Was this Richard’s work? But he must know that the story would force James to marry her. That was the last thing Richard wanted.
It was certainly the last thing James wanted. Sarah thrust aside a low-hanging branch. It should be the last thing she wanted, too, but disgust at the thought of tying herself to a rake was not one of the feelings churning in her stomach. Where was her self-respect? Gone, apparently.
She stopped near a large tree at the far corner of Palmerson’s garden. She put her hand on the solid trunk and drew in a deep breath. She had to think, but her mind refused to function. She kept hearing those tittering young girls, kept seeing the disdain on their silly little faces. They were only seventeen, pampered and protected by their rich, influential papas. What did they know about anything? Why should she care what they thought?
It wasn’t what they thought—it was what the entire ballroom thought. Sarah moaned, laying her head against the tree trunk. How was she ever going to find the courage to go back into that house?
“Ah, Miss Hamilton. So nice of you to pick the farthest, darkest section of this lovely garden.”
Sarah’s head shot up. Standing just three feet from her was William Dunlap. He looked…different. The beautiful face now held a threat. Her heart slammed into her throat. She took a deep breath and dug her fingers into the rough bark. She could not faint. She had to be alert.
“Mr. Dunlap.” She was happy to note that her voice was steady. “I’m sorry, but I prefer to be alone at the moment.”
Dunlap sighed. “I’m afraid, Miss Hamilton, that your preferences no longer matter.”
“What…what do you mean?” Sarah stood up straight and balanced forward a little on her toes. The only path of escape was past Dunlap and he could stop her just by lifting a hand.
He came closer. Sarah kept herself from backing up. She didn’t want to be caught against the tree trunk.
“There is something about this whole situation that doesn’t ring true. I don’t know what it is, but I trust my instincts.” Dunlap shook his head and shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can’t take chances. My associate insists on certainty, I’m afraid.”
He reached out and grabbed Sarah’s shoulders. His fingers dug into her skin. She could smell the wine on his breath, but he was cold sober.
“I regret that circumstances require me to rape you, Miss Hamilton.” His right hand hooked her bodice and jerked down. There was a sound of cloth ripping and the cold night air hit her skin. He took one of her breasts in his hand and squeezed. Sarah felt tears sting her eyes.
“I really don’t care for skinny girls. Their sharp bones dig into me like the lumps in a cheap whorehouse mattress. I’ll just have you against this tree, shall I?”
Sarah screamed. Her knee flew up and connected with the soft tissue between his legs. His hands left her and he grabbed his groin.
“You bitch!” He had more curses, but Sarah didn’t wait around to hear them. She picked up her skirts and ran.
James was frantic. Palmerson had the largest, darkest bloody garden in London. There was no sign of Sarah.
“Robbie, you go that way. I’ll go this way. Yell if you find her.”
“Won’t that attract some attention, James?”
“I don’t care if you wake the dead in Westminster Abbey, Robbie. I want to bloody know if you find Sarah.”
“Right.”
The men split up. James strode down one dark path and then another. At least he didn’t flush any lovers from the bushes—everyone was too damn entertained inside, shredding Sarah’s character. Blast it, where was Sarah? He felt like he’d been searching for hours. Think, he told himself. Keep calm. She’s only been out here a few minutes.
He wished he didn’t know how much damage a man could do to a girl in just a few minutes.
Then he heard the scream. He started running before the sound had faded. Just let me not miss her, he thought. The garden was so bloody dark.
He saw a figure running toward him. A woman, hair down around her shoulders, white skin, torn dress—and then she was in his arms and he was holding her tight. She struggled.
“Shhh, Sarah. It’s James. You’re safe now.”
“Thank God,” she whispered and buried her face in his shirt.
“James!” Robbie came running up. “Did you hear—” he broke off when he saw Sarah. “Is she all right?”
“I think so. She came running from that direction.” James pointed with his chin. “My guess is it’s Dunlap. I need to go after him.” He bent his head. “Sarah, Robbie is here now. Stay with him, will you?”
