by Anita Mills
He half-dragged, half-pushed her toward a room at the end of the hall. Still holding her mouth, he released her arm to wrench the doorknob, muttering, "Good—it's not locked—won't have to bribe the maid for the key."
"Papa, don't—I beg of you, do not do this to me! If you love me at all, you will not—"
He shoved her inside and closed the door between them. She rattled the knob frantically, but apparently he held it from the other side. With no means of escape, she stood in the dark room, hearing now only the beating of her own heart in her ears. Her stomach knotted, making her totally, utterly sick, and for a moment, she feared the bread and cheese would come up.
Her eyes huge, she looked about the room apprehensively, seeing only faint outlines, shadows cast by the fire. Somewhere within, Viscount Townsend lay in a stupor, unaware of the awful trick about to be played on him. Perhaps if she tried to waken him, to warn him... then what? For one reason or another, her papa would go to prison. But if she said nothing until he came back, it was more like that it would be she who paid. As her eyes adjusted again to the darkness, she could see the bed.
Better even if you was to lie down beside him.
The image of an eternally angry husband sprang to mind, and she knew that, whatever the consequence, she could not do it. Very gingerly, she edged again to the door, hoping her papa had gone. She'd rather run.
"Don't move, else I'll shoot."
She froze at the sound of the male voice, then spun around to see a man, his body bare where the covers fell away from it, sparking a candle in a reflector holder. The wick glowed as the spark took hold, then the orange flame grew, casting an eerie glow onto his face—and onto the barrel of an evil-looking pistol. To Nell, it was as though she faced the Prince of Darkness himself. An audible gasp escaped her.
"And I thought it was a respectable inn," he murmured, rising, revealing a decidedly masculine build clad in nothing more than rumpled breeches and stockings. "I collect I forgot to lock the door. Deuced careless of me, but I was more than a trifle foxed myself."
He spoke with a soft slur, but to her he appeared alarmingly awake. And he was big, considerably taller than her father. She stood rooted to the floor, now too afraid to flee, and yet even more afraid to stay. While her heart rose in her throat, he laid the pistol on a side table, then moved closer to peer through the shadows at her.
"Well, are you a thief—or Venus come calling en deshabille he asked softly. "I'd hear the answer." She turned and grasped the doorknob, only to have his hand close over hers. "No, you don't—not yet. If you are Leighton's notion of a gift—" He jerked her around roughly, forcing her to face him, and she could hear his sharp intake of breath. "Egad!"
"Please, sir—oh, please!"
Even in the faint light, he could see the girl was a beauty, and his irritation faded. "Well, well—he has taste, at least." His gaze raked over her, his glittering black eyes taking in her nightgown, and a faint smile curved his mouth. "Did he pay you—or do I?"
He was so close that she could smell the wine and feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. But it was his physical size, the strength of the hand that held her that frightened her the most.
"It's a mistake!" she babbled. "I am in the wrong room! It's a mistake, I tell you!"
"I'll warrant it is," he agreed softly. "It always is." As he spoke, his other hand moved over her shoulder, his fingertips tracing the bone through the thin lawn.
"Please—"
"Please what?" His voice was little more than a husky whisper against her ear. "I always try to please."
"You do not understand—I—" To her horror, she realized he meant to kiss her. "Oh—no—I'm not—" But his lips silenced her, brushing lightly, then as his arms closed around her, his mouth was insistent, possessing hers, stifling her protest. His tongue teased, then plunged inside, shocking her utterly.
Her eyes were huge, luminous in the semidarkness, widening, then closing tightly as though somehow she could hide. She was going to play the innocent, but it didn't matter—she was also going to slake his rising desire. As his hands moved over her, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin cloth, she trembled against him. She ought to have been an actress, for she was good.
Despite her fright, she was somehow intrigued by the feel of him, and she could not help wondering what he meant to do to her. It was not until his mouth left hers, until his lips began tracing kisses along her jaw to her ear, that she dared to struggle, pushing at him, crying out breathlessly, "You don't understand! It's a mistake, I tell you! Let me go! Oh, please—let me go!"
