Edmund

November 1, 1840

"It is of utmost importance that you continually foment Miss Epcot's desire for you. She is a well-bred, well-off, reasonably attractive woman with common sense, a good disposition, and a manageable temper. She would be a fine homemaker, Edmund."

My mother's words reverberate within my mind, again and again; a deeply ingrained lesson from the times of old. The very thought of it, a suffocating blanket.

Ah, Miss Epcot. A true dame of our era. We had been formally introduced at the last London season ballroom dance at Almack's Assembly Rooms. This was, in a manner of speaking, a public ball, but it has always been ruled over by patronesses, who decreed who was the one to purchase a quite costly ticket. This made it as exclusive as a private ball. I shudder at the thought of how much the aforementioned ticket must have cost my poor mother.

Miss Epcot's ballgown had indeed turned many a male head. Yet the lady had eyes only for me, a fact that filled me with a peculiar sense of dread rather than flattery. I had never cared much for dancing. What is more, I loathed it, especially if I had not been previously well acquainted with my partner. Alas, my mother often thrived on reminding me that dancing was, indeed, much more than just a pleasurable activity.

"Young gentlemen and ladies of quality, Edmund, who take part in the rounds of balls and other events that comprise London season, know they are not there merely for the fact to have fun. My aim is, and it has always been, to make a good match for you. To attract a suitable marriage partner, from amongst the eligible dames. The wealthiest, the most handsome ones."

Yawning at the memory of this discourse, I stretch and begin to leisurely unbutton my nightshirt as I stand in front of the bedroom window, curtained with velvety laces and braids for the momentous occasion. The harsh, snow-clad landscape outside my window reminds me of how lucky I am to stand next to a cheerfully crackling fireplace, bringing much-needed comfort and warmth against the biting chill.

Cocking my head from left to right, I bulge my arm muscles under my shirt.

"Let's hope that a good frame will kindle Miss Epcot's desire even further once you are legally wedded," my mother had said.

"Now, how exactly does Miss Epcot intend to foment my desire for her, Myles?"

A longing whine replies back. Tall, shaggy, and dignified, my Irish wolfhound Myles emerges from behind the night table. I smile at his faithful presence. A gift from my father, one that I had some difficulty in accepting due to his roguish, unruly pup behaviour. A mere tiny ball of fluff, Myles would arouse me every few hours at night in order to take him to visit the garden, when all I ever wished for was to continue my rest. Abandoning the pleasant warmth of duvet, replacing it with bouts of cold night air, taking him downstairs and waiting for him to come back was quite a feat.

Yet I secretly enjoy every moment of the time we spend together, even if I do occasionally grumble about it. I never want for Myles to take permanent residence in the kennels, too far away from my sight, or to be cared for by our servants.

He is too noble a soul for such treatment, my permanent earthly companion. A gentledog brought to this world already wearing the fur tuxedo, he would at times look at me as if he wore a top hat fashioned from velvety mischief. An epitome of unpredictability, and such that one could never fathom what he would do next.

This morning, he tiptoes into my bedchamber carrying a duck decoy in his jaws. He drops the wooden figurine onto my palm, expressing his longing for the hunt.

A huge dog with a huge heart indeed. I cannot resist caressing his noble head.

"Have you no answer to this conundrum I posed, then?"

A guffaw thunders through my chest as Myles' tail swipes left and right across a flowery-designed Oriental rug. "What say you? Speak! Should I not be happy with whom Mother has chosen for me? A girl with reasonable beauty albeit dire temper?"

Myles treats me with a single morose and elongated "woof," as if offering me his sincerest condolences. At least this is how I perceive it. In each expression of his limited vocabulary, there is a different emotion, a new information conveyed. It is everything from "Come rejoice with me, Master, and let us frolic on the meadow near the lake" to "May I have a piece of your deliciously smelling roasted beef?" And, thus, I have always done my best to act as a good interpreter of canine language.

With a sigh, I pat the dog's head. Nothing of this situation is appealing to me.

Our bodies, our minds, and our hearts do not call upon each other. They do not match.

