Percy swallowed and shifted uneasily before Lucien’s hard stare, looking to Kate for help.
“And how will you prove these allegations, Lucien?” Kate asked idly, not even bothering to deny his claims. “Has anyone ever seen Percy and I lift a finger threateningly against you? You have merely had a few more accidents than most people experience, certainly not reason to suspect your dear, loving cousins of plotting your murder? It is ridiculous, and no one, Lucien, will believe you,” she taunted him. “People will feel sorry for the poor duke, who lost not only his fiancée, but also his estate. Apparently Blanche Delande preferred running away with her lover rather than marry you,” Kate speculated, then stared at Lucien analytically. “Possibly it was the scar that sent the little dove flying?”
Lucien smiled unpleasantly. “And is she still flying high, Percy? Or was she brought down by some hidden hunter, just waiting to flush her out and bring her to earth?”
Percy flushed, perspiration breaking out on his forehead as he rubbed his hands against the cloth of his suit as though wiping them clean. “I don’t know what you are implying, Lucien, but I resent it. No one can connect me with your missing fiancée. Kate and I were together the whole evening of the Harriers’ ball, and we left together,” Percy blundered as he sought to clear himself.
Lucien walked over to him, his face devoid of expression. “I never told you when Blanche disappeared, Percy. Strange that you should know that she never returned home from the ball. Did she die easily, Percy?” Lucien asked softly as he reached out and grabbed Percy by the throat, pressing against his windpipe and cutting off his air. Percy’s eyes bulged with horror and Kate screamed, running up beside Lucien and trying to pry his fingers from her twin’s throat.
Lucien released his death grip reluctantly, staring down in contempt as Percy fell to his knees clutching his throat “You bastard, I ought to skin you alive, and hang you, Kate, by that lily-white neck of yours. You haven’t won yet, dear cousins, for you shall never set foot in the halls of Camareigh. I swear by all that is holy that you shall pay for your sins, and by God, I’ll exact punishment for them one of these days.”
Kate looked up into Lucien’s scarred face, flinching at the blazing fury in his eyes, his face looking like a devil’s as he turned from them in disgust.
“You won’t win, Lucien!” Kate screamed at his broad back as he made for the door. “You haven’t time to find another bride before the duchess’s deadline. And do you imagine any woman would want to risk marrying you?” she called out triumphantly.
Lucien turned at her words. “Yes, dear cousin,” Kate raged on, “you might be suspected of murdering your fiancée in a fit of jealous rage. Everyone knows you’ve an uncontrollable temper when aroused. Blanche had decided not to marry you, perhaps, or maybe she left the ball with her lover and you caught them, and in a black rage murdered them both. Who knows what rumors might spread about your missing fiancée? And if you dare to tell the duchess about your suspicions then you will kill her. She’s old and frail, and so very proud. You tell her, Lucien, and you sign her death warrant.”
Lucien turned, feeling sickened at the sight of Percy and Kate. He felt dirtied and disgraced by them. His body felt as though turned to stone as he sat in his carriage, which jostled to join the mainstream of traffic. What in God’s name was he to do? He would not lose Camareigh—he would see Percy and Kate dead before he allowed them to own Camareigh. But Kate had been right about one thing—if he told the duchess about their murderous actions it would kill her. She was a proud old woman to whom the family name meant everything. To know that her grandchildren were murderers, and had plotted to kill their cousin, would surely kill her. No, he could not, and would not, tell her. Kate had played a beautiful hand, he had to admit, and only he knew it. But he would not give up—never.
The duchess was resting when he arrived at her home seeking an audience with her. Refusing to be put off by the majordomo he vaulted up the grand staircase and forced his way into his grandmother’s room. He stopped as he entered the darkened room and accustomed his eyes to the diminished light.
“Who is there?” a shaky voice asked from the depths of a canopied bed.
Lucien followed the sound of her voice until he was standing beside her bed. “It is I, Lucien, Grandmère,” he spoke softly.
