Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

AUGUSTA

M y 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.

It's always this way when I perform this duty on my body, and it seems, if my understanding is not faulty, to be a correct course of action. Those I've listened in on have spoken of the scent a woman, mainly an omega, gives off when causing extreme pleasure. This must mean I'm doing it in the right manner.

Groaning, I breathe in the scent, allowing it to wash over my senses, heightening the sensations flooding my system. Again, I arch into my touch, biting down on my lower lip to keep from crying out and alerting family and staff of my current indisposition.

The hidden nature of what I do spurs me forward, heightening the need and desperation until I fear I am about to combust. More of the mysterious wetness gathers until my fingers nearly slip off of the tiny bundle of skin and pleasure betwixt my thighs.

The pressure begins to build, far faster than usual. It's a conundrum, one that plagues my brain as I buck against my inquisitive fingers. Does this mean I'm doing it better? More correct? Or am I doing it wrong, and things are simply spiraling beyond my control?

Perhaps it's because I'm overwrought, waiting until the last possible moment to find relief. I usually wait until desperation stirs my hand, but even today was far too long. I worry my treatment is no longer working for me but will require more and more until I'm touching myself several moments throughout the day.

Gritting my teeth, I toss my head back as that overwhelming feeling begins to climb through my limbs. So close to reaching that peak. So close to finally being in a rational mind once more. So achingly close.

A loud knock raps on the door, breaking the spell around me. Who could possibly interrupt at such a time? Closing my eyes, I do my best to ignore it, concentrating on the fleeting sensations as they race through my body. Just as I start to crest again, the blasted knock pulls me out.

Resisting the urge to scream in frustration, I toss my skirts down and stride over to the door. Flinging it open, I come face-to-face with my brother. His brows knit in concern as he takes in my disheveled appearance, and for a moment, I worry he knows what I've been doing.

"Your megrim must be worse than I thought. Forgive me for disturbing you. I only wished to inquire after your wellbeing and if you would indeed still like to take a turn or two around Hyde Park. I know how much you crave stretching your limbs while breathing in the air."

My heart clenches as I look at his earnest face. It's certainly not the same as racing through the woods back home, but it's most definitely better than sitting at home cooped up.

Using the hand that hadn't been so scandalously touching my quim, I brush my hair away from my face and give him a small smile. "Your concern is appreciated. Perhaps I can have just a few more moments to myself before my maid prepares me? I wish to close my eyes for just a bit more."

He cranes his neck past me to look at the clock on the mantle. For a moment, fear freezes my insides as his face comes further into the room. Can he tell what I was doing? Without him noticing, I do my best to sniff the air, to see if the proof of my indiscretion continues to hang heavy in the air.

If he notices, he doesn't say a word. Pulling back, he cups my face in a brotherly manner, the same as he usually does when showing me affection. "We do not have to do this. If you are not well-"

"No, brother. You are right. Air is probably the best thing for me. Just allow me a few more moments of respite. Five minutes? Then I will have the maid attend me."

"If you insist..."

"I do," I hurry, trying my best not to just shove him out of the doorframe. "No sense in wasting such a beautiful day."

With a nod, he leaves, allowing me to shut the door and bolt it once more. Keeping an eye on the timepiece, I once more drag my skirts up and touch myself. My heart races as I softly moan at the pleasure exploding over my skin. Since nearly being caught, it's as if my body burns all the hotter.

One minute.

Almost there. Tears spark behind my eyelids as everything clenches. So close. So very, very close.

Two minutes.

I toss my head back, frustration stuttering my movements. The pleasure is so exquisite it borders on pain.

Three minutes.

Irritation builds as I do my best to hurry the process, touching myself a bit rougher to reach that peak before I must summon my lady's maid. Closing my eyes, I imagine what it would be like at the asylum with some unknown hands touching me where they ought not, delivering these sensations while I'm helpless.

Turning over onto my stomach, I continue to touch myself as I cry out into the pillow, the release washing over me. I stretch and strain, refusing to stop until every ounce is wrung out. Collapsing forward, I sob as relief races through me, allowing me to calm once more.

But I cannot stay still and bask in the glow of relief. Forcing myself from the bed, I stride over to the window with thirty seconds or so to spare. Once I open it, cool, crisp air flutters into the room, dissipating the scent until I cannot discern it as easily. Every step feels heavy, wooden, as I walk over to the door to unlock it.

This time, when I lie back on the bed, I don't have to pretend there's some ailment plaguing me. All I wish to do is sleep as Lydia bustles in, her bright smile causing my lip to curl up in a silent snarl. It's not her fault she's able to flit about without a brain broiled in madness.

It's not fair to her to show her such disdain because she's not afflicted as I am. Rolling over onto my side, I force myself off of the bed and back in the chair as she straightens up my hair. I do my best to give off an air of calm civility as she rakes through the tangles, putting me back to rights.

As I stare at my face in the mirror, I can't help but wonder what course this affliction will take. Will I ever get better? Or am I doomed to succumb to these animalistic urges?