Surprised, he released her and stepped back. His own breath was hot, uneven. "What the devil—? Is this a trap?" he demanded.
"It's nothing," she said quickly. "Please—I'd go, sir. There is no time to explain."
He was still between her and the door. "Who are you?"
"Who—who are you?" she countered nervously. "Lucien de Clare. Lucifer. Longford. It doesn't matter."
"Oh."
"Come on—no faradiddles, if you please," he snapped impatiently. "I've half a mind to summon the constable, anyway." As he spoke, his hand caught her chin, cupping it, holding it with strong, warm fingers. "You appear a trifle young for this, you know."
"I—I—" Words failed her as she looked from his bare chest to the most striking countenance she'd ever seen. "I got lost," she managed to say finally, knowing it was a lame explanation. "I—I could not find my room."
One black eyebrow lifted. "In that?" he asked, disbelieving. Nonetheless, he let her go again. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "In most assignations, it's the gentleman who goes to the lady's room, my dear," he added pointedly, his eyes once again on her nightgown. "It's more discreet."
"You think that I—oh, no!" Her chin came up. "You are mistaken, sir, I assure you. I am—or I was until now—in the schoolroom." As she spoke, she crossed her arms over her breasts. "I ask your pardon for the unseemly intrusion." She tried again, hoping to regain a semblance of dignity.
"No."
"But—but I've got to go before Papa comes looking for me," she said desperately. "Please—you do not understand! If he finds me here—"
The smile flattened, then one corner went down wryly. "I have faced angry parents before, my dear—angry husbands also." His black eyes seemed to bore into hers.
"You'll have to do better than that, you know. I'm not as green as Townsend. Who are you?" he repeated.
"Uh—Wilson—Miss Wilson—and I—"
"You lie badly, my dear."
Already she could hear her father calling loudly for her. "I—uh—I've got to go, sir. Good night."
She was too late. "Nell! Nell!" When she did not answer, her papa banged on the bedchamber door. "Nell!"
"Well, if you are lost, it would seem your parent knows where to find you, does it not?" Longford observed sardonically. Moving past her, he threw open the door.
"See here, sir—if one hair has been harmed, I shall demand satisfaction! My daughter is but fifteen, and an utter innocent—" Thomas Ashton stopped shouting suddenly and paled when he perceived the man before him. "Egad—Longford!"
The earl inclined his head slightly. "Ashton."
"It was the wrong chamber, Papa," Elinor tried to explain.
"Hold your tongue, Nell! Don't say anything!" he snapped at her, his color rising. "As for you, sir, I must admit I am surprised at your conduct. Despite all I have ever heard of you, debauching young girls is scarce—" He turned again to Elinor and demanded dramatically, "Did he touch you?" Before she could answer, he went on hastily, "Sir, I hope you mean to do the right thing in the matter. Nasty business, if this was to get out. But I ain't saying it ain't all a mistake, my lord. A little money to hush everything—"
She wanted to sink into the floor. "Papa!"
"You leave this to me, Elinor. You are too green to know what could have happened, but—"
"Cut line, Ashton!" Longford interrupted curtly. "I nev
er pay where I have not played."
"Now see here—"
"Not a farthing."
"We are speaking of a young girl's honor," the baron responded stiffly. "She is but a child, sir—a child—a fifteen-year-old child too young to know what you are about! And I shall not stand idly by while my daughter's name is sullied!"
"Papa!" Elinor choked. "Please!" Her face hot, she could not even look at Lord Longford. "I have already told him it was a mistake."
"The only sullying seems to be yours, Ashton. But if you wish to meet me over her—er—honor, I suppose I must oblige." There was no mistaking the derisive inflection he gave his words.
Thomas Ashton turned a pasty gray. "No!" he yelped. "No, of course not! Want to resolve the matter amicably, you understand. Both gentlemen, after all."
Although the mocking smile played again upon his lips, Longford shrugged. "Alas, but as you will recall, I have already wed my requisite widgeon. Rather publicly, too, and as this is England, I'm afraid I am not allowed two of them."