“Lucien?” she asked in puzzlement as she propped herself up on the mound of pillows behind her. “How dare you storm into my bedchamber when I do not wish to be disturbed,” she demanded, her voice gaining strength as she woke from her sleep.
“I beg your pardon, most deeply, but I have to tell you something of the utmost urgency, Grandmère,” Lucien explained, looking down at her in the shadowy darkness of her bed.
The duchess waved him away. “Nothing is that urgent; however, as long as you have already disturbed me, I shall allow you to remain,” she conceded. “Now light that candle so I may see your face,” she commanded.
When the light spread across a small area around her bed and lit Lucien’s face she sighed deeply. “You are troubled. Never before have I seen quite that look of desperation on your face. What has happened?” She straightened her shoulders, her regal air seeming incongruous beneath her frilly lace cap and nightgown.
“I am afraid that my scarred face has frightened away my fiancée once and for all. She has fled me, Grandmère, and I am faced with a wedding ceremony without a bride.”
The duchess drew in her breath sharply. “I do not believe it. How do you know this?”
“She has been missing since early this week, and today Lady Staddon came to me and told me. She had not wanted me to know sooner, should Blanche have returned.”
“I do not believe the foolish child would run away from your title merely because she did not like your face. Did she have a lover?”
“It is thought that she might have,” Lucien replied evenly.
“If you had paid the chit more attention then she would not have needed to seek romance elsewhere,” the duchess accused Lucien angrily.
“If you recall, she was not of my choosing to begin with. However, that is not important now, since it may be possible that she has met with an accident.”
“What leads you to suspect that?” the duchess demanded curiously.
“Lady Staddon tells me that her daughter’s possessions have not been disturbed—nothing is missing. I doubt whether she would elope without a change of clothing. She did leave the ball early, complaining of a migraine and hired a coach to drive her home. She may have met with an accident,” Lucien speculated, “but we may never know. That is why I have come to you. Will you hold me to your condition of my marrying to inherit my estate? It is impossible for me to meet the deadline now.”
The duchess was silent. “You forced this upon yourself, Lucien. You need not have waited so long in coming to my terms. It was pure defiance by you, and now you are faced with the unforeseeable results. No, you must still marry to inherit,” the duchess spoke adamantly. “However, I will grant you an extra couple of weeks in order to find yourself another bride. Fail this time and you lose Camareigh, my boy.”
Lucien stepped back from the bed and bowed politely. “Thank you, Grandmère, my apologies again for disturbing you,” he said sardonically, resentful and thankful to her at the same time.
“Don’t disappoint me, Lucien.” She spoke softly from the bed as he neared the door.
“I won’t, Grandmère,” Lucien promised as he opened the door and left.
When Lucien left the duchess he directed his coachman to drive towards Hyde Park, his destination a house in a small square off it. He settled himself back against the cushions, a plan forming in his mind as he remembered his weekend at the Duke of Granston’s. He had been seeking only revenge at that time, little knowing that it would become part of a larger scheme, and what he had put into effect then would now reap him far greater rewards. By chance,
or mischance, Sabrina Verrick would now be his salvation.
***
Sabrina fell to her knees under the cruel punishment of the whip, her shoulders and back stinging from the blows the marquis rained on them. She heard Mary scream in protest as she felt the first flick of the whip, but failed to see Mary run forward and try to wrestle the whip from the marquis’ hands, only to be pushed away and fall against the bed, her head striking one of the thick posts. Mary fought off the feeling of nausea and faintness that momentarily overwhelmed her and struggled to rise. She had to get help. Sabrina was curled in a ball on the floor, her face hidden in her arms as she tried to protect herself from the whip.
She groaned in pain as time and time again the sharp pain tore across her soft shoulders, ripping the thin material of her bodice and scoring the tender skin with angry welts.
