Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

AUGUSTA

A light drizzly rain pelts the window, covering the glass in a hazy film. Perfect for my sour mood. Huffing, I walk over to my chair and plop down on it, waiting for that zing of pain, that nagging discomfort that hasn't left me since Portswell took that infernal piece of leather to my backside.

Three days. That's all it took. Three. Blasted. Days. Even now, I pinch the skin, only getting slight flutters of sensation where it had been blazing hot and aching.

Three days of me touching myself in secret, reveling in the fact that I'm indeed not broken and unfixable, as I once thought. I am not Bedlam bound. To Portswell, I'm just adequate.

Three days of silly infatuations as I dream of a life where he and I might be of one accord. It's ridiculous. He made it very clear that I'm like a sister to him.

Three. Blasted. Days where I tossed and turned at night, my fingers the only thing giving me relief. It allowed me to slip back into the abyss of slumber, only to awaken and do it all again. Even now, my hands twitch with a relentless need that is untoward in the cold light of day.

Any minute now, Lydia will be here with my warming chocolate, prepared to start the morning. It won't do her any good to see me in such a state. Rising, I pace the floors again, glancing out the window with every pass. Three days, and Portswell has not stepped foot inside my residence.

He has not shown hide nor hair of himself, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it all? Walking over to the mirror, I cast a glance over to the door before hiking up my night rail. Even now, the pink stripes are still there. The welts have gone down considerably, but the color remains.

I didn't dream it. It wasn't the manifestation of some fevered vision or fantasy. And yet, the spell wrapped around me feels all too broken. It matters not that the marks remain when the sensation is gone.

A heavy sigh slips from my lips as I drop my hem and take to pacing once more. I need to distract myself, to find something else to occupy my time. Unfortunately, with the weather such, I can't gallivant about town in an effort to become 'lost' and separated from my maid.

Once more, guilt surges in my chest as I watch the door handle turn, allowing her entrance. So far, it seems as if Portswell has kept his word. She seems to be unscathed, which is a relief. If we were to become separated again, I'm sure he would not be so magnanimous.

She bustles in, her face bright and happy as with most mornings. Once she sets the chocolate on the table, she goes about picking out my clothes for the day.

I take a sip, emotion clogging my throat. "I don't believe I apologized for the other day."

"Miss," she giggles, turning and flashing me a large grin. "I do believe we managed to escape with no harm done. I have not heard a word from the butler. Knowing him and his penchant for order, he would not tarry to perform some sort of discipline on me."

"So, you are well then?"

"Fret not, Miss. I am right as," she giggles and points to the window. "Well, rain, Miss."

I let my breath out in a whoosh and take another sip. "Still though, for my part in the events, I do apologize. It was never my intention for you to get into trouble."

"Cannot be helped, Miss. The stalls were far more crowded than usual. We were pressed in and about at every turn. I only regret that I was unable to keep you by my side. For that, I am truly sorry. I had one task, and it was one I failed." Her lips turn down for a moment as her fingers pause in their duty.

Blast. Now I feel worse again. Rising, I go over to her and grip her hand, giving her my brightest smile. "No harm. I am well. You are well. Portswell seems to no longer be on a rampage. Come, let us find some occupation for me."

Her smile returns, easing the tight band around my heart. "I have heard mention that you may have callers in the next few days and weeks. Perhaps brushing up on your skills would not go amiss?"

Just like that, all happiness evaporates. I don't want scores of suitors knocking down my door. I only want one. Unfortunately, he does not want me. A conundrum indeed. But still, I must play the part, looking every inch the eager debutant.

All the while, I'll bide my time, sneaking out unawares, until I find the key to unlock Portswell's lips. He will propose to me. Of that, I'm certain. But how to make him want to do it… That indeed is the question that pounds away at my skull at every turn.

Sunlight streams into the parlor, illuminating the furniture and instruments. Off in the corner, my aunt slumbers, her soft snores punctuating the sounds of the keys. How easy would it be to duck out and be free? Yet, after the latest infraction, I don't dare get caught unawares in the daytime anymore.

No. I must act like a good little omega and practice at things which have no real bearing on life. Honestly, what good does knowing music and art do? And needlepoint? Such a mindless time waster. If it were really all that important to be skilled at such things, the men would do them as well.

But they don't. They learn things like history, politics, and in some cases, even a trade. Slumping forward, I pluck at the keys, my heart not into the air I'm picking through. Outside, the world seems to bustle about, casting off the gloom of the morning to walk about with nary a care.

