by Jaimey Grant
With her pride intact? Even Bri had to admit that to die at the end of a rope was not an act of pride. In her case, it was an act of cowardice. It was also humiliating and degrading.
Much like last night was. Humiliating and degrading.
As she sat in the crowded drawing room, surrounded by people, it hit her again. Last night, she had been raped. A man had come into her room and taken his pleasure of her against her will. He had invaded her body and caused her the worst pain and humiliation she had ever known.
She wasn’t even sure what was so different from this rape than the others she had experienced. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that a gentleman had never before raped her. They were supposed to protect ladies, not attack them.
She actually couldn’t count how many times she had been raped but she had never felt this sense of fear and helplessness. The other times she had just lain there and let it happen, she had never fought as she did last night. Throughout it all, she had had the feeling that she could escape again. All she had to do was run. All she had to do was leave. This time, she was trapped.
A sob escaped her before she quite knew it was coming. She looked down quickly and tried to stifle the tears that longed to follow. She needed to escape. She wanted to have another good cry.
“Lady Rothsmere? I wonder if perhaps you would care to stroll with me on the terrace?”
Bri looked up into Adam’s face. She tried to smile but knew it was a hopeless effort. “Thank you, sir,” she replied instead.
She rose to her feet and laid her hand on his proffered arm. She ignored everyone as he led her through the open French doors and onto the terrace beyond. He released her and handed her a large handkerchief as soon as they were out of sight of the guests in the drawing room.
“I was right,” he said softly. “There is something very wrong.”
Her head snapped up, all her fear and distress replaced by an unreasoning anger. “There is nothing wrong. If there was anything wrong, Mr. Prestwich, you can hold yourself accountable. Had you minded your own business and stayed out of my life, I would be fine. I would be happy. I would…”
“You would be dead,” Adam retorted bluntly. His own feelings of guilt rose to the surface and he lashed out at her. “If you were not such a headstrong, spoiled brat, you would be far better off! I almost feel sorry for Steyne. He will stuck with you for the rest of his life.”
Her hand seemed to fly of its own accord. He easily caught it and held it in an iron grip. “You will not strike me again, my lady,” he said in measured, even tones. “You will not blame me for your own stupidity, either. You will take responsibility for your actions.” He released her hand and stepped back. “And I will take responsibility for mine,” he added very softly.
He performed a rather stiff bow, turned on his heel and took his leave by way of the garden path. Bri watched him go, not realizing that she still clung to his handkerchief as if it were the last thing of value in her life.
Blast the woman! He should not be feeling guilt for returning her to where she belonged. He should not feel the need to beat Steyne to a pulp if he dared hurt her. He shouldn’t feel this overwhelming urge to kiss her senseless just to prove that she was not indifferent to him.
Oh, but she wasn’t indifferent, he admitted sardonically as he climbed into his phaeton. She was far from indifferent. She hated him.
And he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He would not admit even to himself that he loved her. Raven was wrong. What he felt for Bri was nothing more than lust. He could not possibly love such a headstrong, willful, infuriating young woman.
He pulled to a stop in front of his mansion and leapt down. He entered the house and told the butler to make sure his curricle was ready to go in the morning, early. He didn’t even bother telling him where he was going. It was really none of the man’s business.
As Adam entered his room and stared unseeingly at his reflection in the mirror, he remembered the look in Bri’s eyes when he had bowed over her hand. At the time, he had not wanted to notice. He had even told himself he was wrong. But after exchanging such heated words with her, words that she obviously believed, he could not longer ignore it. And he knew the truth of it before the word had even fully formed in his mind.
She had looked, she felt, betrayed. By him.
Adam Prestwich left Town early the next morning without informing even his best friend. Only his solicitor and his now former mistress knew his destination, knew that he had even left. He preferred it that way. He didn’t want anyone following him and discovering his best-kept secret.
He was running. And he knew it. And he hated himself for it even as he told himself it was necessary. He had to arrange things for Carlotta and he had to get away from Bri. He had to sort out his feelings and come to terms with his past. And he needed the time alone to do it.
She would probably arrive within the month. He had approximately four weeks or so in which to examine his heart and mind. It was something he was not looking forward to. Like a visit to the toothdrawer. He grimaced.
Adam may have been considered an absentee landlord since most of his time was spent in London or Denbigh where he had practically grown up. But he had a very reliable steward who happened to be a relative and he was respected by his tenants since he was not too high-in-the-instep to work alongside them when he happened to be around for the planting season or the harvest.
The estate had actually only been his for a little over three years. He had only become aware of the fact after Toulouse when he had returned home in some disgrace. He had been disgusted with the extent of decay in which he found his family home. His father’s debts had been every bit as bad as he had suspected.
He was never more thankful for the fortune he had amassed than at that moment. He hired Miles Prestwich as steward and the man had proven invaluable. Between the two of them, they were able to return the estate to its former prosperous glory in record time.
Adam arrived in Cornwall a few days after his departure from London. He strode into the house, much to the surprise of West, the butler, and Miles, who was crossing the hall as Adam walked in.