Miss Epcot and I do not match.

What matches is merely our wealth. Hers—perhaps even—outmatches mine.

And it is all what our social circles care for. What they have always cared for. The duty is to be done. What is expected is to be fulfilled. The arranged wedding ceremony is to be held. I do not get to choose. I must fulfill the duty to my family, even if my heart is not fully immersed in such a performance. The weight of expectation pressed down, a suffocating burden.

With a sigh, I recall the eve of our dance with a desolate frown. Mine was always an opinion that it is the souls that are to dance together, in all the ways every imaginable, in all the ways that could ever matter. That is when pure love begins. Spontaneous and soul-quenching as laughter. At least, that is how I envision it.

Scratching Myles's neck under the collar and swallowing hard, I touch my own neck in apprehension. Our union-to-come weighs heavily on my heart, yet I cannot defy it. I will be collared for eternity, bound by a promise.

Mother's voice offers a calming, helpful solution.

"Love, while important, might well develop after marriage. Besides, you may take a mistress upon yourself, should you wish to do so, as many a gentleman do."

And indeed, I was not a stranger to having a lover. The pleasures of flesh never eluded me; what is more, one might say they held their sway over me. The latest one was Adele, a fiery little thing. The thought of her shivers of delight in my groin; a memory of an inkling of her tongue darting out to wet her lips as I give her the ultimate pleasure makes a smile creep up on my face.

Delving deeper into the memory, my breath hitches as familiar morning longing stirs in my lower extremities. Just as my hand moves south to give my manhood a little bit of extra room in hope that hunger will subside, since there is absolutely no time to sate my urge, the bedchamber door opens with a bang.

I startle, my back hitting the corner post of my bed.

"Your coffee, my... Lord."

A servant girl steps in, carrying the family's silver tray, my precious morning brew in a cup of the finest china swaying from left to right with every movement of her wide, childbearing hips. I retract my exploring fingers with utmost velocity, cursing inwardly at my own foolishness, for allowing myself to be caught in such a shameful position. Yet her eyes seemed to have caught the movement, and they unabashedly lingered on my arousal.

If I did not know better, I could swear the darned girl is grinning. Upon more detailed inspection, I conclude that her face is unfamiliar to me, and I am forced to assume she must be one of the many extra help who were hired for my wedding day in order to assist its preparations.

The sheer jubilant mockery in her gaze makes me cry out, albeit involuntarily. After all, it is she, and not me, who is in the wrong for barging in like that. "What is the meaning of this? I demand an explanation! Have you no common sense, girl? One is to always knock prior to entering a master bedroom. I am not even decent!"

And then, all inferno breaks loose, unleashing an unfortunate and the most unpredictable chain of events.

Myles lets out a cheery bark of a sort I had not heard in years and leaps into her arms, as if greeting a long-lost friend.

The silver tray takes flight, and the scorching hot contents of the cup spill all over my nightgown.

All over my male pride.

"Christ!" I let out a pained yelp, the ugly brown stain forming on my nightwear now being the least of my worries. My gaze seeks out the servant girl and finds her trying to push Myles away as the dog licks her face in quite a persistent fashion.

"Down! Down, boy!" she enunciates, yet it does not sway Myles from his decision to show exactly how friendly he can be. Towards a complete stranger, too, which puzzles me immensely.

"Myles. Sit!" I command in sotto voce, and the hound immediately obeys, coming to a rest at my heel.

After no longer being drooled on by my faithful companion, the servant girl finally gathers her wits, yet her reaction at the sight of me is neither astonishment nor guilt, nor a desire to mend things.

She bursts into mirthful, bubbly laughter instead, bending down to hold her stomach.

What insolence!

"I take it that you find this amusing." I harrumph, and she finally reacts and approaches.

"Sorry, mate, I just... It looked so hilarious!" The girl wipes tears from the corners of her eyes, giggles one final time, and kneels in front of me. She removes her apron.

"Mate?" What kind of language is this? Has the household matron unwittingly hired an extra wedding help who had previously held company of well-traveled sailors or pirates?

