Page 9 of Unseen

MEMENTO MORI

“Icannot believe the tailor did not come to us.” Mary fussed and huffed beside me in the carriage, her round cheeks glowing with rage. “To ask a widow, mere days after her husband’s untimely passing, to leave her house? It is simply unheard of!”

“Mary, do calm yourself.” I looked out at the passing city, drenched in a sudden downpour, the sky the colour of a fresh bruise. “It was just an outing to see a tailor, nothing scandalous.”

“It is still not acceptable,” she said before puffing out another indignant breath. “You are in mourning, and should not be leaving the house under any circumstances.”

She, mercifully, did not see me roll my eyes. And while the outing had been for nothing more than ensuring I had a suitable mourning wardrobe for the next year and a day, it had been a relief to be out of the house. The covered portraits and mirrors gave the already dank manor an even more eerie air, even though it did spare me the judgmental glares of Acton’s ancestors.

“I suppose I must write to my father when wereturn.” I exhaled heavily. “I do hope he does not trouble himself to travel all this way for the funeral.”

“I’m sure your father would be most displeased to not be able to pay his last respects to his son-in-law,” Mary said gently. “But I understand that you worry for him.”

Son-in-law.I did not turn to look at Mary, keeping my gaze fixed outside the carriage. My father and Acton had been 15 years apart in age - my husband being the senior. Nevertheless, my father’s health was ailing, and a trip of some 100 miles would do him no good, especially for something like a funeral. It was not as though anything more could be done. It was simply a box and a withered old man going into a fancy marble building.

The end of Acton Caine. No one would miss him. No one would even remember him. I certainly wouldn’t.

The carriage pulled into the fore court of the house, and we hurried inside amidst the rain that continued to fall. Mary was already calling out orders to the parlour maids, calling for tea for madam, fussing over my wet shoes and soaked bonnet.

“Mary, do not worry yourself,” I insisted as she set about pulling off my gloves. “It is just a little rain.”

“A little rain can catch you a big cold, and one death in this house is enough for me, if you please.” She gave me a pointed look, untying and unpinning my bonnet as though I were a child.

She ushered me along the corridor, up the stairs to my room, continuing to fuss over me. Thunder growled overhead, and lightning flashed through the grimy window panes. My room was mercifully warm, and I threw myself down into an armchair in front of the fire with no finesse whatsoever.

“Is there anything finer than a fire in weather such as this?” I asked Mary with a grin, and she shook her head.

“No, madam, only a cup of good strong tea could make the moment finer.” She clicked her tongue. “Those maids are taking their time, I’d best go and see to it myself.” She rushed out of the room as though my life depended on that tea, the door falling closed behind her.

I glanced over at my desk, and frowned when I saw that my pen and ink pot were missing. Though I was sure they had been there, I must have left them in Acton’s study when I had written the letter to Azriel. That darned letter. I needed to burn it, when Mary was not watching.

But at that moment, I wanted to write to my father and have that unpleasant task dealt with, and I did not want to wait for Mary. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and headed out into the corridor. Thunder continued at a low rumble as I made my way to Acton’s study.

The house itself was strangely quiet, and dark as the storm rolled over the city. I turned the corner, to find the doors to Acton’s study closed. I reached out a hand to push down the handle, then jerked it back when I heard a sound coming from inside.

I paused, waiting to hear it again, to decide if I had simply imagined it. But no, there it was again. A giggle. A woman’s laugh, throaty and breathy, interwoven with a moan. I leaned closer to the door, trying to decipher the voices and who was inside. There were shuffling noises, a chair being moved perhaps, a short scraping noise against the hardwood floor.

Then a moan. A very loud moan.

I gasped, clapping my hand over my mouth and looking either side of me, up and down the hallway. I was alone, no servants were coming this way. Who in heaven’s name was in there, making sounds like that?

I should go in, and demand to know what was going on in my house. It was unseemly for such activities to be takingplace in a house of mourning, in the deceased man’s study no less. That’s what I told myself in any case.

Really, I was dying with curiosity at who was making such noises, and why.

I tiptoed away from the door and into the adjoining room, my hands trembling as I closed the door with a soft click. But the sounds from Acton’s study continued uninterrupted, neither party aware of my presence. I could hear the rhythmic slapping of flesh now, the door between this small room and the study open just a crack, enough to allow the sound to travel, and for me to press my curious eye to it and gaze in.

A woman with dark hair was sprawled over Acton’s desk, the deep yellow silk of her skirts hitched up around her waist. Her hands dug into the polished wood, the sounds coming from her mouth almost animalistic. And behind her, his shirt open to reveal a tanned and muscular torso, stood Azriel.

I stared at him, his expression one of open lust as he drove himself into the squealing and moaning woman over and over. The look on his face was so brutal and passionate, it almost frightened me. I’d never seen an expression like it before, certainly not on Acton’s face when he’d forced himself on me. I’d simply lain on my back in the bed and let it happen, wishing for it to be over with.

But Azriel and this woman - a harlot, no doubt - looked as though they were enjoying it. Both of them, equally. Quite aside from that, I’d no idea that lovemaking was even possible in this position. Bent over like this, Azriel’s hands lifting her hips to meet him.

I blinked rapidly, my chest feeling hollow. Why was I thinking this way? What was wrong with me?

“Oh my god,” the woman cried, and Azriel grasped a handful of her hair in his fist.

“I told you to shut up,” he growled, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, the heavy wooden desk whining as it threatened to shift against the floor.

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