Granted, most of them are not people of stature like me. They can be free. I, with all the privileges my title affords me, am the one who's trapped. With a deep sigh, I turn to my sheet music and flip the pages until I find something better suited to my mood.

Squinting at the sheets, I pick my way through the first part of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata , struggling every so often with the finger placings as I try to evoke the same feeling I'm sure is represented on the page. Though the notes are correct, it seems as if something is lacking.

"Is that any way to play such a masterpiece?" a grumbled voice booms into the room.

My aunt snorts and shakes her head, rousing as Portswell enters the room. He bows to us both before striding over to the pianoforte, his lips turned down into a deep frown. My heart flutters at the look of displeasure as it slashes across his face.

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with my playing? I hit every note with perfection. Surely you can't find fault with my performance of such a difficult piece."

A ragged sigh rips from his lips as he runs his fingers through his hair. Off to the side, my aunt nods off once more, seemingly uncaring of our interaction. For those who demand so much of propriety, they surely seem to only care when it's convenient to them.

If Portswell notices, he says nothing. Instead, he strides over and lays his hand on the instrument and peers down at me, his dark gaze stealing my breath.

"Perfection, perhaps, but only in a perfunctory manner. It lacks soul, emotion… life." He heaves another sigh. "But then, what would an innocent like you know of passion? It's been forcibly locked up with your chastity."

Heat rushes over my body, trailing up my face like fiery fingers. Is he, perhaps, making his overture? I seek his gaze, trying my best to understand the meaning behind his words.

"Then you could tutor me, Your Grace? Teach me this passion I lack. Or is that, too, for my future husband?" I shouldn't bait him like this, but in truth, he started it.

His eyes darken as he watches me, his expression turning nearly feral in the dim light surrounding us. "Do not tempt me, beguiling omega. I am not the suitor you should seek. Cast your aspirations onto a far more suitable match. One who can preserve your delicate dignity."

"I am far from delicate, Your Grace." My voice comes out in a harsh whisper as my lungs swell with each breath.

For a moment, he pauses, his body ramrod as he watches me. "How you drive me to distraction," he murmurs, running the pads of his fingers down my cheek. "How I long to break you open and shatter you at my feet."

I watch in fascination as his throat bobs when he swallows. Though I do not completely understand the ramifications of what he's saying, I note the blaze of lust in his eyes.

"I will not shatter," I manage to croak as my fingers slide off the keys.

"If I were to take you as my own, you would." Remorse lines his features as he pulls away. "You would break into so many pieces I would not be able to put you back together."

"And if I don't wish to be? If I want to remain broken?"

"You know not what you ask."

My aunt snorts for a moment, breaking the spell around us. Glancing over, I watch as she peers at us. She thumps her cane on the ground and gives a loud harrumph, ruining any chance I have at enticing the duke.

Sliding off the bench, I motion for him to take my spot. "If you think you can do better than me, Your Grace, then by all means."

The smirk he gives me makes my heart flutter. It's full of confidence and swagger, like a man who knows exactly what he's doing and can do it well. Though I know him to be an adequate player, perhaps he's grown in the moments we were away?

As he sits down at the pianoforte, his fingers graze the keys in a loving, almost reverent way. They mimic the way he touched my skin after leaving the welts on me. I squirm, my nerves raw as he strokes them, the music playing on my skin with each skillful note. My insides ache as every muscle clenches.

The sonata pours out into the room, the melancholy notes bringing tears to my eyes. Compared to him, I am indeed inadequate. Even my aunt, who seems to abhor most music, tears up, her gaze enraptured as she gazes upon the duke. I knew I had feelings for him before, but hearing the emotion dripping from him as he plays… It's a sensation I never knew before.

As he finishes, he looks over at me, his gaze hooded and dark. "Continue to practice. Your playing is good enough for the common man." He stands and looms over me. "But you are not suited for anyone common. If you are to catch the gaze of someone worthy of you, you will continue to improve."

With a click of his heels and a nod to my aunt and me, he strides out of the room, taking his intoxicating scent with him. How I long to follow, to tell him he's good enough for me. Unfortunately, such things are not done. Not for a lady, at least.

If he really wanted me, he'd make an overture to my brother or perhaps my aunt. But he hasn't so much as said a word. At least not out loud. He's communicated through sighs and gazes, but that isn't enough. Not in the eyes of society.

Damn them. And damn him in particular. Sitting back at the pianoforte, I turn the pages, flipping through until I land upon Beethoven's Fifth Symphony . Perfect for my current mood and practicing putting my emotions into my playing. I'll show him. I'll show all of them.