Capturing the Viscount (Rakes and Roses Book 1)

by Win Hollows

  His eyes lit with a warm gleam. “I- I’m,” he stuttered, then took a deep breath and started over. “You have made me a very happy man, Laura.”

  “It is I who feel lucky to have someone who can see past the…blemishes of my season and treat me as wonderfully as you have done.”

  Grayson leaned forward and boldly put his hand on her knee. “I hope you realize that I do not see you as damaged goods, no matter what some silly gossip rag says.”

  “Thank you.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her face, the breeze catching the small hairs at her ears and nape.

  Grayson cleared his throat and pulled his hand back. “I know it is very sudden, but I was wondering if…if you would mind wedding here.”

  Laura tried not to panic at the thought of the actual nuptials. “I think it’s a lovely place for a wedding.”

  Grayson fidgeted. “Yes, well, I meant here, as in, today while we’re here.” He looked at her while biting his lip.

  Laura didn’t think she’d ever seen him this nervous, but her own heart began to race. “Today?” she squeaked, sitting up straight in the white painted iron chair.

  Grayson ran a hand through his hair and looked down. “I’m sorry, I just… I thought the sooner, the better for your reputation.”

  She gulped. “Of course.”

  “I also wouldn’t mind marrying you as soon as possible for obvious reasons. I want to make you mine before you can come to your senses and realize what a step down you’d be making,” he attempted a laugh, but it came out a bit strangled.

  Laura smiled past the tingling numbness that encroached on her fingers and toes. “I would never think you’re a stop down, Grayson.” And she didn’t. He was kind and handsome and attentive. She would want for nothing while in his care.

  Well, almost nothing.

  “So then, you wouldn’t mind becoming my wife today? I wouldn’t expect a honeymoon from you so suddenly. It would really just be a formality. I have the special license. Then we can start to build a life together over time.”

  The look on his face was so beatific that she couldn’t bear to turn him down, this man that was saving her from ruin. So she nodded and sat slumped numbly at the little table as Grayson went to make arrangements with the village priest and the manor whirled into preparations around her, an eye of petrified calm in the storm.

  Rem had been combing the flora and fauna and the floor itself of his family’s conservatory for the better part of an hour with interesting, but, all in all, useless results. Thanks to his mother’s constant need to rearrange and redecorate every room in their extensive London home, nothing looked the same as it had the night of the ball. He had had to approximate where the body, or hand at the very least, had lain. There was nothing to be found there, no evidence of any foul play in the vicinity. Sweat trickled down the muscles of his neck and back, creating an itchy stickiness inside his clothes. The room was stiflingly hot on this day, in combination with the glass-paned roof overhead and the coal-heated pots of steam-water laid about the place to nourish the plant-life there. He was hot and frustrated now, the knowledge that he might never find any clues here to aid in Laura’s safety weighing heavily.

  But he wasn’t giving up yet. He then proceeded to hunt down every last rosebush that could have been the one the hand was near and examined it. After nine different bushes like the one in the picture, he came to the last possible plant and found what he was looking for.

  It was always the last place one looked.

  Sunlight poured through the windows of hothouse, illuminating the area in shafts of sunlight. On several of the lower leaves of the bush was a dried, reddish brown substance contained in drops and splashes. Blood.

  Rem began to carefully look through the other leaves and in the dirt surrounding the low-potted bush, mindful of the numerous thorns that adorned the plant. His fingers skimmed the soil, for what purpose, he wasn’t certain.

  And then he found it.

  A button-sized hard object scraped his fingers as he went by. Immediately digging it up from the thin film of dirt covering it, he brushed it off and examined the thing.

  Once the dirt had been rubbed away, Rem saw it was actually a disc-shaped, faceted jewel of a deep red hue, most likely a ruby. It had slight etchings on the reverse side, the kind that helped to secure it in a setting. He didn’t think it belonged in a piece of jewelry. Those settings usually surrounded the gem so that etchings weren’t necessary. But it could have come from a variety of other objects like a jeweled snuffbox, calling card case, cane, or letter opener. The possibilities were literally endless. And the number of people who owned rubies among the aristocracy was legion.

