Page 11

In fact, it is a farce to call any being virtuous whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own reason.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

Sweet baby cherubs on high. Rafi. Nasser. Was. Kissing. Me.

Rafi Nasser, who didn’t like me. Who saw me like a sister. Who pushed me away.

Suddenly, every reasonable thought reduced itself to absolute nonsense in my brain at the purposeful movement of his lips. The soft pressure of his mouth belied the wildness of the storm that had been swirling in his eyes, and even on the cusp of being provoked beyond reason, his touch was excruciatingly gentle. I could only focus on his full lips moving tenderly against mine in a kiss so sweet that my toes curled in my boots and my very capable brain dissolved to mindless fluff.

I’d experienced one or two quick pecks in the past—even an experimental and rather interesting one with Nori—but nothing compared to this feeling of being completely unraveled from head to toe from the one simple touch. My heart pounded like a drum behind my ribs as his mouth slanted over mine, parting ever so slightly. When the tip of his tongue swiped against my bottom lip, the taste of him exploded across my heated senses.

Mint, cloves, and something uniquely him, crisp but warm like the delightful rain and sandalwood scent currently enveloping me. Desperate for more, I gasped, one arm reaching up to grasp his neck and hold him firmly in place as though the kiss were at risk of being taken away. Groaning into my mouth, he obliged with a muffled laugh at my boldness, his left palm shifting to cup my chin and angle my face to where he wanted it. And then we were both lost to sensation as the kiss deepened and heightened…as he took control and kissed me as if I were the air he needed to live.

Me.

Heaven help me, I couldn’t get enough.

After what seemed like an eternity of exploration, he broke the embrace and drew back, breathing hard. His lips were red as I imagined mine must be, and I pressed a single fingertip to their trembling, tingling contours. His gaze darkened, and his body tilted forward as if compelled by an unseen force before he shoved himself back a safe enough distance away.

Swearing a low oath, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “This was a mistake.”

I frowned at him, euphoria crushed by despair. “No, I—”

“You should go,” he said thickly. “It’s late.”

Flummoxed, I stared at him for several moments, but he would not meet my eyes. I had never imagined Rafi of all people to be such a coward. With a deep inhale, I squared my chin and retrieved my hat from where it had been jostled to the floor of the carriage. I’d never been the kind of girl to beg for anything, even something as trifling as an explanation, so I exited the coach without another word.

I slipped around to my carriage house in the back of the residence, and after sponging off and changing into a loose dress, I sat at the small desk tucked away in the corner. My chest felt like it was ten times too tight. Rafi’s kiss and his horrid response to it had ignited something inside me—a desperate need to do something… to give voice to the questions warring and writhing within me like a nest of little serpents.

Why had he kissed me?

Why had he spurned me?

Would he expose my secret?

I felt untethered, my emotions soaring high and crashing low. I wanted to scream my frustration to the skies, but that would not be wise at this late hour, lest the entire staff of the manse, including my very protective family, come running.

In a way, I felt like Dr. Frankenstein, frantic to expel some monstrous creation.

I shuffled through the papers sitting on my desk and read through my last effort on the acrostic verse that had stumped me.

Just write from your heart. Rafi’s parting words of advice after he’d read my attempt flicked through my head.

I picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink pot. Studying what I’d already written, I scratched out apathy and changed it to anger.

F is for fighting to be seen and heard,

R is for revenge, though it may sound absurd.

A is for the apathy anger that consumes my heart,

N is for never feeling so broken and twisted apart.

K is for the kiss that you carved onto my soul…

E is for everything you now withhold.

N is for the noxiousness that tethers me to life,

S is for the savage storm and the bitterness of strife.

T is for time stretching out, endless and alone,

E is for my enemy, which you have become.

I is for the insufferable longing I withstand…

N is for the nightmare wrought by cruel hand.

I gave a humorless scoff at the last. Being discovered by Rafi was a nightmare in itself. I never should have worn that silly ring. What had I been thinking? That it was some kind of keepsake, some cherished memento of our escapades? It had only been the harbinger of my doom, and I’d brought it upon myself.

Fingers flecked with ink, I reached for another sheet of paper.

O is for the oasis of darkness that fills me,

R is for realizing that I deserve better, you see.

I exhaled. The truth was, we as humans were conditioned to receive what others deigned to give, not what we were worthy of.

T is for terror that I will rain down in spades,

H is for the horror no one can evade,

E is for the emptiness my blood does pervade…

My fingers hovered over the page, my emotions whittled down to a peculiar hollowness. Poetry in its simplest state, like music, was a form of catharsis, and the words flowed like a healing balm. My poem was a stitched-together construct—an amalgamation of chaos—and though I was no Lord Byron, the words were mine, even if raw and unpolished.

M is for the monster who is finally free.

O is for the utter obliteration of empathy.

D is for death, destruction, and dire consequence,

E is for the end of all, of me, of gentle conscience.