“Adam!” Miles smiled in welcome and walked forward, extending his hand as he did so. The cousins shook hands, both smiling. “What brings you home?”
Miles was a well-favored young man with dark hair and an open, friendly countenance. He had Adam’s height but lacked his broadness. Adam had thought upon first meeting him that if Connor and himself could be combined into one person, the result would be Miles. Adam had always liked Miles. It was actually hard not to.
“I have some things to take care of,” Adam replied evasively. Miles led the way into the study, which was located on the ground floor of the Elizabethan mansion.
Adam removed his greatcoat, threw his hat and gloves on a table, and sat down in a large leather armchair with a deep sigh. “It’s good to be home,” he said almost without thought.
Miles’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not what you usually say,” he remarked in surprise.
Adam frowned. “Well, I say it now,” he replied dismissively.
Miles shrugged and sat down after pouring two bumpers of brandy and handing one to his cousin. “Will you disclose the nature of your business? Or must I wait until the very last moment, as usual, and try to adjust accordingly?”
Adam threw him a look, half annoyed, half amused. “Is that what I usually do?” he asked.
“Usually,” Miles admitted candidly.
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do,” Miles murmured. He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Do you realize what a strain it is to try to accommodate every possible outcome of a situation of which you know absolutely nothing?”
Adam’s brows shot up this time. It was interesting to see his cousin with a glass of brandy, a sight he’d never before beheld. The man must indeed be under a great deal of strain.
Adam remained silent for a moment, downed his brandy, set the gl
ass aside, and rose to his feet. “I think I will wash the travel dust from my person. See you at dinner?”
Miles sighed. “Very well, Adam.” He rose to his feet and bowed. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Chapter Seventeen
While Adam played gentleman farmer in the wilds of Cornwall, Lord Connor Northwicke sat behind the desk in his study in Grosvenor Square two weeks later taking care of some paperwork. His wife, Verena, sat curled up in a chair by the fire reading the latest book by that anonymous author who was revealed as a young lady of gentle birth by the name of Jane Austen. The couple often spent mornings in this companionable way before having to dress to receive visitors and today was no exception.
Until Samson entered to inform my lord that there was a gentleman below desirous to speak with him on a matter most private.
Connor raised one eyebrow imperiously. It was too early for social calls. He rose to his feet and took the card from the tray held by the butler. The corner was carefully turned down to show that the visitor had called in person. Lord Connor stared at the name with a frown between his brows. He didn’t know the Earl of Greville.
“A private matter, you say?”
“Yes, my lord. And most important.”
“I suppose I should see him then,” Connor said in resignation. “Where have you put the earl?”
“In the library, my lord.”
Evidently, the earl had passed muster with Samson, who was known to throw pretentious mushrooms out on their ears if they had the temerity to request an interview with the new Marquess of Beverley. Connor filed this surprising development in the back of his mind as he turned to his wife.
“I’ll be back soon, my love. This should not take long.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and left the room.
He entered the bookroom unseen. The man standing by the window was a stranger to him—and definitely a gentleman. His maroon jacket stretched across very broad shoulders without a crease. It had the look and feel of Weston’s tailoring. Buckskin breeches encased legs of solid muscle and tucked into shining boots made by Hoby. The man was taller than himself, although perhaps not as tall as Adam’s six-feet-two-inches. He appeared younger and was a good bit broader in chest and shoulder—and Connor suspected Greville owed none of it to padding.
Connor had to suppress a shiver of unease as he hoped the earl’s business was friendly. The man was a veritable Goliath.
As if sensing his presence, Greville turned. Connor took in boyishly handsome features twisted into a worried frown, curly brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a white waistcoat. The earl bowed and stretched out his hand in greeting.
“Lord Connor, I presume?” His voice was a deep baritone, matching to perfection his impressive physique.
“I am.” Connor took the proffered hand. “And you are Lord Greville. Welcome. Have we met?” He gestured for his guest to be seated and offered a brandy, sensing that the younger man’s business was just as important as Samson had believed.
Greville accepted and waited in agitated silence as his host poured the drinks. He presently had a glass in hand and he downed the contents in one swallow. Connor raised his eyebrows at this and silently refilled the earl’s glass. Greville smiled apologetically.
Connor sat down opposite his guest and smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps if you explain your problem, you may find some relief.”
The earl consumed his second brandy slower and apologized for his obvious agitation. “I have come on behalf of my cousin. She confided in me once that the marchioness, your wife, is her particular friend. I thought perhaps you would be willing to help.”
“And who is your cousin, my lord?”
“Greville, please,” insisted the younger man. Connor inclined his head. “My cousin is Lady Rothsmere.”
“Bri is the cousin for whom you are seeking help? It is true that she and my wife are or were, rather, particular friends. But they have not seen or spoken to each other since Bri’s return to Society. My wife has been banned from visiting her or speaking with her for reasons unknown to either my wife or I. May I inquire as to why you feel the countess needs our help?”