Seeing the Debtors' Door of Newgate opening before him, the baron could not help grasping at one last hope. "But your rep—if this was to be known—if this was to get out—"
"It would be said it was all of a piece with the rest," Longford snapped. "But for now, you bore me, Ashton."
"Bore you! Now, see here—"
"Bore me," the earl repeated. "So I suggest you get yourself off and take the chit with you before my oft regretted temper gets the best of both of us." He inclined his head slightly toward Elinor, and once again the faint, almost indiscernible smile curved the corners of his mouth.
"Good night, Miss Ashton. You can count yourself fortunate you are saved by Diana, my dear—she would tell you I am a damnable husband."
Mortified, she caught at her parent's sleeve. "Come on, Papa—now."
As they passed Longford, her father muttered under his breath, "I could have sworn it was Townsend's room."
"It was, but there was a draft in mine, and I did not think poor Bell in any condition to know the difference," the earl answered. He waited until they were nearly out of earshot, then he added rather loudly, "Take the girl home and sell her on the Marriage Mart. She's a trifle young, but with her looks, you ought to get a good price for her."
The mockery in his voice seemed to follow them down the hall, and it was not until they reached her bedchamber that Elinor was able to speak. Turning to her father, she demanded, "Papa, how could you? I am your daughter! Have you no care for me at all? What if he'd ravished me?"
For a moment, hope seemed to flare in his eyes. "Did he take liberties? Tell your papa, Nell."
"No, of course not," she lied. "But he could have."
"Thought it was Townsend. I did it for you, puss."
"I am your flesh and blood, Papa!"
"Don't look at me like that! Do you mink I wanted to do it? Thing is, if I was to go to prison for my debts, you and your mama and the other girls'd have to go on the rolls."
"I should rather earn my bread, I think."
"Come quarter day, I am done up," he went on morosely. "I got to do something, Nell—ain't any choice in the matter." A heavy sigh escaped him. "But we ain't done yet—I still got you."
After he left her, she burrowed beneath the covers and tried not to think about what had befallen her, but she could not help it. That her father's preposterous scheme had failed was small comfort now, for there was a chill within her that was as cold as the rain that beat against the roof. With sinking heart, she realized he would take the earl's advice, and he would do so quickly.
She lay awake for a long time, reliving the awful scene over and over, seeing the earl standing there, his body bared to the waist. She could still hear the contempt in his voice. She'd been wrong earlier—the humiliation of being turned out of school paled against this. Even in the safe darkness of her room, she wanted to hide, to run from ever encountering Longford again. In truth, she wanted to run away forever, but she knew she could not. For one thing, she had no place to go, and for another, she could not do that to her mother.
Finally, she forced herself to listen to the steady, calming rhythm of the rain, thinking wistfully of the safety of Miss Roberts's academy. But when at last she drifted toward sleep, it was the Earl of Longford's face she saw—and the black eyes and twisted smile of a man called Lucifer still mocked her. As she crossed her arms over her breasts, she could still feel the strength of his body against hers, and she could not help wondering what he would have done to her had she not broken away from his embrace.
CHAPTER 2
Edgehill: October 31, 1807
Her heart sank when she saw him. For a moment, she clutched the doorknob for support and tried not to feel sick.
"Come in—come in," her father prompted impatiently. "Lord Kingsley wishes to gain your acquaintance." He turned to the thin, elderly man who stood by the fireplace, and he smiled proudly. "Is she not as I told you, my lord?"
The old gentleman leaned on his ebony cane, then moved rather deliberately to face her. He'd thought that Thomas Ashton in his eagerness for money had exaggerated, but he hadn't. He studied her silently, his face closed to his thoughts, lest he be taken in the bargain.
The girl before him was exceptionally pretty—slender but full-breasted, with the fine facial bones that gave promise of true beauty. And those eyes. He would have taken her for them alone, for he could not remember ever seeing the color before. They were, he reflected, a light, almost golden brown that reminded him of topazes. And that glorious red hair. But for all that she was precisely what he required, he continued to regard her shrewdly, wondering what Ashton would demand for her. Finally, he asked abruptly, "How old did you say she was?"