  And then he remembered something he wished he hadn’t.

  Trent Arberley was a connoisseur of rubies. He was always having his accoutrements decorated with the things. Everyone who knew him constantly saw him with his ruby-encrusted cane. Something about the blood-red ostentatiousness appealed to his twistedly competitive mind.

  Rem pocketed the jewel and strode from the artificially heated room. It was time to pay a visit to the man he had struck in the face the last time they’d met.

  There weren’t but a handful of times in her life Laura could recall not being able to speak. Once was when she had been very sick at about nine years of age and had lost her voice entirely for three days. Most of the other times had been when Rem had been kissing her to the point where her mind turned to mush. The point is, it wasn’t a common occurrence.

  Yet, when the reverend, a Mr. Lattinor, had asked her to repeat after him, nothing came out. As Laura stood in Fennimore House’s drawing room, late-afternoon rays winking off of the signet ring on Grayson’s hands encasing hers, the priest in front of them repeated the phrase.

  “I, Laura Valeria Parrington, promise to love, honor, and cherish thee…”

  Laura swallowed and opened her mouth wide, fully intending to speak the words.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again, this time clearing her throat and taking a deep breath.

  “Do you need some water, perhaps?” Grayson asked, understanding smile fully in place.

  Her smile was rueful. “No, thank you.” It seemed she had no problem saying that phrase.

  Both men, and the small group of assembled servants serving as witnesses to the little ceremony, waited. Still, she couldn’t make the sounds required to voice the appropriate words. The words that would save her from complete ruin and give her a comfortable life with a perfect gentleman.

  After several more moments, when it became clear that Laura wasn’t going to be able to start the vows, let alone finish them, Grayson squeezed her hands gently and dropped them, turning to the minister. “I think my fiancé is tired from the day’s excitement. Would you mind coming back tomorrow, Sir?”

  The reverend, a watery-eyed older gentleman with a pleasant smile, nodded. “Of course, My Lord. You just let me know when you’re ready to proceed.” He loosened his collar and toddled straight between the bride and groom. “In the meantime, I think I’ll just pay a visit to the widow Salisbury. She’s been putting away cranberries for the year, and her jam is just-” he held his hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of his fingers.

  Laura felt the absurd urge to giggle.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Grayson commented politely.

  The assembled personage watched Reverend Lattinor teeter out of the room in collective silence.

  “You may go,” Grayson waved a hand at the bundle of nervous servants who stood huddled near the windows. They immediately murmured a chorus of, “Yes, My Lord’s” and fairly scurried from the room, no doubt eager to escape the awkward scene.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura started. I-” she paused, not knowing quite what to say. But she did know. She just didn’t want to have to say it. She looked at Grayson’s shined boots, hating herself for what she was about to do. “I don’t think I can marry you, Grayson,” she said softly, not daring to look up at his devastated
face.

  Instead, she heard a beleaguered sigh.

  “I thought that might be the case.” Laura looked up to see him pinch the bridge of this nose, eyes closed. “Which makes this all so much harder.”

  “You can’t know how sorry I am.” She reached for his hand, but he pulled back. “I never meant-,”

  “Oh, just be quiet.” He flicked her outstretched hand away.

  Laura stepped back, almost bumping into a spindly chintz chair. His voice had changed to a tone she’d never heard him use before. It was disgust.

  She tried again. “Grayson, I know you must be feeling slighted-”

  He grabbed her wrist and jerked her body toward his. Laura cried out, the bones in her wrist protesting the crushing pressure. “Don’t tell me how I’m feeling, you blithering nitwit,” he snarled.

  “Grayson, you’re hurting me.” She tried to pry his fingers off her wrist, but couldn’t break his iron grip.