Mary slid past the marquis, who was completely oblivious of anything except the blinding rage he felt as he beat the arrogance and defiance out of his daughter. Mary’s red hair tumbled about her shoulders as she ran from the room and down the hall to the head of the staircase, a bluish bruise beginning to rise on her forehead, her gray eyes wide with fear. As she stumbled weakly down the stairs the front door was opened by the majordomo and the Duke of Camareigh entered, looking up curiously as he heard her gasp of relief.
“Oh, thank God, you have come,” she cried, taking him completely by surprise. He quickly took in her distraught appearance and reached her as she collapsed down the last few steps, falling into his arms. The majordomo called for help, sending one of the footmen for smelling salts as he hovered over Lucien’s shoulder.
“Please,” Mary whispered, her hands clutching at the duke’s arm, “you must stop him. He’ll kill her if you don’t.”
“Kill whom?” Lucien demanded incredulously, staring down at her as if he thought her crazed.
“Sabrina. The marquis is beating her, and it is all your fault,” she accused him, tears streaking her cheeks.
Lucien eased her into the majordomo’s arms and sprinted up the stairs, heading toward the sound of a whip slashing through the air, his mouth set in a grim, determined line as he found the room. He grabbed the marquis’ raised arm and twisted it painfully behind his back, forcing the marquis to drop the whip as he gave a grunt of surprise at the attack.
“What the devil?” he demanded and turned to see who dared to interfere, his face contorted, his gaze unseeing, until his rage faded as he stared up into Lucien’s eyes and the scar whitening along his cheek. He felt a flicker of fear as Lucien’s grip tightened painfully, then cried out as Lucien pushed him away in disgust.
“Get out! And if you ever lay another hand on her I’ll take that whip and strip your coward’s hide from you,” Lucien warned the astounded Marquis, and turning his back on him knelt down beside the fallen figure crumpled on the floor.
Lucien carefully lifted Sabrina up into his arms and placed her gently on the bed, laying her on her stomach to avoid the raw strips of flesh exposed through the torn gown that was stained with drops of blood. His face was taut as he smoothed a deep wave of black hair out of her face and stared down at her pale face, lines of suffering still on it. He waited while her eyelids fluttered and gradually opened and she stared up at him with her great violet eyes.
“Lucien,” she whispered. “Have you come to gloat over your victory?”
Lucien’s mouth tightened at her words, for that was what he had come to do, and instead he had found her nearly unconscious with pain because of him. “I’m not gloating, Sabrina. I would never have you harmed like this,” he told her truthfully.
But Sabrina’s faith had been broken, and her young girl’s love for him shattered, and all she felt now for him was hatred. “Liar,” she told him, her lips curling with contempt as her thick lashes came down and closed over her eyes, blocking him from her mind.
Lucien continued to smooth the soft hair from her face despite her unresponsiveness to his touch. He looked over his shoulder as Mary entered the room with a bowl of water and cloth to bathe her wounds. She stood beside him staring down at Sabrina’s bloodied back, tears starting afresh in her eyes at the sight of proud Sabrina humbled and humiliated this way.
“You will now leave us, your grace,” she spoke imperiously, her eyes still on her sister.
Lucien got to his feet and without a word left the room and Sabrina to Mary’s ministrations. He walked purposefully down the stairs, heading for the door where raised voices could be heard.
“How could you beat the little one?” the contessa demanded angrily. “That is not the way to handle such a one as she. You bring out the rebellion in her to do that. Besides, you might have ruined her beauty, and that is all that we have to offer her for,” the contessa continued practically. Then her brown eyes softened for just an instant. “I am fond of the little one, oddly enough, and I do not like to see you crush the spirit out of her.”
“Nor do I,” Lucien spoke as he entered the room. “She was not to blame for the incident at Granston’s. She was duped by me, and I am here to make amends, and come to an arrangement that should meet with your approval.”
The marquis eyed the duke mistrustfully, keeping a good distance from him. “I do not think that we’ve anything to discuss, your grace,” the marquis replied, still feeling affronted by the rough handling he’d received from the duke.
“Oh, but I think that we do,” Lucien contradicted him smoothly. “You see, I intend to marry your daughter, Sabrina.”
