Foolish.
And those foolish refusals had been flatly ignored. Her wishes had meant nothing, and her will had been crushed. There was no pride left in her from the day she’d first set foot in England, nor as she was dragged down the aisle of the church, nor as she watched her family abandon her to the care of her new husband.
Archie’s death had been a beacon of hope. An opportunity for freedom. She hadn’t realized then that it would only lead to more shackles.
Perhaps that was where her pride had snuck in. She couldn’t afford it anymore; it had to go.
Edith exhaled slowly, praying they would soon reach intermission. She needed to walk, to stretch her legs, to clear her mind, to get out of sight of so many who were only speculating about her.
Breathe, mo nighean. Breathe.
On command, Edith inhaled a carefully controlled breath, finding with it the refreshment hearing her grandmother’s voice always brought her.
“Are you all right, Edith?” Prue whispered softly beside her, placing one small hand over Edith’s tightly laced fingers in her lap.
“Aye,” Edith replied on an almost controlled exhale. “I believe I will slip out for a wee moment, though.” She nodded and rose only so far as a crouch, slipping around her chair and between the gentlemen seated behind them.
“Edith?”
She waved Aubrey, Lord Ingram, back into his seat. “I shall only be a moment; stay as you are.”
His expression told her how he felt about the suggestion, but she didn’t linger to see or hear any further response.
Out in the corridor, Edith’s breath came faster and with more aggression. Her lungs squeezed and released with agonizing pain, and it was all she could do to attempt to control them.
Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…
Music from the stage wafted out into the corridor, and something about the strains, faint as they were, soothed her. The frantic pace of her mind settled, the air in her lungs entered and exited with more ease, and the pounding in her head began to recede. Walking became easier, and slowly, Edith continued to move, keeping her breathing as steady as she could and letting the music continue to calm her.
Despite the comments and stares of people, the course before her was the right one. The only one, really. She alone had made the choices in her life, and there was no point in regretting them. She had done the best she could under horrific circumstances, and no one would judge her for that if they knew the truth of the situation.
Which no one did.
Edith sighed heavily and paused near a column, leaning her back against it as she thought back to Scotland, its beauty and majesty, its wildness and energy, and the perfect purity in every breath of air one took in. Scotland would always be home, even if she never set foot on her soil again.
The thought sent a sharp pang into her heart, and a rare wash of tears began to form.
“Ah, Lady Edith,” sneered a chilling voice at her ear, a hand settling on her hip.
Edith sprang back, the column scraping the buttons of her gown as she slid along its surface. She glared up at Sir Reginald as he loomed over her, the hand once at her hip now gripping her skirts.
“Don’t touch me,” she spat, eyes still burning.
He grabbed at her arm, leering maliciously. “Come now, Lady Edith, be a good lass and greet your cousin properly.”
Before Edith could tug free of his grasp, Sir Reginald yanked her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. Edith squirmed against the pressure, sealing her lips tightly together as she desperately tried to tug away. She shoved at his chest, nausea rising within her at the taste of him, but he only chuckled and pulled harder on her arm, sending jolts of pain shooting into her shoulder.
He finally lifted his mouth away, licking his lips and exhaling with satisfaction.
“You’ll make a scene, Edith,” he whispered with a cruel laugh. “And the intermission is upon us. You wouldn’t want to do that with so many witnesses, would you?”
Edith clamped her lips together, swallowing the wash of bile there and whimpering at the pressure still pulsing in her shoulder. Tremors began to course through her as she still struggled against him.
“Still,” he mused, his hold on her firm, “suggestion is more powerful for its subtlety. Therefore…” He released his grip on her skirt and reached up to tug at her hair, disheveling it with his fingers and tousling it quickly, her pins falling to the floor below. Then he grabbed at her sleeve, pulling the gown off one shoulder, ripping the fabric in the process.
Edith immediately went to adjust her sleeve when Sir Reginald slapped her hard across the face, drawing a gasp from her. She immediately cradled her face with her free hand, turning away from him as much as possible, though his hold on her was still secure. She tasted blood, her cheek throbbing, and the shaking in her legs intensified.
“There,” he said, running a cold finger along her jaw. “That should do.” He yanked on her arm again and leaned in for another kiss.
Edith restrained a cry and stomped on his foot, jerking out of his hold as Sir Reginald hissed in pain. Backing away, Edith looked about her, unable to run, as it would draw attention to the guests who would be emerging from the theatre at any moment if the applause within the theatre was any indication.
Sir Reginald chuckled and raked a lascivious look along the course of her body that renewed the nauseousness in her, shudders accompanying the sensation.
“A delight as always, Lady Edith.” He bowed mockingly, and left her at last, still laughing.
A dry sob escaped Edith, and she covered her mouth, whether to hide the cry or prevent the rising sick feeling, she couldn’t admit.
Either. Both. Anything.
The heat of shame flooded her cheeks, and she inhaled shakily through her nose before focusing on the attempt to adjust her gown however she could. A whispered curse escaped her quivering lips as she found the effort fruitless; the tear was too great, and the dress hung askew on her, just as Sir Reginald had wanted. She bent to the floor to retrieve her hairpins, casting her eyes about for any stray ones.
The chatter of people met her ears as the intermission began, and Edith jerked up to a straightened position, creeping closer to the column, hoping to remain unobserved. She had not stopped particularly close to the main part of the theatre, but any hope she had of truly restoring her hair would require a looking glass, and she would have to venture further into the people in attendance to see to that. Her only hope was to wait for intermission to end and restore herself to rights then. Or attempt to manage something far less refined as she was, and she was already poorly refined in the eyes of Society.
Her eyes flooded with tears of anger and shame, a few crawling down her still burning cheek. She reached back to twist a long, mangled tendril of her dark hair back into the rest, pinning it in the hopes it would look respectable, at least.
Respectable.
As if she could ever be considered respectable now.
She longed to tell everyone and anyone what a horrid man Sir Reginald was, how he had wronged her, how terribly he was abusing her. But in her present situation, and in Society, she could not do so without ruining herself and all hopes of her future in the process. She might be ruined in many respects now, but there was a shred of dignity still, somehow, and the hope of a better future. Without that, she would have been ruined indeed.
“Come with me,” a deep voice murmured near her.