"Let go! Let go! Let me go!"
~ Katerina to Sergey, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District, Act I, Scene 2.
Susan had only just received news from Miss Sutton, that her idiotic, ailing father had not registered his will and her stepmother, within reason, was going to try to destroy the document.
It was now imperative to race to Grovershire on horseback, to protect the document, gain the lead over the shrill countess, and to pretend to care about her choleric progenitor.
If nothing else, the recent happenings amongst the comital family might release her from further pretence of affection lost between her and the Earl. The young woman was absolutely unable to feel any sympathy for a weak man, incapable of defying his father for a supposed love beyond all reason, to use his position to bed a woman and then abandoning her to her own fate.
Despite her recent attempts to turn her stepbrother against his birthmother, she could not count on it being effective. She only trust anyone as far as she can throw them, especially on that particular case, when Marlcaster has nothing to gain and everything to lose. Therefore, she had Mr Harper uncorking the carriage's wheels. The gentile would not dare to travel on horseback, he was much too craven.
With any luck, they shall come loose on the road and it should do what the Duke has failed to during the races.
Speaking of the shrivelled prune, Susan could only open her front door before the nobleman appeared, yet again unannounced, uninvited and unwanted.
"Your Grace!" She gasps, both of surprise and of distaste. "What are you doing here at such a late hour?!"
"Ah, the lovely Lady Susan! Just who I wanted to see." He responds, in that infuriating sleazy smile of his. "My presence certainly comes as a pleasant surprise, does it not?"
"Certainly not. It is much improper for me to receive visitors at night-time, what I am sure you can attest to." The brunette glares at him. "Furthermore, people usually call ahead before visiting, so they do not burden their hosts, who might be in important business. I am sorry to inform it to be the case."
Not one to be dissuaded by something so banal like common sense, the nobleman insists: "But I came all the way here to personally invite you to attend my grand ball! The least you could do is to be my honoured guest."
Susan cannot help but think the least she could do was ignore him instead of burying a knife on the small of his back, so she decided to walk the middle way between both assumptions.
"As much as I am glad you have thought of me, Your Grace, and how you flatter me with your favour, I am afraid I will not be able to attend your ball. I have been called to urgent business in Edgewater and will have to depart London." She says, and punctuates her statement with a short pause. "Tonight."
She steps around the imposing figure of the Duke and tries to make her way to the stables, but the man briskly walks ahead and blocks her path.
"You deny my invitation?!" His face contorts into an angry scowl. "I am Duke Tristan of Karlington! No one turns down an invitation from someone of royal descent! I could be king!"
Susan mutters 'Putain!' under her breath and returns the Duke's scowl with a glare of equal intensity.
"You could be king? C'est n'importe quoi! All peers could be king if they are dedicated enough! The world is full with mossy pieces of rock surrounded by ocean one could put a flag on and call themselves a king!" She shouts at him and shoves his figure away from her. "Now if you excuse me, I have business to attend!"
Supported with his left foot behind, he was able to recompose himself fast enough to grab her arm and shove her back against the wall of her townhouse.
"Where do you think you're running off to, Lady Susan?" He whispers menacing against her ear. "I thought we could spend some time together."
To that, she could not help but laugh scandalously. "Are you seriously trying to rape me, Tristan? Ce que vous être incroyablement bête!" After some more laughter, she continues, "Pardon my French, it slips when I am emotional. If you had not understood, I mean to say you must be daft!"
The old man's brows furrow even deeper, and his hold to her arm tightens. The woman, however, do not lose her defiant look.
"You speak a bold game when you are on a clear disadvantage, milady." He sneers.
"Did I make Your Grace mad?" She grins at him, in superiority. "Perhaps I ought to draw you a picture. As much as I would prefer to be so, I know your favour of me does not have anything to do with my beauty or my wit, Tristan. I am only worth my weight in gold, what you would hypothetically acquire upon marrying me and my father dying.
"What you fail to realize is that my inheritance is not certain just yet, and my father has had the inopportune idea to fall ill too soon. He should be dead within the week. I must get to Edgewater as soon as possible to chase Henrietta away and to guarantee the assertion of my legal rights.
"If you are to waste my time by stripping me of my virtue, Your Grace, which you will find I have none, you will delay my voyage, place a comfortable edge on Henrietta's lap and deprive both of us of Edgewater.
"If you so wish to continue, very well, I shall spread my legs for your royal manhood, but be sure you lose much more than you gain. You lose your fortune, you lose a comeuppance against Mr Sinclaire, and you lose the pleasure of seeing me submit, for I can find some wealthy nobleman for myself, virtue or no virtue. I hear Westonly is looking for a bride, and none shall think twice if he happens to trip down the stairs three months into our marriage.
"Now, I shall say it again." Susan looks deep into his eyes, holding his gaze in steel-cold determination. "I have business to attend in Edgewater. Excuse me, Your Grace."
For a moment, neither of them moved, a battle of wills sparked on the four irises, a joust of the wit between the entitlement of an heir and the unbound determination of the oppressed.
Finally, Tristan weakens his hold on Susan's arm and, smiling, says, "Godspeed, milady."
"Thank you, Your Grace." She curtsies quickly and continues on her way to the stables.
While she rode her horse along the silent, dark road, Mr Harper trailing about a mile behind, Susan thinks back on Tristan's naiveté. He thinks to be the king, but it is nothing but a pawn on her hands.
It was better this way, she considered, for the Duke shall never see the truth until it was much too late, when he will be unable to keep her from collecting the humiliation she suffered by his hand.
Her time will come.