“Certainly, my lord. My distress is caused by her engagement to Viscount Steyne. The man is a snake and a cheat and a scoundrel of the worst kind. An alliance with him is not to be borne!” he ended emphatically.
“Calm yourself, Greville.” Con studied him for a moment and wondered where this hotheaded youth had been when Bri really needed him. He seemed to be the only relative with any sort of friendly feelings toward the countess, yet Bri had never mentioned him.
“A lot of betrothals and marriages are sometimes less than one had at first hoped for,” he finally replied, thinking of the early stages of his own marriage, “and as much as I dislike Steyne and feel Bri is better off with someone else, there’s really nothing we can do. She entered the betrothal of her own volition, Greville. To get involved would be dishonorable.”
“The devil it would!” the young lord exploded. He rose from his chair and clenched his hand so tight that the fragile crystal glass in his hand shattered. He was so incensed, he failed to notice the blood or the tiny shards of glass imbedded in his palm. “If you believe she is willing, then you are just as blind as the rest of Society and twice as heartless considering you claim friendship with her!”
“Careful, Greville,” Connor warned softly as he too, rose from his seat. He took the earl’s hand and examined it for serious cuts as he continued in the same soothing tone, “If you’re not careful, I’ll have to call you out. And I’d hate to put a bullet in you since I find I quite like you despite your temper.”
Satisfied that he had removed the last piece of glass, Con wrapped his handkerchief around Greville’s hand after applying a salve that he kept handy for just such small emergencies. Then he rang for Samson to clean up the glass.
The butler arrived and directed the little maid set to the task. Then he bowed and withdrew.
Connor gently pushed the earl back into his seat before resuming his own. “Now, explain your insult, please.” Adam would have been surprised to hear the note of command again in such a relatively short period of time.
Greville recognized the note of authority and reacted automatically to it as most men did despite their size or station in life. “Bri was given a choice, Lord Connor. She could either marry Steyne or live out the rest of her days in a madhouse. She saw the viscount as the lesser of two evils.” He looked down at his bandaged hand without really seeing it. “It took a great deal of prodding to get her to tell me this. I have had to rescue her from a madhouse once already.”
Connor digested this bit of news with a grim expression and a sinking feeling of unease that Greville told the truth. He also believed the man didn’t exaggerate. He felt Adam should be informed but he had to know a few things first.
“Why Steyne? I doubt a prospective husband was simply chosen out of the clear blue sky.”
“Indeed,” the earl replied calmly. The only sign that he was still agitated was the compulsive movements of his left hand while he tugged and fiddled with the bandage on his right. “From what I can gather from Bri and overheard conversations, I have deduced that Steyne is holding something, a secret of some sort, over all our heads, like a veritable sword of Damocles. It’s serious enough that my uncle is willing to part with most of Bri’s fortune to keep the cad silent. Would that I knew what the secret was and somehow prevent Bri’s sacrifice!”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“Only that she has some strange bruises on her neck and arms that she tries to hide. She told me she fell, but I think Steyne or perhaps Uncle is beating her. I can’t get her to admit it, though. She insists that she fell.”
Connor’s grim look increased if such a thing were possible. Adam would definitely have to be told. “Adam Prestwich could and would help,” he replied without any qualms about volunteering his absent friend.
“I bloody well don’t need that bastard’
s help,” Greville said darkly.
“That bastard,” Connor returned with deadly quiet, “is my closest friend. And I don’t take friendship lightly.”
“He could have helped her escape—I know he has the money to do so—but he returned her instead, effectively signing her death warrant,” the earl retorted angrily.
Connor leaned toward him. “Listen well to what I am about to tell you, puppy, for I’ll not repeat myself. Prestwich tracked Lady Brianna Kai Derring, Countess of Rothsmere, for more than three years. His search intensified over the past year after he inadvertently discovered her working for my wife. His search finally ended here in London. She was awaiting execution in Newgate Prison for petty theft. Yes, you should stare, my young friend. She didn’t tell you that, did she?
“Bri was half-starved and looked like any poverty stricken woman from the streets; I doubt she has managed to retain her virginity, she has certainly lost her innocence. Adam bought her freedom and took her to his own home to nurse her back to health after she contracted a fever. He has saved that girl twice. He had to return her since she is underage. The law is on your uncle’s side and Adam has not the power to fight two dukes and an earl in court.”
“She stayed alone with him in his home?” Greville said in tones of disbelief and rising excitement. “Then he had compromised her. Honor demands he marry her!” he concluded triumphantly.
“You would have him marry her? When just a few moments ago you seemed to think him of a level with Steyne?”
“Anyone is better than the viscount,” Greville replied. “Will Prestwich marry her, do you think? Will he have to be forced?” The young lord seemed to relish the prospect of “forcing” Adam’s compliance.
“Bloody hell, you know Adam Prestwich not at all,” Connor remarked mildly. “If he is forced to marry Bri, the hell she would have known with Steyne would be as heaven compared to life with Adam.”