Sarah shook her head and buried deeper into his shirt. Her arms snaked around his back and locked together. It would have taken some force to detach her. James didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t let Dunlap get away. He looked at Robbie.
“I’ll go. If that bastard has hurt her, I’ll kill him.”
“No, Robbie, I will kill him. But first we have to catch him.”
“Right. I’ll be back.”
Robbie ran off. James bent his head to whisper in Sarah’s ear. “Sarah, love, you need to let go of me. I’m not going anywhere. I just need to get my coat off so I can cover you with it. Your dress is badly torn, sweetheart.”
Sarah gulped and nodded. She loosened her death grip, but still stood very close. He shrugged out of his coat and put it around her shoulders. The front of her dress was down to her waist, her pale breasts and darker nipples completely exposed.
It was too dark for James to see how badly hurt she was. He didn’t want to question her and shatter the fragile hold she had on her emotions. That would have to wait until they got home.
“Put your arms in the sleeves, love, and I’ll button the coat up so you’re covered.”
She obeyed automatically.
Robbie came back then. “The bastard got away. He was just going over the wall when I got there.”
“We’ll find him later.” James put his arm around Sarah, pulling her close again. “I don’t suppose Palmerson’s garden is the best place to deal with the situation, anyway.”
“No, it’s not.” Robbie nodded to Sarah. “Is she all right?”
“I think so, but she obviously can’t go back into the ballroom. Could you tell John Coachman to wait for us at the corner? I’ll take Sarah out the back gate and down the alley.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Don’t tell the others though. I’m sure enough people will notice that Sarah and I are both gone, but it might help if the ladies stay and act as if nothing untoward has occurred. You’ll see them safely home later?”
“Of course.” Robbie glanced worriedly at Sarah. “Do you think that bloody bastard did more than tear her dress?” he asked under his breath. Sarah didn’t indicate that she had heard him.
“I don’t know, but I will find out. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”
James guided Sarah to the back gate. The moon lit a path down the center of the alley. She still hadn’t spoken, but he wasn’t worried. She was using all her energy to hold herself together.
John Coachman was waiting for them on the street. James handed Sarah up and then climbed in after her. She sat stiffly on the edge of her seat. He didn’t try to touch her but sat quietly watching her, waiting for the coach to make the short journey to Alvord House.
Wiggins met them at the door.
“Bring some warm water, cloths, and salve,” James told the butler.
“Yes, your grace.”
James hurried Sarah into his darkened study and settled her in his big upholstered chair. Then he went to the cabinet to get the brandy. He poured two glasses and brought one to her. Pulling up a footstool, he sat in front of her.
“Drink this, Sarah.” He wrapped her hands around the glass. “It will help.”
“Here are the items you requested, your grace,” Wiggins said from the doorway.
James kept his eyes on Sarah. “Thank you, Wiggins. Put them on the desk, will you
?”
Wiggins paused. “Do you require any help, your grace? I’m sure Mrs. Wiggins would be happy to assist Miss Hamilton.”
James frowned. Sarah still had not taken a sip of her brandy. “No, Wiggins, we are fine. Just close the door behind you when you leave.”
James waited until he heard the quiet click of the door shutting.
“Drink some brandy, Sarah.”
She put the glass to her lips and took a sip. She sputtered and choked, but her eyes had more life to them.
“One more sip, sweetheart, and then we need to talk.”
Sarah swallowed another mouthful before James took her glass and gently pulled off her gloves. He held her hands in his. Her fingers felt like ice.
“Sarah, I’m sorry to have to ask you, but I need to know. You mustn’t be afraid to tell me.” James forced down the fury that rose in him as he looked at Sarah’s face. If Dunlap were in the room now, he would be dead. But Sarah had had enough violence tonight. She did not need to hear anger in his voice. He spoke quietly. “Did Dunlap rape you?”
