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The very idea made her feel small. Ill. And terribly sad.
But she would not focus on that, not now. For that was fantasy. That was speculation. What was real was this moment. Where he held her in his arms. And the music wound itself around them.
A sweet, piercing melody that seemed made just for them.
It did not matter that there were other people here. None of that mattered. He had wanted her to focus on what it was like to be the envy of others, but she found she did not care. She did not care. She only cared what was. What was happening. And what was happening was that she was being held by Briggs. What was happening was that she was so close to him her air was made up almost entirely of that spicy masculine scent that was him, and only him.
She looked at the strong column of his throat, at his Adam’s apple there. And she became unbearably conscious of wanting to lick him.
They danced together for longer than was fashionable. She was grateful for it. Because there was no other man she wanted.
And that, she realised, was the real sadness. Not that the fantasy of meeting someone else was dashed forever. Had she ever truly wanted to meet someone else? No. The saddest thing was that she had married Briggs. And it was something that part of her... A small corner of herself that she would never have allowed voice... Had secretly dreamed could be true. Because from the first moment he had ever brought her sweets, she had found him to be special. And she had wanted him most of all.
And there was not a fantasy left, because he was her husband, and yet she could still never truly have him.
But tonight he’s dancing with you. Tonight you have this. You have lived in so many painful moments. Should you not fully live in this one?
And so she did. She allowed the music, and his arms, and the steps, to become the only thing there was.
* * *
Briggs was overwhelmed by her. She was beautiful, and when she had removed her pelisse upon entry, she had revealed the extent of the gown’s secrets. He had wanted to kill the men he was speaking to, friends from school, for that matter, over the way they had allowed themselves to hungrily take their fill of her gloriously rounded bosom.
He couldn’t blame them. He might’ve done the same had they possessed a wife of such great beauty. It was just that they did not. There was not a woman in the entire room that could hold a candle to Beatrice.
And the way that her face lit up as they danced... It ignited something inside him.
And he felt nothing but fury. At himself. At the world. But more than that, a fury at his own willingness to succumb to the helplessness of the situation. For he was not that man. It was certain he did not waste time railing at the world, but that did not mean giving in either.
He wanted her. He wanted her.
More than wanting to sink into her wet, willing body, though he did want that, he wanted her pleasure.
And he wanted her submission.
She had been made for him, as far as he could tell, nearly training herself in the art of pain all of her life.
She understood it. She understood it in the way that he did.
But there was an intense and rare gift to be found in the exchange of it.
And she was correct. It was her life. It was her life, and she had every right to decide what she wished it to be.
There would be nothing to stop her from taking her pleasure with other men, except that those men would not know how to satisfy her.
He did. They were perversely, innately made for each other.
And he wished to see just how far that w
ent.
The only thing more unfashionable than dancing with one’s wife for the entire evening was to be seen sneaking out of the ballroom with her.
But when that dance ended, he realised that it was the path he had decided on.
‘Let us take a walk,’ he said.
‘A walk?’
