Page 54 of Brutal Serpent

“Of course—of course not, my dear sir. . .”

“It will look very peculiar for no one else to dance with her,” Mr. Westruther put it, but my husband bared his teeth at them both.

“I don’t care.”

Anxious to prevent a fight, I asked, “What do you think of the country?”

“Not—not too fond of it,” Lord Sheringham said uneasily, his eyes darting to St. Erth’s stormy face.

“I like the country,” I said, aware that I was beginning to babble. “But I think I would like the seaside even better. I’ve always loved to read about the sea. Have either of you gentlemen ever been?”

“We should all take a trip,” Mr. Westruther began, but again my husband interrupted him.

“No.”

The rest of the ride was accomplished in uneasy silence, St. Erth’s hand gripping my thigh with vice-like clamps.

The Martins were a wealthy and comfortably vulgar local family, and Mama and Papa would never have allowed me to visit a home like theirs in London, but I did not care. I met all of the extended and vulgar Martin family, a dizzying blur of friendly faces. For once, it was actually enjoyable to go to a ball where I didn’t have to feel pressure to act perfectly. There wasn’t the heavy weight of crushing expectations and the need to behave like a perfect lady to attract a suitor.

Because St. Erth would be catching me and fucking me no matter what I did at the ball.

Of course, it would have been even more enjoyable if my husband had allowed any other man to dance with me.

But he did not.

I danced with him only, his strong hand tight on my waist.

I played the piano. With my husband bending over me, whispering words in my ear that made my cheeks flush in case anyone could overhear them.

Poor Mr. Elton attempted to ask me to dance, and St. Erth suddenly gripped him painfully by the collar, his fingers tightening around the shorter man’s throat.

“I do not permit anyone else to touch my wife,” he bit out as I pulled at his arm, attempting to make him loosen his hold on the vicar.

“My lord, it is customary at a ball,” Mr. Elton tried, but St. Erth interrupted him.

“I don’t care what is customary. I only care that no other man puts his hands on my wife.”

Just then, a messenger came for the Viscount, and my husband flicked his eyes around the room before agreeing to go out.

The other gentlemen all looked too nervous to ask me to dance for fear of what St. Erth would do.

All except the Martins’ distance relation Mr. Pemberfield.

Mr. Pemberfield was quite a tall man, with slicked-back dark hair and a pugnacious face. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was in faultless pink pantaloons, I would have assumed he was a prize fighter with his battered face.

He asked me to dance not once, but twice.

For a moment, I had the very unwelcome wish that my husband was there. I wanted to get away from Mr. Pemberfield but I didn’t know how to without making a scene.

There was nothing outwardly offensive about Mr. Pemberfield asking me to dance, but I still felt uneasy. There was something in how his arm squeezed around my waist that felt creepy.

Still, he was nothing but courteous, chatting fairly easily to me about the weather, my gown, and a new team of horses he was contemplating buying. His conversation was perfectly mannerly, if not interesting.

I began to feel nervous about what St. Erth would do when he came back.

Then the dancing was so raucous, the dozens of pairs of feet trodding the boards so energetically, that no one noticed Mr. Pemberfield sweep me out the open door and into the gardens.

“It is so warm in there,” he said, “I expect you need a bit of fresh air.”

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