"Fifteen, but as you can see, she has grown beyond her years."
"Does she have any accomplishments other than her looks?"
"Tell him what you can do, Nell," her father urged. "Tell him what I paid for at the young ladies' seminary."
She did not want to meet the old man's eyes. Looking downward, she mumbled, "I was adequate in Latin and fair in Greek, my lord. But I excelled in literature and geometry."
Fearing Kingsley would think her a bluestocking, Thomas Ashton hastened to correct the impression. "Not that, puss—tell him how you can do the fashionable things!"
Elinor cast about in her mind for the means to discourage Lord Kingsley's interest. "Well, my watercolors were indifferent, and my music uninspired, but—"
"She's overmodest, my lord." Favoring his eldest with baleful eye, her father snapped, "I'd have you tell the truth, missy! None of this deprecation, you hear? Tell him how I have paid extra for a dancing master! Aye, and how you have excelled in your needlework! And how—"
"I am not interested in needlework," Kingsley interrupted him. His gaze still on the young girl before him, the old man reached to lift a lock of her hair from her shoulder. His fingers massaged it as though he studied the texture, then he let it slip through his fingers. "Does she use henna?" he wondered.
Thinking that perhaps Kingsley did not favor his daughter's red hair, her father hastened to answer, "No, but no doubt the color will change when she is older."
"It would be a pity if it did." The elderly baron leaned closer, peering intently into her averted face. When she would not look at him, he lifted her chin with one slender, bony finger. "Does she ever throw spots?"
"She is not given to freckles," Ashton assured him.
"I can see that," the other man remarked dryly. "But sometimes young girls get blemishes on otherwise impeccable skin."
"Never."
"I broke out last year," Elinor reminded him.
"It was the measles, my lord. Indeed, but her childhood complaints are behind her."
The finger dropped from her chin to her arm, tracing her arm through the muslin sleeve to her elbow, sending a shiver of revulsion through her. "She appears in good health."
"She is not given to megrims—are you, Nell?" Her father'
s manner indicated that even if she were consumptive, she had best not dare admit it. "Tell him how you have never had the headache."
"I had one last year," she remembered.
"It was with the measles," he growled at her through clenched teeth. Turning again to Baron Kingsley, his manner changed. "Well, now that you have seen her, shall we speak frankly on the matter?" He waited, his breath seemingly abated, hoping against hope that the old man found her pleasing.
Kingsley continued to ignore him. His bony hand moved from her arm to her breast, and when she recoiled, he squeezed it. As blood rushed to her face, she pulled away, and before either of them could stop her, she ran from the room.
"Nell!" her father shouted angrily after her.
"Let her go," she heard Lord Kingsley tell him. "The child will get over her modesty. For now, I should rather have her meek than bold."
"I can assure you she has been sheltered, my lord," her father said. "Though I cannot think what you were about," he added a trifle stiffly. "It's beyond the bounds, sir. You'll give her a distaste of you."
The old man looked toward the open door, then dropped into a chair, sighing regretfully. "I did not mean to frighten the child, but there are young girls who resort to padding there, I am told."
"Well, you can see she is whole," Ashton insisted, trying to press him. "And if you do not want her, there is Langworthy..." He let his voice trail off, hoping he'd hooked Kingsley with the bait.
But the old man had not climbed from the trades by being outwitted. He sat there, mentally reviewing the girl, deciding what he would offer. She was young, lovely, malleable, and she would give him the consequence that his money alone could not buy him. Moreover, she could be made into the perfect display of his wealth. His only regret was that she was merely a baron's daughter, but he would not repine overlong on that.
"Well, my lord—?" Ashton persisted.
Tears of anger and humiliation stung Elinor's eyes, nearly blinding her. At the bottom of the stairs, she caught at the newel post, and too heartsick to go farther, she sank to sit on one of the treads. Waves of nausea swept over her as she listened while her father bargained her future away. Every fiber of her being seemed to revolt—it wasn't right—it wasn't fair! Surely God would not let him do it.