R is for the reason that slips my mind,

N is for nihilism that will burst in kind.

Despite my conflicting feelings about Rafi, he was right. The words had come after all; they had fountained from me, like a song taking form. I’d only had to connect with how I could see myself on the page. How my father’s expectations and the weight of duty continued to influence both my choices and my actions. How trapped I felt by default of my sex and my station. How powerless I was to so many external forces that had nothing to do with what I truly wanted. Like the monster, we were shaped by nature and nurture in equal measure.

Prometheus was the last word in the novel’s title. The letters taunted and teased, all of the creature’s hurts and despair—all of my hurts and wishes—yearning to get out. Yearning for birth. I’d liberate us both.

P is for pain.

R is for rejection.

O is for obscenity.

M is for mayhem…

E is for the evil is that evil does,

T is for the tragedy of never knowing love.

H is for the fallow heart that weeps for you,

E is for the echo of despair and everlasting virtue.

U is for the us I shall now never know,

S is for my shame and my forever silent sorrow.

With a sigh, I slumped back into the chair, dimly noticing the pinkish pale streaks of dawn appearing through the window. Restlessness still churned in my veins as if the sparks inside me had ignited into a full-blown inferno. The acrostic verse screamed to be translated into musical notes. Taking the parchment with me, I rose; stretched the stiffness out of my muscles, sore from being hunched over my desk; and made my way to the pianoforte. I tested each key, pressing the ivory bars softly in turn. Like the words, the music flowed as my fingers skimmed over the keyboard.

Heavy with hope and brought low by despair, the discordant notes echoed the turmoil the creature had faced and the disastrous consequences of Dr. Frankenstein’s actions. Every few measures, I would write down the musical notes in pencil for the upper and lower staffs. The arrangement was consistent with the types of sounds I’d been exploring lately—all dissonant and sharp with furious crescendos juxtaposed with tender adagios.

By the time I was finished with the musical composition, I was finally bone weary.

With an enormous yawn, I dragged myself through the main house to my bedchamber, the bustling sounds of the servants preparing for the day indistinct to my tired ears. Gemma would have guessed that I was probably in the carriage house. When the proverbial muse struck, one could only succumb. I discarded my dress and climbed into bed.

Too bad I’d forgotten exactly which day it was.

“Lady Zia. Wake up, Lady Zia,” a voice said, a hand shaking me gently and then more firmly when I groaned and hid my face under a pillow.

“Go away, Gemma,” I grumbled. “I want to sleep.”

She let out an exasperated huff as if she’d been trying to wake me for a while. “The duke is commanding your presence in the breakfasting room and said he is expecting you posthaste. He is in a mood. ”

I groaned loudly as that sank in. Whenever my father was in a terrible mood, his commands were meant to be obeyed. He was a good man, one made even better by his duchess, but that cold temper of his was legendary for a reason. I’d inherited mine from my mother, whose West Indian temper was truly as fiery as the Scotch bonnet island peppers she so loved. When Papa was irritated, everyone steered clear. And now I’d been summoned into the vortex of frost.

I knew what it would be about, of course. The bone of contention between us: my future marriage. We were well underway in the season, and I was sure he wanted to make his ultimatum clear…as if it weren’t as clear as crystal already. I burrowed under my blankets, but there was no escaping Gemma. Or my father.

“My lady! You must get up.”

“Must I?” I whined.

“It’s Sunday breakfast, my lady,” Gemma said, and I blinked in confusion before flying up so briskly that my brain spun. Today was Sunday ?

Sunday breakfast was the one tradition my mother cherished, and being late was frowned upon by my father, who insisted—rightly so—on keeping his duchess pleased. Stuffing the heels of my palms into my sticky eyelids, I rose, stretched, and grouchily performed my morning ablutions. Goodness, I felt so groggy, my brain blessedly quiet, but I suppose I had put it through a rigorous marathon until the early hours.

Even after splashing and sponging my face and body from the water in the bowl on the dresser, I couldn’t summon the energy to move quickly enough. When Gemma made an impatient noise, knowing each minute was precious, I stepped into the stays and gown that she had removed from the armoire. After she fastened the ties, I pinched my cheeks to put some color in them while she removed my curls from the silk sleep bonnet and worked my hair with some specially made pomade, so it stayed healthy and shiny.

She deftly fashioned it into a loose chignon held together by a jeweled comb, leaving a few loose spirals to frame my face, which was ghostly, with dark circles congregating under my eyes from the lack of a proper sleep and the late night. My thousand and one freckles stood out in harsh contrast from my golden-brown skin, and I scowled at them. Some days, they were the bane of my existence, especially when they looked like whole constellations.

Rafi likes them.

I didn’t care one whit what that sneaky, controlling rogue thought about me.