The marquis choked at this sudden announcement and couldn’t have been more startled had he been shot. “Marry!” he demanded, his eyes wide. “This is preposterous. You are already engaged, and are to—”
The haughty look on the duke’s face silenced the rest of the marquis’ sentence and he spluttered to an abrupt stop. “Due to some unfortunate circumstances, that engagement no longer exists, therefore I am free to select another bride,” Lucien informed the marquis and contessa, who were listening in silent amazement, “and I choose your daughter, Sabrina.”
“Aspetti un momento, per favore,” the contessa murmured, “while I sit down, for this news is too much excitement, and order some wine for I am in need of it, caro.”
“Certainly,” the marquis beamed, his good humor restored, “after all, this is cause for celebration.”
“You’ll forgive me if I must decline,” the duke said in a voice that left little doubt that he felt just the opposite, and with a cool nod turned to leave the room.
“But what of the arrangements? When will you marry? Do you not have to by a certain date if you are to inherit your estate…” The marquis trailed off uncomfortably under the duke’s arrogant stare.
“Per favore, caro,” the contessa intervened quickly, “we will leave it all up to the duke. Of course, we will have to come to some small financial arrangement, si?” she said meaningfully.
Lucien inclined his head. “It will be taken care of, contessa, I will have my solicitor draw up the papers. Now if you will excuse me?” He didn’t wait for an answer and left the room, but not before he heard the marquis’ gleeful chuckle.
Returning upstairs he entered Sabrina’s room without knocking to find her stretched out on the bed, a blanket covering her hips while Mary bathed her bruised shoulders and back. Lucien’s mouth tightened ominously as he saw the ugly weals across the smooth, previously flawless skin. Every so often she gave a small involuntary groan as Mary’s gentle fingers caused her pain, but for most of the time she maintained a suffering silence.
Mary looked up quickly as she suddenly became aware of his presence in the room and stood up protectively before Sabrina. “Who do you think you are that you may enter our room unannounced?” The usually quiet Mary attacked him, her gray eyes stormy. “I will thank you, of course, for intervening and saving Sabrina, but if it hadn’t been for you in the first place, this would never have happen
ed.”
A flicker of respect entered Lucien’s eyes at this outburst from one he had mistakenly thought to be rather a nonentity, her quietness and serenity having surprised him at first considering she was Sabrina’s sister. And now she had flared up like a firecracker. His eyes went to the red hair as if in explanation.
“As it so happens,” he said quietly, “I do most certainly have a right to enter Sabrina’s room—I shall be marrying her,” he said bluntly.
Mary gasped in dismay, and then rushed to Sabrina who was struggling to sit up, the sheet held against her breasts as she stared up at Lucien, her violet eyes wide and darkened with both pain and confusion.
“Is this another of your games, Lucien?” she demanded in a small, choked voice.
Lucien moved forward until he stood next to the bed. “No, Sabrina, I have never been more serious than at this moment. You and I are to be wed, and despite the words you are about to fling at my head, we will be married,” Lucien told her firmly, noticing the rebellious look enter her eyes as she stared up at him.
“Have you not forgotten your fiancée?” she asked icily, her round chin raised with dignity despite her dishabille.
“No, I have not forgotten her,” Lucien answered quietly, his eyes clouded for a moment as he wondered about the fate of poor Blanche. “We are no longer engaged, so I have decided to marry you.”
“You have decided?” Sabrina laughed shortly. “How fortunate for me. However, it is a pity that I shall have to turn you down. Certainly a man of your noble bearing and experience will be able to find another poor fool to share your inheritance with you,” Sabrina told him, feeling deep pleasure at being able to thwart his plans, “for that is why you’ve asked me, isn’t it? You need a bride, and since you so ruthlessly destroyed my reputation you thought that I would jump at the chance of marrying you. Well, I do not need you, or your title, or your money. I can get all the money I need without having to resort to marriage with someone I find repulsive and offensive,” Sabrina told him fiercely.
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