[This chapter contains explicit content]
Rosamund stood shivering. The damp chill of her dress seeped into her bones. A maid, her movements gentle and efficient, settled a heavy, dry wool coat over her trembling shoulders.
"I wish to rest now," Rosamund said. Her voice was flat and cold. Devoid of any inflection.
Her eyes lifted, taking in the grand, intimidating beauty of the entrance hall. A sweeping staircase curled upward like a pale serpent. Above, a massive crystal chandelier hung suspended, its thousand facets catching the dim light like frozen tears. Ancient oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watched her from the walls.
Wordlessly, the maids guided her. Her legs moved as if detached from her body, carrying her up the grand stairs and down a long, hushed corridor lined with more closed doors and watchful portraits. They stopped at last at a heavy oak door at the very end.
One maid opened it. Rosamund stepped into another masterpiece of gloom.
The room was vast and dark, dominated by a canopied bed that looked like a bier. The fire in the hearth had been laid but not lit, leaving the space in cold shadow.
"I shall prepare your bath at once, my lady," offered the maid with golden hair and kind blue eyes. Her voice was a soft murmur in the cavernous room.
"No." Rosamund interrupted. The word was sharper than she intended. She softened her tone. Weariness bled through. "No, thank you. I… I wish only to rest."
The maids exchanged a glance but dipped into curtsies and slipped silently from the room. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Alone, Rosamund stood for a moment in the overwhelming silence. Then, slowly, she sank onto the edge of the immense bed. Her hands lay limp on her thighs. She sat there, a statue of exhaustion, listening to the distant echo of the storm.
A need for movement, for some semblance of control, stirred her. She stood and walked to the cold fireplace. The silence was so deep she could hear the imagined crackle of wood.
Her gaze drifted to the left, to a towering window. She moved toward it as if drawn by a magnet. Pressing her palm against the cold glass, she watched the rain lash the world outside. In its relentless, indifferent fury, she felt a strange, hollow relief. Her own pain seemed to blur, fading into the vast, grey wash of the storm.
Then the door to her chamber flew open with no ceremony.
Rosamund spun around. Her heart leaped into her throat.
Harold stood in the doorway. A glass of wine in his hand. He drank it hurriedly, in one gulp.
Then he dropped the glass.
Rosamund moved backward. A step. Then another. Her gaze flew to his unbuttoned shirt. His bare chest. Her breath became ragged.
She moved another step backward. Her back pressed against the window.
Then he took the bottle of wine from his other hand and drank from it. Hurriedly.
"Wh-what are you doing? You are obviously drunk. My lord." Her voice shook.
"Am I?" He was cold. "I only took a couple of bottles. Maybe five, I think. No, six… seven…" He stepped into the room. Kicked the door shut behind him. "Remind me."
The wine bottle slipped from his fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. Rosamund's chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths as the space between them vanished.
Then she felt him. The heat of his body. The overwhelming, sour-sweet scent of alcohol clinging to his skin and clothes. She lifted a hand to cover her nose. A small gesture of revulsion.
He did not seem to notice. His hands, unsteady but strong, closed around her waist. He pulled her sharply against him.
She gasped.
His face was suddenly too close. His lips less than an inch from hers. His breath was warm and sharp with wine.
"You have no idea," he whispered. The words were slurred and cold. "How difficult this is for me. How… disgusting it feels."
Rosamund froze. Every muscle locked in shock and horror.
"I will just have to imagine," he continued. His voice was a venomous, intimate rasp against her mouth. "That you are someone… someone dear to me."
Her breath stopped. For a long, terrible moment, her mind refused to process the cruelty of his words. Then understanding crashed over her like ice water.
"So there is another," she breathed. Her voice trembled with sudden, furious clarity. "And you will tell your wife—boldly, on her wedding night—about your… foolish, useless mistress. What a shame you are."
His eyes, dark and glazed, flickered. He said nothing.
"You disgust me," she spat. The words gained strength from her rage. "More than any man ever has. Do you care to know why?" She tried to shove against his chest, but her feet were rooted. Her strength pathetic against his. "Because you have no shame. You are a coward wrapped in a title."
She twisted, trying to wrench herself free. To put even an inch of sacred space between them.