Gemma held up the rouge pot to paint my cheeks and lips, and I shook my head. I didn’t need to look fancy for my father, only presentable. Besides, there would be no one at breakfast other than my parents, my brother, and Ela, unless they had made their excuses, though missing Sunday breakfast was rare. In fact, I hoped desperately that they were there, at least to draw some of the duke’s attention away from me.

By the time I trudged downstairs on leaden feet, I was ready to return to my bedchamber and pretend to have taken ill, but the only people to suffer my father’s overbearing moods were the servants, and if I could help thwart his irritation, then I would. No one deserved the fallout from my choices, least of all the people who were employed here.

Two maids scurried out of the breakfasting room, their faces ashen, and my stomach dipped unsteadily. Gemma hadn’t been wrong. Everyone seemed to be treading on eggshells. I nodded to the two footmen standing at attention outside the doors, and even their mouths were drawn tight.

Smoothing my skirts, I entered the room, a false but bright smile fixed firmly in place. Two footmen and the maid serving my father blocked the other end of the table, but I attempted to conceal my relief when I spotted my mother, my brother, and Ela. The fates weren’t so cruel, after all. In my overly fatigued state, I was sure to say something rash, especially if my father brought up betrothals again. Ela and Keston would be excellent diversions.

“Good morning, Papa, Mama,” I said, and walked sedately toward the empty place setting.

“Good morning, Zenobia,” the duchess said with a fond smile while my father speared me with a glance and grunted. That was better than nothing, I supposed.

“Keston, Ela, how wonderful to see you both!” I greeted my brother and his fiancée with so much enthusiasm that they both stared at me with raised brows. Ela hid her smile behind her palm, even as my father’s vexed stare snapped toward me.

Too much.

My stomach rumbled as the delicious scents of steaming cocoa, spicy tomatoes and saltfish, curried chickpeas, creamed eggs, and roasted bacon rushed into my nostrils. Perhaps this summons was a blessing in disguise. My mouth watered…. I hadn’t realized how famished I was. Perhaps a good meal would help.

As expected, my weariness made my emotions much too transparent for comfort. This was made even more apparent when I rounded one of the footmen serving my father to see none other than Rafi Nasser gracing me with that nauseating smirk.

For a weak second, the vain part of me wished I had let Gemma put on the rouge or a dash of rose lip stain, but why was I even thinking of impressing him, of all people? I should have been more worried that he was going to expose my secret in front of everyone! Was that why he was in my home?

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, making his smirk widen and my mother release a chastising sound.

“Lady Zenobia,” he said, that rich molasses voice doing things it shouldn’t at this hour. I thought of honeyed kisses and smothered sounds of pleasure. “You are such a vision of loveliness this morning.”

Was it just me, or did everyone else at the table hear the sly condescension in his voice as if he’d meant exactly the opposite, an insult couched in a false compliment? Any thoughts of honey slipped away. Honey? More like vinegar. Sour vinegar. The sourest!

I sniffed with disdain. “Mr. Nasser, what a delightful surprise, although this is usually a family breakfast.” I hoped my exaggerated emphasis would match his own skillfully cutting mockery, but to my annoyance, amusement danced in that gray gaze, lighting those mercurial irises to a shining silver. Gracious, I was much too unprepared for any of his games…or his gorgeous eyes. Or wondering whether they’d gone silver when we’d kissed.

Oh, stop, for mercy’s sake.

“I invited him,” my brother said, watching me with a narrowed gaze as if he could see right through me to my scandalous secrets. “Is that a problem? I know you two have been at odds and ends for years, but Rafi is my best mate.”

Yes, his best mate who had kissed me!

I bet my brother wouldn’t be so fond of Rafi if he knew. Sometimes, Keston’s friends did join us for meals, but this wasn’t just any friend. This was a gentleman whose lips had touched mine, who had witnessed my capers…who knew far too much about me for his presence here to be spontaneous. No, he was here to torture me. But for what? What nefarious plans was he hiding behind that stupidly handsome visage?

“You’re late,” the duke said in a clipped voice when I waited for the footman to pull out my chair.

“Apologies, Papa, I overslept,” I said, taking the empty place to my mother’s right, opposite Keston and Ela. I glowered.

“And why is that?” my father asked.

Rafi the rotter, whose brows had risen with expectant curiosity as if daring me to tell the truth. I swallowed hard. There was no way I could admit that I’d been at an underground fighting club betting money with petty thieves and, even worse, participating.

Ignoring the persistent press of my father’s gaze, I kept my face serene. “I was working on a project for Miss Perkins at Welton and didn’t notice how late the hour had grown.”

Instantly, I knew I’d made a silly mistake in bringing up the Welton House when his frown deepened and his mouth flattened in abject displeasure. I wanted to kick myself. Had seeing Rafi rattled me so completely that my thoughts were so unguarded? I clamped my mouth shut lest I let something more untoward slip, but it was too late.

The mention of Welton was a spark to unlit tinder, and all I could do was brace.