Lady Emily Grosvenor was usually a master at compartmentalizing her feelings. She had done it all her life, but this was different. Her whole body ached with a desperate pain as she felt the hot sting of tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. She quickly glanced around to see if anyone was there, it would be horribly inappropriate for a woman of her rank to be seen showing such a public display of emotion.

Her mother would certainly not approve. But no one was there. The deck was empty and the thick mist had started laying claim to it. There were no stars in the stormy skies, no moon, no horizon, no nothing- just Emily.

She had to compose herself. She didn't have a choice. She was expected at dinner, where she'd be expected to smile and charm with her sweet disposition and delicate beauty- which she was renowned for. Expectation and duty were no strangers to her. In fact, they had been her constant companions these 19 years. Being the daughter of one of the most powerful, and wealthiest families in London, came with undeniable privilege, but it was also a curse.

And tonight she'd never been more acutely aware of that curse.

 It was expectation and duty that had gotten her into this particular situation, and it was expectation and duty that were making her think of ending her life. And the worst part was that she was powerless, there was absolutely nothing she could do about any of it. Her life was about to change forever.

Bound on a passenger ship to Kenya, some dark and savage country in Africa she knew nothing about. She had been ripped away from everyone she loved, and everything she cared about. Her beloved sister was still in London, her friends, society, fashion, the beautiful balls she attended regularly, opulent dinners- everything.

But there was something even worse than all that. Her father had promised her to a man she didn't love, a man who was on this very ship and who was expected to make her an offer of marriage shortly. Lord Thomas Wilton of extensive fortune and property worked with her father, who had just been appointed the Governor of newly colonized Kenya. 

"A most prestige's position", her mother had said. 

In her parent's and Lord Wiltons eyes- she was his future wife. There was no doubt that the union of their two families would make them one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in the whole of England.

"But I don't love him." She'd pleaded with her mother.

"Do you think I loved your father when I married him?" she'd snapped back. "Love is a luxury reserved for the lower class. You have a duty to perform. You will marry him and you will produce heirs"

There was no point in arguing. Their minds were made up. She no longer had a say, or a choice in her own future. Her future belonged to others now, and it was a thing to bought and sold however they pleased.

And so she composed herself, wiping the salty tears from her face, and headed inside towards the golden glow of the banqueting hall.

She pushed the door open and was instantly hit by the warmth and splendor of the ship. It was magnificent. Intricate carvings covered the walls and ceilings, the wood gleamed so much that she could almost make her reflection out. The light of the crystal chandeliers reflecting off the rich tones of the wood, gave the whole place an amber glow. A light that really brought out her deep chestnut eyes and gave her pitch black hair a copper shimmer. 

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her pale porcelain skin seemed to glow in the warm light. Her cheeks were flushed a rose pink, no doubt from the cold air outside, and her hair was slightly tussled. Loose tendrils cascaded down the nape of her long neck, accentuating its soft curve. Her whole look had a kind of easy charm to it. As if she'd just been in a garden picking flowers, the breeze loosening her hair and sun flushing her cheeks.

But that couldn't be further from reality, she thought, as a wave of anxiety swept over her. She pushed the feeling away as best she could and looked down at her dress. It was the latest fashion, of course, ordered from Paris. It's deep violet satin ruffles fell to the floor gracefully. Her corset was tight, providing a synched waist and a perfect S silhouette. Her neckline was low, and off the shoulder, showing just enough.

Despite the ugliness she felt inside, outwardly, she was perfection. Since childhood her beauty had been greatly talked about and admired. And as she'd grown older, she had blossomed in ways that made grown men blush, and even stutter on occasion. This was not something she was comfortable with at all, even though her mother had insisted she master the art of using her "natural talents" to her advantage. 

She didn't much care for the way men stared at her, and she certainly didn't know how to look back at them. She'd observed some of her friends do it, that coy tilt of the head and flick of the hair, the small inviting smile causing a twinkle in their eyes. At the age of 19, her sensual side was yet to be awakened. She was having too much fun dancing, socializing and gossiping to be trying to catch herself a husband. All she wanted was to enjoy her youth and freedom, unhindered by a husband and a list of obligations that she would inherit when she finally did marry. 

But men were mesmerized by her, whether she craved it or not. And the men tonight in the banqueting hall were not different.

She stepped through the doors, and all of her senses sprung to life in the most pleasurable of ways. The room was filled with a mixture of glorious sounds, sights and smells. The lively chatter of the women, and deep laughter of the men blending with Mozart's concerto being deftly played on the pianoforte. The smell of cognac in the air, somehow merging with the smell Cuban cigars and gourmet cooking. This is where she felt at home, in these kinds of surrounds. This thought hit her with a pang of sadness as she considered that this might be the last time- for a very long time- that she would find herself in such luxury again. 

The smell of Merlot wafted past her on a butler's tray, she took a glass and wanted nothing more than to sit in a quiet corner, undisturbed, feeling the warm calming embrace of the wine as it went to work on her shattered nerves. After that she'd indulge in dinner- maybe just eat dessert and skip the others two courses- and then retire to her bedchamber. She might as well indulge in these pleasures while she still could.

But then she caught sight of her father, and with one swift and authoritative movement of his arm, he beckoned her. Disappointment surged through her as she quickly realized that a quiet evening of wine and desert were no longer on the cards. So she obeyed him. Because it was what was expected of her. It was how she had been raised and since that encounter with her mother, she had realized that fighting the system only made it worse. 

She had decided to accept her plight and slowly, but surely start letting go of all her dreams. Especially letting go of love.She knew now- unequivocally- that she would never have the opportunity to experience it.

But how could she ever love her husband, a man she despised?

Her sister was lucky, she had married a man she truly, passionately loved, and who returned those feelings tenfold. He was also of the right breeding and background. One night, while hiding under the bed covers together, whispering in hushed voices, her sister had told her of something she would never forget.

She told her how she had felt when her husband Richard had touched her for the first time. How her skin had felt like it was on fire as his hand touched her face and his fingers caressed her lips.

"And then what did he do next?" my mind burned with an insatiable curiosity. I begged her to tell me everything, in as much detail as possible.

So she regaled the full story of how he had kissed her, and she had experienced a feeling like no other. An electric shocked that seemed to start in her bosom and work it's way down.  

She told me about their first night together as man and wife. How he had been so tender and gentle, his fingers softly undressing her, untying her corset as he planted small kisses on the nape of her neck. She told me how if felt when he was inside her, moving with her and grinding his body against hers. Their bodies moving together as if they were one.

"He never stopped looking into my eyes," she said. "Not for a second. It felt like pure love".

That's what she wanted. She wanted a man to be so in love with her, and for her to be so in love with him that they couldn't bare to be apart. That they would need to touch each other just to feel alive. If my sister could have it, why couldn't I?

Didn't she deserve that too?