I fail to give this matter any further thought, partly because she is now releasing a string of curses far beyond anything that has ever fallen upon my ears—not even during the most raucous conversations I had among gentlemen—and partly because she keeps grinning as she vigorously rubs me between my thighs to take the stain out.

The touch of her delicate fingers is as heated as the brewed drink that scorched me moments ago, and I close my eyes as I relish the goosebumps rising on my skin and travelling down my spine.

Suddenly, she looks up, moisturizing her full lips. For an uncouth servant girl, she has remarkable features with high cheekbones and a softly rounded chin.

Gentle, doe-like, coffee-coloured eyes crave a strong hand.

"I see you are enjoying these... ministrations... a little too much, my lord."

"Still your tongue, girl." I huff in resignation. Quite observant she is, and uncomfortably so.

"Oh, I do apologize, Lord..."

"Worthington." I am both offended and amused that she does not know what my family name is. How can she not know the name of the family she serves, even if it is a temporary arrangement only? "Lord Edmund Worthington."

"Lord Edmund, you say? Don't sweat it, Ed, it's just a cup of coffee."

"Ed?" No one has ever called me thus, except for my older sister. Not even my mother rejoiced in the practice of non-formality. I shake my head, failing to comprehend her once more.

"Don't sweat it?" What on earth does she mean?

Was I sweating?

My brow furrows in concentration.

Inbred manners prevent me from reaching under my armpits to revise my scent.

Where has this wild creature come from? Has she no manners? Does she not know a thing about addressing her lordship?

A lock of the servant girl's hair wanders into her eyes, and she fends it off with so little grace as if swatting an annoying fly.

As I follow the upwards movement of her hand, something catches my eye. I squint at a contraption on her wrist.

What in God's name is this?

Burning with curiosity, I clasp my fingers around it, and this is when her sweet disposition suddenly changes.

The bashful doe sprouts fangs and claws, and the chestnuts of her irises now glow as if roasting on a battle-ready internal flame.

"Fuck the hell off!" Her shrill yell takes me aback, and then an unearthly voice is heard around us.

"Travelling in five, four, three, two, one ..."

Shimmering clouds envelop us both, emanating the light of hundreds of candles. As I try to charge and pass through them, I am pushed back and forced to stay put while the walls of my newfound prison squeeze me against the servant.

Myles runs to my aid, barking vigorously, but not even he is able to fit into my newfound confinement.

"Fuck! Fuck!" the servant girl yells. "Where? Where are we travelling to?"

She is a witch! An enchantress, conversing with her unholy demon, she seemingly lost control of.

It is the only logical explanation for what is transpiring.

The demonic light wanes until both of us are submerged in the utter darkness of despair. I am still pushed into her. Skin to skin, bone to bone, as the world spins around us, we can do nothing but impotently wait for this new judgment day to fall upon us.

I cannot say whether a minute, an hour, or a day has passed.

All I feel, and hear, is the sound of her beating heart.

As if empowered by a will of their own, my hands seek out hers as we soar towards the heavens and descend into the deepest pits of hell, and her presence here, at the end of all things, gives me a measure of comfort. Then, the tenebrosity suddenly yields to tendrils of light, and we land with a splash. I fall on my back into reeking muck, coughing and spluttering, regurgitating foul water seemingly mixed with excrements.

Trying to get up, I shade my eyes against a strong illumination that burns through them; otherwise, I risk losing my eyesight forever.

"Where am I?" I pull my hand back. "Release me, you witch! Who put you up to this? Do you seek ransom, perhaps? If it is ransom you seek, I will not pay a penny."

The servant girl heeds me not. She is looking as frightened, or at least as nervous, as I am, and it gives me a small bout of satisfaction.

"Where am I? Please. I— I need to know," I repeat, almost void of breath.

The enchantress finally dignifies me with her attention. She raises a mocking brow at me.

"The question isn't where, milord." My title rolls like an unpleasantry off her lips.

Then the she-devil casts a generous load of her sputum upon the soil.

"The question is—when."