“No!” She shook her head frantically. “He, he grabbed me. He t-tore my dress.” She closed her eyes. “He t-touched me.” Her chin started to tremble. She opened her eyes again. She looked lost, like a child in the grip of a nightmare.
James gathered her close. Her arms went around his neck; her face buried into his cravat. He lifted her up, sat down in the chair and settled her on his lap. Her whole body was shivering. He wrapped one arm tightly around her waist and cupped the back of her head with his other hand, holding her face to his chest, resting his lips on her hair.
Sarah sought warmth. She was so cold. She was shivering inside and out. Her teeth chattered and her stomach clenched and jumped. She could not get warm. She felt as if even her fingernails were cold and tight.
James sat with her as he had the night of Lizzie’s come-out ball, but this time he just held her. At first she was frantic for him, for the strength and safety he promised. She buried her face in the soft warmth of his shirt. His heat surrounded her. His chest pillowed her cheek, his arm supported her back, his breath stirred her hair. She would have climbed inside of him if she could have.
She was tired of being alone. She was tired of trying to be strong. She pressed her cheek tighter against James’s chest and listened to the steady, calming beat of his heart. She breathed in the warm, familiar scent of him and felt his hand moving over her scalp and down to her neck, slowly stroking her hair. His voice rumbled under her cheek. She didn’t try to understand the words. She just wanted to be with him, not to think or to feel, but just to know that he was there, close around her, making her safe. Slowly the fear drained out of her and James’s warmth seeped in. Her muscles relaxed.
“Tell me what happened, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to remember the ugliness. Putting it into words might make it real again.
“Tell me, Sarah. Trust me, it will be better to get it all out. Then the hurt won’t fester.” His big hand wove through her hair, his fingers rubbing the base of her skull. “You’ve been in a battle, love, just like in war, and the men who talked most about the battles they were in, about the horrors they’d seen, were the ones who got free of the violence.”
Sarah shuddered. “He was so much stronger than I,” she whispered, feeling the helplessness again.
James’s hands tightened on her. He too was stronger than she was, but his strength was reassuring, not frightening.
“I knew I had to get away or he would do something terrible. He was going to push me up against a tree. I would have been trapped. I couldn’t have moved him.”
James’s hand kept up its gentle stroking. “But he didn’t trap you. You got away. How did you do it, love?”
“I kneed him.”
Sarah could feel James smile against her hair.
“Good girl. Who taught you that trick?”
“My father. He said if I ever was caught by a sailor on the wharves, I should drive my knee up between his legs as hard as I could and the man would let me go. It worked.”
James chuckled. “Believe me, sweetheart, it will always work.”
“At first, I didn’t think I could do it, but then I had a flash of panic and my leg moved without my thinking.”
“Good for you. Robbie and I heard you scream, but it might still have taken us a few minutes to find you.” James’s hand paused in her hair. “Why were you in the garden, Sarah?”
Sarah turned her face into his chest again. Her words were muffled in his shirt. He felt her lips move, felt the warmth of her breath through the fine linen on his chest.
“Everyone knows about the Green Man, James.”
“I see.” He resumed his rhythmic stroking of her hair. She was stiff with tension again. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
Sarah hunched one shoulder and kept her face in his chest. He smoothed her hair off her forehead.
“It means, sweetheart, that now we have to marry. I will send the notice out tonight so it makes the morning papers.”
“No.”
“Yes.” James tried not to let the pain he felt at her refusal show in his voice. Her feelings and his were immaterial now. “It will silence the gossip, Sarah. I’ve already had one old roué ask me if I were done with you. If the announcement of our engagement doesn’t appear tomorrow, all the rakes and riffraff will think they are free to proposition you.”
Sarah shuddered. “All right.” Her voice was small and toneless.
James frowned. An engagement would stop the gossip, but it would enrage Richard. Once the notice appeared in the papers, there was no way James could honorably call off the wedding. The deed was as good as done. His—and Sarah’s—lives were about to get exceedingly more dangerous.
