Turning to Sofia, she said, ‘I would like to leave now, Sofia. I have no stomach for dancing.’ What was there left to enjoy?
Mr Barrington gave her an angry, censorious look that she’d had the temerity to witness his downfall, his humiliation. He tensed as if he would strike her or shout at her perhaps, but in the end he visibly slumped within himself, his anger spent for the present.
Feeling physically ill, Lucy accompanied Sofia down the stairs. Knowing there was no help for it but to brazen it out, in a defiant gesture she thrust out her chin and squared her shoulders.
* * *
Mr Barrington left Skeffington House embittered. In a murderous rage, he gave vent to his fury on the way back to the house. Throughout, Lucy remained impeccably calm. To retaliate would only increase his anger. Not even the scorn of those who had witnessed the whole sorry episode in the card room raised a reaction. She had learned at the academy that to keep control could win its own battles—her control over her temper sometimes astonished her.
‘This isn’t over by any means,’ he said with an acid drawl, the cords of his neck above his cravat standing out, quivering and tense.
‘I cannot imagine what you mean,’ Lucy said.
His eyes became narrow and cold. ‘Lord Rockley cut the ground from beneath my feet once before and I do not forget the wrong he did me. I intend to make him suffer for it. I’m a patient man and also a determined one. I hate and I wait for the opportunity to strike back.’
‘Try not to upset yourself, Mark,’ Sofia said quietly. ‘Perhaps we should not have gone to the ball.’
‘And how dare you announce we are to be married,’ Lucy retorted. ‘I refuse to be manipulated and pushed around by you.’
‘Carry on with your defiance and you will regret it.’
Lucy made no reply, but it increased her curiosity about what could have happened between the two men to have made them such deadly enemies.
* * *
It was not until they reached the house that Sofia turned on her, her steely reprimands echoing those of Mr Barrington, while he poured himself a generous glass of brandy from the decanter.
‘How could you do it, Lucy? How could you be so careless as to flaunt yourself with Lord Rockley? You father would be ashamed that you have learned so little at the academy.’
Lucy was regretful in that moment. There would be disappointment and hurt in her father’s heart and she hated being the cause since, despite their separation, his love for her had been vast and all encompassing.
‘Forgive me if I upset you, Sofia, but I will repeat what I said to Mr Barrington. I have done nothing wrong. Perhaps he would not have played so irrationally had he abstained from drinking so much before embarking on such a vital game of cards with a man who is clearly his opponent in life as well as at the gaming tables.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Lucy, or what has prompted that remark. What I will say is that Mark is far more amenable than you give him credit for.’
‘Then it’s a shame you can’t marry him yourself, Sofia,’ Lucy remarked sharply. ‘Does my father know of your adulterous relationship with the man he has chosen for me to wed?’
Silence and the truth fell between them like a dead weight and if looks really could kill, then Lucy had no doubt she would be dead that instant. Saying nothing, her chest heaving with fury, Sofia turned and left the room.
Mr Barrington had been humiliated, ruined, and Lucy would like to know what transgression he was guilty of to warrant such vicious disgrace and humiliation from Lord Rockley. Tonight, Mr Barrington had presented her as his intended bride with the intention of sealing the deal and marrying her very soon—even though she continued to resist. He had told everyone—boasted of it, in fact. Instead she and Viscount Rockley had dragged him into a hotbed of scandal and predictable innuendo. No doubt it would entertain society for days to come, but she feared that she would be the one to suffer for it.
Never had it been as clear as this that her future hung in the balance. There was a hard, cold, tight feeling inside her and for the first time she cursed Lord Rockley for tonight’s catastrophe. Why could he not have left well alone? He had apologised for the intimacies they had shared earlier, then he had left her, unaware as he did so of the catastrophe that was about to unfold around her. As she climbed the stairs to her room she seemed to be made of steel and ice, sheathed in an unnatural calm that belied the emotions seething inside her.
What was she going to do? It was time she began to think for herself and not rely on others to help her. She did consider going to her godmother’s house, but when she was away she always closed the house, leaving a caretaker to keep an eye on things while the servants went to their respective homes until it was time for her to return. She had money in the bank from her father’s allowance. There should be enough to see her to France—and maybe even enough to pay her passage to Louisiana. It would be difficult persuading Sofia and Mr Barrington to agree, but she must insist that her wishes be taken into account.
Whatever she decided, she must achieve it with dignity. She would not compromise herself further than she had at the Skeffington ball. But when she allowed herself to dwell on Lord Rockley’s kiss, which had inspired emotions and feelings she had never felt before, she could not escape the fact that she had embarked upon a hazardous obstacle course of emotions that left her breathless and intoxicated. She had left the secure world of her learning to the more dangerous ground on to which Viscount Rockley sought to entice her. As she splashed the cold water on her face prior to going to bed, it chilled her flesh while leaving the secret fires within her uncooled.
There were so many unanswered questions that kept her awake until almost dawn, when finally she fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
Home alone with a raw ache inside him, the vexing tide of anger which had consumed Christopher since setting eyes on Mark Barrington began to subside. So concerned was he about Miss Walsh that his mind was locked in furious combat with the desire to go after her and snatch her from the clutches of Barrington and her stepmother, but he couldn’t, at least not yet.
