by Deb Marlowe
He blinked and suddenly focused on her. Brynne’s heartbeat ratcheted.
“Very well,” he said briskly. “We shall make adjustments.” He moved away from her, stopping to stand next to a padded leather chair. “The first thing you must know is that your father is as thoroughly mine as you are.”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
He shot her an unpleasant grin. “It was simple enough. I have swallowed his past sins for him and showed him the path to the shining future he craves.”
She shook her head, took a step backwards. “You speak in riddles. What are you talking about?”
“Only one irrefutable fact—you are a caged bird, my dear, with nowhere to fly. And the second thing you must learn is that you are not to question, but only to obey.” He beckoned, pointing to the spot in front of the chair. “Come here.”
She stared. He met her gaze easily, his own gone dark. She couldn’t see what he meant to do and she couldn’t coax her voice above a whisper. “I’m returning to Lady Tillney now.” She turned to flee for the door.
He was on her before she’d taken more than a couple of steps, his cruel fingers biting into her arm. “You will obey the first time, every time,” he exhaled harshly in her ear. Dragging her to the spot he’d indicated, he let her loose and positioned himself between her and the chair. “Take down your bodice and remove your stays,” he ordered. “I wish to see what I’ve purchased.”
Brynne gasped and stepped back. “If you meant to scare me, my lord, then you’ve done so. I wish to return to my chaperone.”
His arm was a blur of motion, the slap a cruel shock that came from nowhere. The force of it sent Brynne stumbling. She nearly fell to her knees.
“You will do as you are told.” The ugly exhilaration was back, alive in the shine of his eyes.
Brynne cradled her aching jaw with one hand and fisted the other. An odd sense of unreality drifted over her. Surely this was not happening. “You’ve gone mad,” she whispered.
Marstoke smiled.
It woke her up, that smile. She was gone before he reached for her. His first swipe missed, but he was quickly after her. This time she nearly made it to the door.
“You will be my greatest experiment, my most thorough victory over innocence.” His harsh breath bathed her neck as he embraced her from behind. “Disrobing is the least what you will do for me.” His pinched her breast cruelly, then brushed his hand lower, over her belly and beyond. “You will spread your legs when I ask, where I ask. Noncompliance will be met with the greatest pain and humiliation. There will be others, in my bed and yours, and if you are very well behaved then you may be allowed to strike instead of being struck.”
“Let me go!” Her frantic sobs echoed in the empty silence of the room. He wrapped one arm tightly around her; the other gripped the shallow bodice of her gown. The sudden rending noise of ripped fabric joined the sound of her tears.
She couldn’t get away. Panic swamped her, and a terrible fury. Her arms were pinned. She turned her head and bit down as hard as she could, sinking her teeth through layers of fabric, praying she could reach the flesh of his upper arm.
He let out a curse and cuffed her a great blow on the side of her head. Ringing filled her ears. The edges of her vision blurred and began to fade.
* * *
Nathan Alexander Wardham Russell—better known as the reclusive Duke of Aldmere to the houseful of Lady Dalton’s guests—wound his way impatiently through the throng. He was in no mood for frivolity tonight, and he was never in the mood for the sort of bootlicking he invariably encountered at events like these. He felt at once worn down and riled up—and he wished like hell that he were in his study right now, ensconced before a warm fire with a strong drink.
But it was not to be. Aldmere fought his way through the close-packed jungle of muslin and silk, cursing the Marquess of Marstoke for being difficult to find and his own brother for being difficult in general—and for adding nursemaid to his already substantial list of duties.
He was making his way to the library, a location he’d had to drag from a footman, and one given with much eye rolling and facial twitching. Whatever Marstoke was up to, news of it had reached the servants’ network of gossip.
His pace slowed as he headed toward the back of the house. This damned situation was sticky enough. If Marstoke had come back here for a tryst, interrupting it wasn’t going to help his cause. At the pair of ornate doors, he paused. Good God. He breathed deep and reached for patience.
Every man-jack at the party behind him likely envied him his title, his money and his position. He wasn’t a fool. He understood what a privilege it was to possess so much power and wealth and security. But he hadn’t been born to it, and it hadn’t been given freely. Just once he’d like to shock the hell out of them; to stand up and enumerate all the things he’d had to give up in exchange.
He pushed open the door. The large room was barely lit. Shadows pushed in from the corners, but a few objects stood out from the gloom; a row of sparkling decanters, the dull shine of the frame holding a massive globe—and the Marquess of Marstoke, entwined around an obviously unwilling girl.
Disgust twisted in his gut. From behind him drifted the faint, happy sounds of the ball, but this room only echoed with harsh whispers and increasingly desperate sobs. He’d heard a few rumors about the marquess, spoken among men when they were alone, but this . . . He stepped forward as the girl twisted frantically in her effort to escape. Suddenly Marstoke reached up and struck her hard upon the side of her head.
Aldmere deliberately pushed the door hard, letting it swing back until it struck a small table with a resounding thud. “I do hope I’m interrupting.”
Both figures froze.
“Stop playing with the girl, Marstoke.” He made it into a dispassionate order that filled the vastness of the library. “We’ve business to discuss.”