Anger and frustration surged through him and his grip on Sarah tightened reflexively. She whimpered, and he loosened his hold.
“Did Dunlap hurt you? I can’t do much about bruises, but I have this salve that should help with any cuts.”
“I think his ring scratched me when he tore my dress.”
Sarah’s face was still buried in his chest, but James could not remember seeing any marks there. The scratch must be hidden under his jacket. Perhaps Dunlap’s ring had caught her on the neck or upper arm.
“Do you want me to have a look?”
She sat completely still for a moment; then her head nodded slightly.
“Yes,” she whispered. She sat back a little in his arms and started to undo his jacket. Her hands shook too much for her to manage the buttons. James gently brushed her fingers aside and took over, moving slowly so she could stop him if she wanted. When he finally had the buttons all undone, he folded back the coat.
A long, angry red scratch ran from her collarbone to the tip of her left breast. James reached for the cloths Wiggins had brought. He dipped one in the water and gently stroked it down the scratch.
“Does that hurt?” Even he could tell that his voice was huskier than usual. Sarah shook her head. Her eyes were huge in the firelight. He put the cloth down and dipped his index finger in the salve. Slowly he rubbed thick ointment into Sarah’s soft skin, from collarbone down to the tip of her breast. In the light he could see that a bruise was beginning to form. He skimmed his thumb over the spot.
“He hurt you here, too.”
“He grabbed me.” Sarah’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He said I was skinny. He said he was going to take me against a tree so my sharp bones wouldn’t dig into him.”
James looked into Sarah’s eyes and saw the question there. He held her injured breast gently in his palm. He felt the sweet weight, the gentle give of flesh so different from his own.
“You are beautiful, Sarah. I would love nothing more than to have you beneath me, but on a large, soft bed.”
“Other women have more…bigger…don’t you want…”
“I want you, Sarah. Only you.”
James let his fingers car
efully explore the treasure in his hand—the rounded underside, the smooth slope tapering to the darker circle at the tip, the hard little nipple at the center. He heard Sarah draw in a breath when he touched her there. He let his thumb rub back and forth, and the little nub got harder and stiffer. Like a part of his anatomy, he thought, smiling.
Sarah’s breath came in little gasps and she squirmed on his lap. Heat flooded him. He wanted to see how this small part of her tasted. He wanted to put his tongue where his thumb was, to flick that hard little nub with moisture. To take her into his mouth.
He did not hear the click of the study door opening, but he heard the sharp, indrawn breath, the one that had not come from Sarah.
“It looks like we can finally set a wedding date,” Aunt Gladys said.
Chapter 11
The announcement that James William Randolph Runyon, Duke of Alvord, was to marry Miss Sarah Marie Hamilton of Philadelphia appeared in the morning paper. Betty delivered it with Sarah’s chocolate.
“We’re all that happy, miss,” Betty said, setting the tray on the table by Sarah’s bed. “I’ll tell ye, we’ve been right worried, but all’s well that ends well, I always says.”
“Umm.” Sarah stared down at the paper. She had slept like the dead, too exhausted by the emotional storm she had weathered to have nightmares. In fact, the events of the previous night now seemed like a bizarre dream. The horror of Dunlap’s roughness and the heat of James’s gentleness were equally unreal.
She took a sip of chocolate, running her fingers over the words of the announcement. How would she feel if this were a normal engagement? Excited? Wildly happy? But it wasn’t a normal engagement. She hadn’t been asked; she’d been told. No, not even told. Propelled by forces outside her control, like a ship before a gale. And if she were honest, there was a different kind of gale within her propelling her toward this marriage, sweeping all rational thought away before a storm of feeling whenever James touched her.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against her pillow. He had had his hand on her naked breast. Her whole body flushed in an agony of embarrassment. The heat that surged through her pooled low in her stomach, throbbing in the strange, new way that was becoming all too familiar. She didn’t know herself anymore. She must be ill. A brain fever, perhaps. She certainly felt feverish.
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