V. – A Pawn in the Hands of Men
Yvonne had decided, on her second meeting with him, that she would not have much cared for Martin-Roget even without her dwelling fear, for there was something about him she could not place, but that she greatly disliked.
Oh yes, he was attentive; some would even consider him attractive. At social events, he held her hand and guided her about the rooms or gardens, often alongside her father. Her father, who thought him perfect and rich and ideal for a cherished daughter.
But despite his attentions, Martin-Roget's smiles were strangely cold, and Yvonne was left with a disturbed, hollow feeling that settled unpleasantly in her stomach. His hands were almost claw-like, a hard vice that she knew it was fruitless to struggle against if he had hold of her, and his eyes had no warmth whatsoever.
She assumed her feelings were simply the resurfacing of her old fears. She had been right; she would never move beyond the fear of a man's touch, and when she married this man she would have a wedding night in which she would obey her husband's every word, for that was the way of things, whether she liked it or not.
Pleasure had eluded her forever, she felt.
And still, for her father's sake, Yvonne did her best to pretend that she was happy. To pretend that there were no nightmares or lingering memories of that fateful night near her childhood home. That she understood the importance of such a wealthy match. She knew she was a pawn, a tool in the hands of men. So her looks of placid compliance were the mask that hid the haunted fear her father had so worried over when she had been twelve years of age. At sixteen, she was a woman and she knew her place in the world, and she would bear the deprivation of love and her Fate with all the bearing of the aristocrat she was.
She sadly accepted it as her Destiny.