Surprise unsettled the marquess but for a second—and the girl took full advantage. She jerked free and bolted for the door, head down and moving at top speed. She hit him at a dead run—and nearly bounced off of him at impact. He reached out to steady her.
And dropped his hands quickly, like he’d touched fire. This was no hapless serving girl that Marstoke was molesting, but a young lady of quality.
Her hair gleamed, blacker than the darkest night collected in the corners of the room, but somehow also outshining the glittering embroidery of her gown. Flushed and a little damp, she panted heavily while glaring at him out of shockingly light green eyes.
Aldmere opened his palm, stretched his fingers, expecting a burn after the sacrilege of laying his hands on a girl like this. He wondered at Marstoke even as he admired the young lady’s spirit.
All of the balances of power shifted in the room, the ripples almost visible in the air as the three of them stood frozen. Aldmere entertained the fleeting thought of retreat, of rallying for a more advantageous moment, but they caught him, those eyes. He was held in check while she breathed fury and contempt at him. A dozen sorts of trouble, this one—and each one cloaked in beauty.
“Easy,” he whispered, because she needed soothing, and reassurance. He reached for her again. “It’s fine. You’re safe now.”
She stepped back, clearly afraid—but defiant as well. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.
He shifted, uncomfortable. There was something wrong with a world that caused a mouth like that to twist so. A small mouth, but lush and perfectly shaped. It was a kiss waiting to happen. Or so he might be tempted to think, under less tawdry circumstances
He shook his head to unseat the notion, pulled his wandering thoughts back from following disheveled locks of inky hair along the alabaster column of her neck. He was here on a mission. Marstoke made a formidable opponent and he’d already lost the element of surprise.
And now Marstoke had recovered. “Aldmere?” He pulled his waistcoat straight and moved toward them. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
�
�No!” The girl heard the step and whirled around before he could answer. “Stay back.” She retreated, backing away while eyeing them both a little wildly. Her hand clutched her chest, riding along with the rise and fall of her heaving bosom. Beneath her fingers the beading and embroidery at her décolletage sparkled—and drew attention to the ragged tear in the fabric.
Aldmere’s hands tightened into fists. Long dormant protective instincts were stretching, raising curious tendrils in his chest. Ruthlessly he knocked them back down. No one needed the trouble that came with those damned things—least of all this appealing little woman.
“Get out, Aldmere,” the marquess ordered. “Whatever business we have can wait. As you can see, I’ve something to settle with my affianced bride.”
Something dark settled over him. Damn it, Marstoke was going to make him interfere. He was going to break his most solemn vow not once, but twice in one evening.
He met the girl’s dark eyes again, drank in the smooth, pure cream of her skin—and thought she might be worth it.
“Come now, Marstoke,” he said wearily. “Let her go.” This wasn’t the way he wished to enter these negotiations. “We’ve more important matters to discuss.” The marquess was a crafty bastard and Aldmere was putting himself at a disadvantage. For the sake of this girl—and her perfectly kissable mouth.
She didn’t appreciate it. Her creamy skin washed pink, then pale again. “More important matters?” A diminutive pillar of indignation, she drew herself straight. “You are no better than he.”
Aldmere had no chance to respond. She raised her free hand and pointed an accusatory finger at her betrothed. “As for you, you are a mockery of a gentleman. A mad, arrogant monster.”
She shuddered and Marstoke took another step forward, an unholy eagerness lurking in the motion.
She stabbed the finger at him again. “No! A game, you call this?” She grimaced. “Well, if it were, my lord, then I would tell you that you have shown your hand too early. It is no game to me, but my life.” She swallowed violently, and looked briefly away—but recovered quickly to pierce him with a gaze full of scorn. “If you believe that I shall spend another moment of it in your company, then you are gravely mistaken.”
Marstoke grinned. “Don’t speak further, my dear.” He tossed a glance at Aldmere. “Although the duke is a gentleman and not likely to throw your words back at you, I would not have you regret them on our wedding day.”
Aldmere thought that Marstoke had greatly underestimated his bride-to-be. But then, so had he. No soft, shrinking violet, the girl did not cower behind him or wait for him to enter the fray on her behalf. Her oddly colored eyes flashed and she drew herself up impossibly straighter. “You may consider our betrothal to be at an end, sir. I expect that you will hear from my father and his solicitors in the morning.”
The marquess pulled back a little, but the move only put Aldmere in mind of a snake, preparing to strike. “The only thing I regret is that I won’t be there to see your face when you realize your mistake.”
The girl was shaking. She looked so fragile, yet she didn’t budge. “Go to the devil,” she said succinctly.
Marstoke stepped toward her. So did Aldmere.
The marquess stilled. He stared unblinking at him for several long seconds before he suddenly threw an arm out in dismissal, as if it was what he had wished all along. “Go, then,” he said to the girl. “We’ll take this up later.”
Without another glance for either of them, she tossed her head and swept from the room.
Aldmere struggled to return his attention to Marstoke.
The marquess turned to him as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Nodding casually, he raised a brow. “You have the advantage over me, your Grace.” His tone made an insult of the honorific. “I wasn’t aware of any dealings between us.”
