Cold.
It surrounds me, chills me from the inside out. Others on the small boat titter behind their hands and fans, oblivious to the frosty fog creeping from the Thames into the small vessels. Or maybe it’s just me.
Perhaps I’m the problem.
Despite the early year breezes, no one seems to pay them any mind. They carry on as if burning brightly from the inside out. Vibrant, joyous, ready to start the season with a gusto I can only feign. Even then, I worry I’m not doing a good enough job.
Glancing up at my stepson Chase, I wrap my hand further around his arm, desperate to leech some of the warmth from his body to possibly give a little heat to my own, but it doesn’t make a bit of difference. I’m the same as always.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to concentrate on the lanterns, burning them into my memory. Somehow, they’re not quite as the servants described. Or it could be that I never really gave myself a good mental image. I never allowed myself to dream of something so splendid, so magnificent.
Only, as we approach the gates, I find myself holding a breath for just a moment, just a few seconds to capture that magic, that bit of whimsy that had them all in a tizzy.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Too many have stained my cheeks and pillows over the last several years, and nothing will be changed by crying in front of veritable strangers.
Though these are people I’ve grown up around and should have been aware of, even in my pauper state, they are nameless to me. It’s not just the masks concealing their faces, though I so desperately wish it were so. Even when I watched them dancing away at the balls, there was no more kinship, no more familiarity. Nothing.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
Would they even recognize me if they could see my face? Honestly, the times I gather the courage to look upon my visage in a mirror, I find the person staring back at me a stranger.
Rare beauty. Why has she not procured a proper husband? A paragon. A poor man’s daughter.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
Even now, I long to slide my fingers across the gaunt hollow of my cheeks to will them to fill back out, to regain that plump suppleness I lost only a handful of years ago. Despite the cakes my stepson urges my way, I find nothing fixes it. Nothing brings color back to the lifeless skin.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
A soft nudge pulls me out of my thoughts, and as usual, Chase Taylor, the current duke of Hartham, stares down at me, his green eyes warm with concern and care.
“We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, low enough so that others do not hear. “I can arrange for you to go back to the townhome. No sense in pushing yourself.”
With a firm nod, I pat his arm and do my best to give a convincing smile. “I am officially free of the shackles of my mourning. It would be expected for me to take my place back amongst society.”
If only it were that simple. True, in its barest of forms, but not the reason I continue to press forward, clinging to a man three years my junior when all I wish to do is crawl back inside my bed and close my eyes until I can finally rest. The Queen Omega bade me to come, to take note of those milling about, preparing for the season. When the Queen orders, I dare not disobey.
Just the very thought makes my knees quake in a way that has nothing to do with the chilling shivers raking my spine. No one notices. They’re all wrapped up in the excitement of the night.
Younger girls who are just now making their debut bounce about in their pretty, pale, pastel dresses and light pelisses or shawls, while I am somehow still cold even with heavier layers. Will I ever be warm again? Will I ever have the joy of life these young omegas exude with every smile and polite laugh?
“Come,” Chase grumbles. “The instant the boat reaches Vauxhall, I’m finding a way to take you home.”
A different sort of fear winds its way around my spine and nearly bows me in half at his words.
“Please,” I croak. “It’s nothing. I simply have to acclimate myself. Do not deny yourself the joy others partake in.”
His lips turn down into a fierce slash beneath his mask as he glances about over the heads of the others on our boat.
“You push yourself a lot, Mother. I would beg of you to rest. Please. You have no need to prove yourself to anyone anymore.”
This time, the small smile that creeps over my lips is closer to genuine than it’s been in a long time.
“Step,” I amend. “If I were your real mother, I’d be far older and hopefully a lot wiser.”
“You are plenty wise. And truly, you’re more of a mother to me than the others. I will not dishonor you by adding a simple addition to your title when Mother suits you quite as well.”
All fleeting sense of happiness vanishes at his words. While he looks over the newest additions to the marriage mart, I rest my hand on my flat stomach as the burn once more pricks the edges of my eyes. It’s kind of him to acknowledge my role in these last few years. But truly, he does not have to give me any sort of honor.
At least in this small way I can say I was a sort of mother. Even if it’s to a grown son who needs nothing from me and gives me far more than I can reciprocate. Straightening my shoulders, I do my best to pull away from him, to stand firmly on my own feet.
Besides, if I were brave enough, strong enough to enter a den of iniquity on All Souls’s Night, I can surely handle the propriety of Vauxhall. As the memory from all those months ago drifts through my mind like a thick haze, an odd warmth rushes my body.
Heat infuses me, winding through my core as I recall the masked stranger and the wicked things he forced my body to endure. Just one night, one fleeting moment of carnality. That’s all it took for me to learn just what had been kept from my marriage bed.
Those thoughts sear me from the inside out, making me quake with a need I thought long buried after I ran away from it all… From him, the man who still haunts my dreams and makes my fingers seek pleasure from between my thighs. A heavy sigh drifts from my lips as another gust of cold wind bites through me. If only I can keep that memory burning inside me always. It drives away the chill, the loneliness, at least for a little while.
As I take in a deep breath of damp, cool air, a familiar scent tingles my nostrils. Tobacco. Simple enough, no doubt drifting from the men around us, but it’s more than that. It’s spice, saffron, and leather. How can this be? Taking in another ragged inhale, it’s as if my memories turn to reality. But how now can I smell that potent combination that has slick dampening my inner thighs as my fingers long to seek relief.
