggering my desire to flee, my heart flutters with a far different need. Heat warms my skin as I rise from my chair and pace about. Between my thighs, it pounds, as if my pulse takes up residence and beats with maddening precision.

A soft groan rips from my throat as my mind replays the stories, my body twisting about as I imagine myself held down while fevered fingers brush across me, holding me in place. For all that I despise being confined in London, I seem to crave the idea of strong hands pinning me down, refusing to allow me to move.

It's madness, pure and simple. Perhaps I should reveal these urges to Greyson and insist he take me to be seen. But then, it would be selfish on my end. A desire to understand what these men talk about and not to become well. It would cause nothing but dishonor on the Hardon name if anyone found out his sister was taken to such a place.

A grunt of frustration rips from my lips as I storm over to the door and ensure the lock is firmly in place. Only one thing can ease the madness in my mind. Just one thing will allow me to breathe. Such a shameful thing, but it must be done. Besides, if this is the treatment they provide in the asylum, then who better to administer it than me?

Lying down on the bed, I pull up my skirts and spread my thighs. Heat fans my cheeks as I slide my fingers down to open up my quim, allowing the air to kiss my sensitive skin. It's a depraved thing I do, touching myself instead of a physician or a husband, but I cannot risk ruining my family's good name when I can simply take matters into my own hands.

A lurid sound flits from my lips, soft and quiet, as I stroke the slick flesh. An odd wetness eases my movements as I glide back and forth. From their descriptions, I assume I'm doing it correctly, but then, I was never instructed in what to do.

I simply do my best, moving my fingers back and forth as I try to not scream aloud. A pressure builds within, tightening my muscles until my body aches. My hips rock up and down as my breath comes in quick pants. After several minutes of straining in the silence, a heavy perfume of scent fills the room. It smells like me, but different, more potent somehow.