He was seized with a passionate longing to protect the lovely young woman who had crept into his heart. What was it that drew him to her? he asked himself. Her sincerity? Her gentleness and purity of both body and mind? Was it her smile, her touch, that set the blood pounding in his veins? Everything about her threw him off balance. Why had he kissed her? What madness had made him do that? Why had he allowed himself to get carried away?
At the time he’d been besieged by a confusion of emotions that all battled for supremacy. He was astounded by the passion that had erupted between them, astounded that this young woman had the ability to almost make him lose his mind. His conscience pricked him, reminding him of the unforgivable sin that he had been kissing a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She had kissed so innocently, yet even though she had wanted the kiss surely she did not realise what she was doing.
He was instantly thrust back just over three years, when he had returned from the West Indies and seen his sister about to take her own life in the lake close to his Charleston home. The relief that he had been in time and anger he had felt afterwards, knowing Barrington was the cause of her misery, had almost consumed him. Even now Christopher felt the wrenching loss of first his mother and then his father—the proud man who had turned his back on his noble heritage and married the daughter of a poor clergyman.
He had been powerless when his sister had fallen into Barrington’s hands, but not this time. Now he would willingly walk through hell fire before he would allow Lucy to become Barrington’s next victim.
* * *
Lucy continued to listen to Mr Barrington’s constant outburst of anger the following day. Unfortunately, the lurid versions of what had happened at the Skeffington ball had spread like wildfire throughout the ton. The story o
f the episode was circulated along with the added slander that while betrothed to Mr Barrington, she had been carrying on Lord Rockley. Any other man would have called off the wedding on being so humiliated, but Mr Barrington wouldn’t hear of it.
Lucy was too humiliated to leave the house that day. In the eyes of everyone she was a shameless wanton and unfit company for unsullied young ladies. She had broken all the rules that governed polite society—there were many who said that it was only what could be expected from an American girl.
Sensitive to Mr Barrington’s mood, Sofia went around as if she were treading on eggshells. She watched Lucy threateningly, as though daring her to make one false move or to protest in any way. Genuinely afraid for her safety, Lucy was all the more determined to visit the bank the following day to extract funds to take her to Paris.
* * *
The night following the Skeffington ball, it was gone midnight when the door to Lucy’s room was pushed open. Shoving herself up in the bed and wiping the sleep from her eyes, she peered into the dimly lit room. A tall figure loomed in the doorway, swaying slightly. It was Mr Barrington and he had a robe covering his night attire.
She stared at him, stunned, feeling the weight of the trap he had sprung on her. When he started to close the door she flung herself out of bed and shot across the room, hoping to push him out before the door closed completely. But he was having none of it. She was horrified when he grasped her arm and pulled her back, yanking her arm in her shoulder. She cried, stumbling to the floor, the pain from her injured shoulder jarring through her. Ignoring it as best she could, she began to crawl towards the door where she would shout for help, but he caught hold or her before she could slip past him and pulled her back, his face harsh and distorted in the shadows of the room.
‘Stop it,’ he snarled. ‘You’re going nowhere. I’m sick of you evading me whenever I come to the house. You will be my wife if I have to shame you into it. No more hiding and dodging my attentions. I knew when I set eyes on you that I had to have you—and you so trusting it was easy to persuade you to go along with us. So you see, my dear, I plan to have you—one way or another. I intend to have what is rightfully mine.’
‘Never,’ she cried, kicking and fighting. ‘Get out of my room! Let go of me!’
‘Be still, you little hell cat,’ he barked, throwing her on to the bed and putting her beneath him, his hands pawing roughly at her body.
Lucy glared at him, her hatred so virulent he almost recoiled, then he laughed.
‘Stop this nonsense. I’m in no mood to play coy games—although I am not averse to some resistance from the women I make love to.’
Knowing what he would do to her, Lucy began struggling, her anger spurring her on. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away, unable to bear having him touch her. By some miracle she managed to wriggle from beneath him on to the floor. She made a rush for the door, but he was ahead of her, blocking her escape. Backed up to the bed, she could go no further. Seeing that loathsome face coming closer, Lucy was possessed with the sudden courage to go on fighting him no matter what. In one quick movement she dodged to the side of him but he reached out, catching her nightdress in his hand. There was a tearing sound as it ripped.
He was more agile than she had given him credit for. Again he caught her arm and jerked her back to him with frightening strength. His eyes went to the exposed flesh above the torn nightdress and his tongue passed salaciously over his lips. His desire for her was plainly visible in his eyes as they travelled over her, surveying those soft curves, impatiently anticipating the taste of that sweet young flesh. A sick feeling of nausea rose within her.
‘Do you know how you tempt me, Lucy? Day after day I have to watch you I am tormented. Your skin is so soft. We will be married as soon as it can be arranged.’
‘Never,’ she hissed. ‘I will never marry you. I would rather marry a snake. Is my stepmother not enough for you that you must have me as well?’
‘Not when you are younger and prettier,’ he hissed, reaching for her once more.