Within the next breath, it’s gone as if it drifts on the breeze out of reach. In its place is the fetid, rotting stench of death, of decay, and of forced remembrance that plagues me at every turn, even when I’m alone. It’s not the scent of my late husband. Not exactly. His scents were lighter, despite his acrid words and forceful demeanor. It was more like spring in its bloom, luring me in when we first courted. When he died, however, his passing stayed behind, imprinting my very soul, filling each lungful until I long to gag, as if forces me to no longer think and dream about anyone else, much less the man who brought me pleasure during that stolen moment.
Closing my eyes, I wait and brace myself for what I know is to come. Just as quickly as the arousal sprang up in my body at the, probably false scent of the strange, commanding man, the all-too-soon departing sensations leave raw, burning agony in its wake. It rakes across my insides like the sharpest razor, threatening to slice me into ribbons. My breaths come in haggard pants, and I disguise it as muffled sounds of delight, so close to mimicking the others that Chase doesn’t seem to tell the difference.
Perhaps the Queen Omega is right. Maybe I have what it takes to be a good spy after all. If someone of her magnanimity can have faith in me, maybe I can believe in myself as well.
Gripping the edges of my shawl, I force myself to inhale as slowly as I dare and exhale it in equal measure. It doesn’t remove the lingering ache the broken bond leaves, but I find the movement of my ribs to be far less jagged, far less delicate. I can pretend to be whole, pretend to be human, as we disembark.
Had I known what awaited me after my husband’s death, I would have fought harder against his forced bond. Granted, I still would have lost, but I would have put up more of a fight. I would have been able to say that I had tried. And when he finally passed… As much as it was painful for him to be alive, it was nothing compared to the living, breathing agony it is to be the one left behind with the ragged edges of a severed bond.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
Stepping off the boat, I wait patiently as Chase pays the shillings needed for us to enter and watch as the others filter through. With everyone in masks, it’s hard to say who’s here and who’s not. When the Queen Omega ordered me to come and observe, I’m not sure she realized the event I was to attend.
The scents are all muddled together in a way I cannot discern. They blur the edges of my sanity until the nausea that hovers in my stomach drifts to the back of my throat and threatens to spill over. For Chase, however, I put on a false smile as leads me into the promenade.
Sights, sounds, and lights assault my senses, but I refuse to cower before them. Taking in another breath, I square my shoulders as Chase leads me about, making introductions and friends as easily as sipping port. He charms everyone he sees with the flash of his smile and quick, witty, responses.
Next to him, I feel dull and unexciting. No one tries to even converse with me, but I prefer it that way. If only I can slip away and observe without disgracing Chase or embarrassing him in some way. Unfortunately, good lad that he is, he refuses to leave my side.
Thankfully, once we reach the supper box he reserved for us, he begs his leave and orders some refreshments for me. Finally, a chance to breathe, to be myself without his constant watching and worrying.
I bring the glass to my lips and watch the merriment as my stomach twists in regret and sorrow. Before my marriage, I was just like that. I was free, careless, only encumbered by my family’s low status. More than that, I was happy.
Closing my eyes, I try to bring the emotion back to the surface, to see if I can even remember what it felt like. All that’s there is that pit in my stomach, that ragged emptiness that reminds me I shouldn’t be here. When my husband died, I should have gone as well. Truly, it was a miracle I didn’t join him.
Most days, I feel as if it is a curse. If the tenacity that kept me alive still swirled in my veins, all would have been well. I could have rejoined society as a whole person with a vibrant life ahead of me. But no. The bastard took that as well, along with his last breath.
Hollow.
Broken.
Shattered.
My shoulders crumple as the weight descends on me. Reaching into my reticule, I pull out a small book and pencil, determined to fully take my mind off the ever-gnawing pain inside me. My fingers itch as I watch the people walking to and fro, studying their clothing choices rather than their faces.
Besides, what information can I glean for the Queen Omega with their faces concealed? Smiling softly to myself, I sketch the woman standing just a bit away with her face turned up to study the lanterns in the trees. She looks so soft and happy there, so content.
I do my best to capture her expression, but find myself failing. Faces did always cause me a bit of trouble. Skimming my gaze down her gown, I pick it apart and sketch the frame. It hangs too low in some areas and is a bit too pinched in others. She seems like one who can afford quality work, so it makes me wonder who she paid to make such a hash of it.
Once I have her form and figure sketched down, I reimagine the dress, cinching it here, releasing it there, making it tailored for her. I even do a different mask, one that would accentuate the cupid’s bow of her lips and not make her look as if she’s trying to conceal her best assets.
Time flies as I jot down line after line, relieved to feel that relentless ache in my heart dissipate. There are so few little things I do that allow me to just breathe easily.
“Well now,” Chase booms out as he slides back into the box, making me jolt upright in the seat at his surprised arrival. “You seem rather occupied. Care to share what has you so engrossed?”
A flush burns my face, but as usual, contains no heat. Only discomfort races across in its wake. Closing the book, I plaster on a fake smile and turn to him.
“Oh, you know. Just the scribbles of a woman. You wouldn’t want to see those.”
His brows knit for a moment as he sits across from me. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Anne. If I say I’d like to see it, then I would.”
I pat his hand, but even that feels stilted and awkward. “You are kind. But truly, they are not good enough to show anyone. Even family.”
Shaking his head, he thankfully drops the subject. “Come. Let’s eat before the fireworks. I would so love to have you see those before we go home.”