Then he moved. With a rough, angry groan, he pulled her back, crushing her against his chest so hard the air rushed from her lungs. Her face pressed into the bare, heated skin revealed by his open shirt. Her lips, parted in a gasp, brushed against his collarbone.
He moved back just enough to look at her. His grip shifted. One hand came up, fingers closing around her jaw with a pressure that was not quite painful but utterly inescapable. His thumb pressed against her bottom lip. When she gasped in protest, his index finger slipped past her teeth, forcing its way into her mouth.
The taste of salt and the faint, bitter tang of wine met her tongue. She gagged slightly. A muffled sound strangled in her throat.
"Don't," he breathed. The word was a hot, alcohol-laden command against her temple. "Don't speak."
At the same time, his other hand moved. It slid from her waist, gathering the heavy silk of her gown in ruthless, deliberate increments. She felt the cool air of the room touch her ankle, then her calf. A tremor of pure panic shot through her. She needed to pull away. To fight maybe?... but the deed must be done...he have to consumate.
But her body would not listen.
A strange, languid heat uncoiled in the pit of her stomach. Alien, so terrifying. The fabric rose higher, past her knee, exposing her thigh to the firelight.
His finger traced a slow, deliberate path upward along her inner thigh. She jolted as if struck by lightning. Every muscle tensed.
Then he found her.
She was wet. A soft, broken sound vibrated against the finger in her mouth.
He made a noise. A low, guttural sound that was part triumph, part despair. His fingers pressed deep, exploring the slick heat with a frantic, hurried rhythm.
"Ahhh… errr… Ah!" The sounds were punched out of her. Rhythmic and helpless. Her teeth clenched on his finger, hard. A final, feeble act of defiance. Her mind screamed one thing. Her flesh another.
"Har— My lord!"
Before she could think, he moved.
A sharp, decisive push. Rosamund stumbled forward, her hands catching the edge of a heavy, dark-wooded dressing table. She gripped it, knuckles white, her breath a shuddering echo in the silent room.
In the grand, shadowed mirror before her, her own reflection looked back. Eyes wide and dark with shock. Hair escaping its pins. A pale, smudged ghost in a half-ruined gown.
She watched him in the glass.
He stood behind her, a figure of solid shadow. His hands, now steady, came to her shoulders. They were not gentle, but deliberate. His fingers found the delicate lace and silk at the neckline of her gown. He pulled. A soft, tearing sound of threads giving way.
The fabric slithered from her shoulders. She did not move. Could not. She watched it fall, a puddle of ivory at her feet.
Cool air kissed her skin.
Her nakedness was exposed. The slope of her back, the curve of her spine, the vulnerable wings of her shoulder blades. And in the mirror, the pale swell of her small breasts, now barely concealed by her desperate, crossed arms.
"Harold… we shouldn't…"
"Consummate?" He spun her around. "You find the word so tough."
He paused. His voice was cold. "Do I look like I am enjoying this? I feel no attraction to you."
"I never… I never asked you to rescue me that day. Maybe… just maybe…" She could not finish.
" Following William's path was meant to be my fate."
The crudeness was a weapon. She threw it at him like a stone.
His face hardened. "Oh, you spoiled little brat. I need not remind you. You were never forced into our agreement. There were chances for you to turn back."
He let the silence hang. Heavy and Cold.
"But you did not."
Another pause.
"Unfortunate."
His eyes were like stone.
Just then, her eyes lowered.
To the strained bulge in his fine, tailored trousers. He followed her gaze. Looked down. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
His eyes met hers . A silent, heavy moment passed between them.
Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, he unzipped his trousers. Released himself.
His cock sprang free, heavy and thick in the dim light. A flush of angry, ruddy flesh.
Her breath became ragged. The sight… its sheer hugeness, its daunting length.
Before she could look away, his hand fell on her shoulder. He turned her back around, forcing her to face the mirror again. His other hand went to her waist. He gripped it. Adjusted her hips. Tipped her pelvis slightly forward. All for better penetration.
Her breathing was loud. The only sound. Then she saw it—his eyes in the mirror, locked on her reflection. Watching her face, as if waiting.
"This might hurt."
---
To Be Continued...