It was easier to think with the girl gone from the room. Easier to gather his thoughts and prepare for the battle of wills on which he was about to embark. “It’s your dealings with my brother that concern me, Marstoke.”
Another small table flanked the globe, covered in liquor and crystal. The marquess strolled casually over and lifted a decanter high, brow raised in question.
He declined.
“Suit yourself.” Marstoke poured a drink and regarded him over the rim of the glass. “You surprise me, Aldmere. Have you still not learned that it is never a good idea for an older brother to solve the younger’s problems for him? It creates bad blood, leaving the younger unmanned and the older overburdened.”
“You may keep your unsolicited advice to yourself,” he growled. “I know my brother. I can tell when he’s in a scrape—and by the look of him, whatever it is you’ve got him mixed up in is a damned sight more serious.” He pierced the man with his stare. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Marstoke was good—beyond skilled at hiding his emotions. But Aldmere had learned such lessons in hard school. He only noted the infinitesimal relaxation of the marquess’s shoulders because he was watching so closely for it. “I cannot disclose another gentleman’s business. If you want to know you must ask him yourself.”
“I have asked him—and only succeeded in making him look more like death warmed over. He will say only that he has undertaken a job for you. I want to know why.” He paused a beat. “I suspect it has to do with that kidnapped Russian chit and I want to know how he—and you—are involved.”
Even the air between them had gone still and careful. “I should have thought you’d know better than to air such ugly speculation out in the open, your Grace.” Marstoke’s face hardened. “Listen, I will tell you this much. Your brother is in my debt.”
“I’ll pay the debt, damn it.”
“Impossible.” Marstoke flicked him a half-shuttered glance. “And there are other men involved. Powerful men, who do not take kindly to interference. Your brother came close to getting himself into the sort of trouble that neither I nor you could have extracted him from.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Not that Lord Truitt is without resources. I believe he has friends he might have applied to for help. Friends higher placed than even his brother, the duke.”
The marquess paused a moment, as if waiting for a confirmation. Aldmere knew he referred to Tru’s friendship with the Prince of Wales, but Tru was his responsibility, not the Regent’s. He held silent until Marstoke shrugged and continued.
“Fortunately, I came up with a way for Lord Truitt to make reparations on his own. It’s a project that will keep him busy for a couple of months. Just enough time for him to contemplate his folly. And important enough to convince others that his service will cancel his debt.”
“What service?” He did not allow a muscle to twitch, though he was sorely tempted to shake the smug bastard. “Damn it, I want to know what mess you’ve mixed my brother into.”
The marquess’s mouth had drawn tight. “Relax, your Grace. It’s just a bit of work with his pen,” he said lightly. “I understand Lord Truitt is nearly as renowned for the cleverness of his quill as you were for your oration, once upon a time.”
Aldmere narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like you, Marstoke. And I don’t want my brother spending that much time with you and your ilk. Cut him loose.”
“I don’t take orders, your Grace, from anyone.” The marquess spoke easily as he dropped into a chair, but there was steel in his tone. “And if you object to my associates, you are going to like this little service even less. Lord Truitt’s project will have him spending time with the city’s lowest orders, but when it is complete, he will have paid his debt.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. “But I admit, your arrogance does tempt me. Do you fear that I will corrupt your young brother? I certainly could, should I so choose. And in far less time than it will take him to finish his work.”
Aldmere settled into the chair across from him. “But you won’t.”
“I hadn’t planned to. And yet I find that the notion has developed a sudden a
ppeal. It would be no less than you deserve. Perhaps it might even teach you not to interfere in matters not your own.” Triumph oozed from the man’s every pore. “Admit it, Aldmere. You are at the disadvantage—and have been since the moment you entered the room.”
There it was. The man’s first, vital mistake. Aldmere grinned. “An interesting choice of words, Marstoke. Rather, I would say that I gained an even footing when I entered. Or have you forgotten what I interrupted?”
“Pah. A lover’s spat, merely.”
Aldmere allowed a frown of concern to crease his brow. “An assault on your affianced bride. At least, I might be tempted to describe it thusly, when I speak to the girl’s father.”
“Wilmott is mine.” Not a trace of worry showed in the man’s visage.
“Hmm. And she—such a soft and pretty thing. I can see why you chose her. All lush curves and beguiling innocence. Young, inexperienced, but full of fire.” He sighed. “I’d lay odds her father dotes on her. A political man, isn’t he? And no doubt enamored of the power and importance of the man his daughter has attracted. What could be better than a marquess as a son-in-law?”
Aldmere leaned forward in his chair. It wasn’t triumph that he allowed Marstoke to see, but determination. “Only one thing, perhaps.” He let the silence stretch out, smooth as water in a barrel. Then he dropped two words into it. “A duke.”
Plunk, plunk. Like stones they hit the surface and spread ripples of threat through the room.
Silence reigned while they each absorbed implications and calculated risks.
“Fine, then,” Marstoke said evenly. “I will leave him alone.”
And he knew he had won. “As for the task you’ve set my brother, I’ll allow it for now. But if he gets so much as a callus on his finger, I’ll be back to speak with you. Do we understand each other?”