She pushed hard, turning her head away in disgust. Why didn’t Sofia or the servants come to her aid? she thought frantically. They must know that he was in her room and what he was doing. The struggle between them went on. Lucy was exhausted and knew she couldn’t fight him for much longer. At one point she fell down on to the bed and rolled away to the other side. Reaching out to the table beside the bed, her fingers closed round a heavy candlestick, the candle still in the holder unlit. Still looking down at her, he must have thought she couldn’t take any more. She anticipated his move when he dropped down on to the bed and reached for her. To protect herself, in desperation she raised her arm and brought the candlestick down hard on his head. With a grunt his body went limp.
Quickly Lucy scrambled off the bed and stared at his limp form sprawled across the covers, a red stain on the sheet where his head had come to rest, the stain increasing the longer she looked. Horrified at the thought that she might have killed him, panic set in. Confusion shook her every fibre and fear raged within her body. Closing her eyes, she tried to still her fast-beating heart. Quivering, she sank to her knees. From some inner source, strength surfaced. She forced herself to look at him again before going to the washstand. Taking a towel, she lifted his head and placed it beneath. Gingerly she laid a hand against his chest, but she could detect no movement. Holding her breath, she stepped away, hearing the beat of her own heart pounding in her ears. She could not believe this was happening to her and was too shocked, too bewildered, to think clearly.
She had to get away. No one here would help her—no one here would believe she hadn’t killed him on purpose. Sofia and the servants had probably been told not to interfere. There was nothing for it. She would have to help herself. Pulling herself together, with calm deliberation she dragged on some clothes and crept from the room, aching and bruised and feeling as though she were sinking into a black hole, but she had to keep going. She tried not to look at Mr Barrington sprawled across her bed, his life blood flowing out of him.
The house was quiet as she slipped as silent and swift as a shadow down the stairs and out of the house. With her heart in her mouth she was thankful that the streets were quiet, any sounds muffled by the fog that rolled over her, thick and clammy. She began to run as fast as her legs would carry her, without looking back. She would go to Lord Rockley—there was nowhere else she could go, no one she knew who would shelter her.
It was a long way from Belgravia to Hanover Square on foot. Exhausted and terrified that she had committed murder, she leaned on the door of the house where Lord Rockley lived, her legs ready to give way. Following a few sharp raps, eventually it was opened by a servant who had obviously been roused from his bed.
* * *
Archie, the Duke of Rockwood’s butler, fell back when the young lady tumbled into the hall. Rendered immobile, he looked towards the study as the door opened and His Lordship came out, having just returned from his club in St James’s and having a late brandy before retiring to bed.
‘What is happening, Archie...?’ His eyes took in the young woman lying crumpled on the floor, recognising her at once. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, alarmed, wondering what could have happened to bring Lucy to such wretchedness. Hurrying towards her, he dropped to his knees. His face lost all colour and he was heard to moan softly in his throat. Sweeping the hair back from her face, he stared down at her.
‘The young lady, sir. She seems to have had some kind of accident.’
Christopher’s eyes took in the crumpled form. ‘This was no accident, Archie. Lucy!’ Suddenly her eyes snapped open and became fixed on his face. Fear was in their depths. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now. Lucy, what has happened? Who has done this to you?’
‘He did.’
The words were barely discernible, but Christopher didn’t have to ask again. ‘I’ll take her upstairs, Archi
e. Wake Mrs Ward and send her to my room.’ Sweeping Lucy up into his arms, he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in his own room. ‘Lucy, are you hurt? Can you answer me?’
She nodded, opening her eyes once more, looking at him for a long moment, every nerve vibrating. His voice slowly penetrated the inner sanctum of her mind. ‘Christopher. Oh, Christopher.’ Quite suddenly her features crumpled. She closed her eyes and shuddered violently, clasping her arms tight around her chest. ‘He—he came to my room,’ she whispered, clearly traumatised by everything that Mark Barrington had done to her. ‘I—I think I killed him.’ A sob caught in her throat and tears formed in her eyes and began to run unheeded down her face.
‘Lucy—don’t. Hush. It’s all right now. I’ve got you. I won’t let any more harm come to you, I swear it.’
The painful, unfamiliar constriction in Christopher’s chest made his hand tremble slightly as he reached out for the distressed young woman and gathered her to him and held her while she wept. As he held her to him, old pain rose fast and bitter. He wondered briefly if Barrington was taunting him, but dismissed it. It was agony for him to watch and listen to her anguish, raised from the vast reservoir of despair threatening to drown her. With her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder she seemed so small, so utterly female, warm, fragile and vulnerable. His heart ached with the fear of what had been done to her.
Murmuring soothing words of comfort, he held her tightly, tenderly, as she wept, soaking his shirt front with her warm tears. They remained like that until her sobbing turned to quiet whimpering and finally she grew silent and still. As if she felt the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body, she sighed but made no effort to free herself from that tight circle of arms—and as he sensed the change in her, Christopher had no intention of letting her go while she was content to remain there.
It seemed a lifetime had passed when at last she whispered, ‘I didn’t mean to do it—but he—he...’
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