  “Do you realize how long I’ve had to grovel at your feet and fawn all over you to get you here?” he sneered. ‘Miss Parrington’ this and ‘Miss Parrington’ that,” he mimicked, his eyes flashing a deep muddy amber. “I’m not feeling slighted, idiot, I’m incensed that I’ve had to put up with you for weeks for absolutely nothing. For it to come this anyways.”

  Her heart was pounding. He had never behaved like the person who was gripping her now. “Grayson, stop. I know this didn’t turn out how you wanted it to, and I’m sorry for that, but you need to let me go. Now.” She felt she sounded firm without being unduly harsh, but his attitude and physicality were not going to be tolerated for much longer.

  Fennimore laughed. He actually laughed, and not a pleasant sound either. All the warmth had gone from his voice and demeanor. More importantly, his hold on Laura’s arm did not loosen in the slightest. “You’d think from the conversations I was forced to have with you, you’d be smart enough to know when you aren’t going to get your way. But that’s how it is with you debutantes. All bosom and no brain. Not like my Madeline,” he declared with a depth she didn’t understand.

  Laura squirmed, twisting her wrist within his fingers. “What are talking about? Who-who is Madeline?”

  “A woman whose name you’re not fit to speak,” he spat, yanking her towards the door of the drawing room.

  They were in a family sitting room on the second floor of Fennimore Manor, and, for a second as they tumbled out onto the landing of the stairs, she thought he was going to send her flying down them, so vicious was his handling. He didn’t, instead dragging her to the other side of it, where she remembered a wing of bedrooms lay. A maid dusting an upper balustrade curtsied and kept her head down as they went by, unfazed by the sight of her master hauling a woman about.

  Something very wrong was going on, but she didn’t know what it was.

  As he tugged her along the hallway, Laura bit back a cry of protest. His grip on her wrist was punishing, but she knew it was useless to try and pry him off. He seemed to be in a rage, the root of which she couldn’t fathom. She imagined it must be infuriating to have someone refuse to marry you at the altar, but this reaction was beyond the proportions of such an event, wasn’t it? The calm, kind man she had thought was courting her the past several weeks had disappeared in the blink of an eye. Her heart thudded, and her mind raced trying to understand the situation.

  “If you’d just explain, I’d like to know what it is you’re feeling,” she tried, righting herself as she stumbled a bit over a groove in the carpet. He didn’t slow his pace or relent, leading her deeper into the darkened hall.

  Fennimore said nothing, finally stopping to open a door to his right. He shoved her through the opening, and she staggered to a stop, turning to face his glowering features. Rubbing her wrist, Laura took in her surroundings. She stood in an elegant, but plain bedroom that featured lilacs and grays throughout the four-poster’s counterpane and wallpaper. A changing screen, hip bath, bedside table, chest of drawers, and upholstered corner chair were the only other furnishings in the drab, dust-covered room. The small, long-abandoned fireplace with soot stains covering the mantle crouched across from the bed, but the only source of light came from a narrow window on the opposite wall from the door, looking out over a green expanse of lawn. The room had clearly not been used in many years, so she was unsure why he would bring her to this place, but she had had enough.

  “What has gotten into you, Grayson? Why are you treating me like this?” She held out her arms in supplication.

  His lips remained in a thin line, eyes coldly blazing into her. Eventually, he broke the silence. “You have no idea. No idea of anything outside your little world of frills and parties and Daddy who spoils you with foolish things like cameras.” The venom in this voice was undeniable.

  Laura drew herself upright. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am foolish, but it’s not for wanting to capture the beauty in the world.” She had to work to keep from clenching her fists. “It’s for trusting men like you to take care of me. I won’t be making that mistake again. Clearly, it’s not in you to put a woman’s needs above your own.”

  He took a step toward her, teeth bared in a growl. “You’re nothing but a whore in expensive clothing. Don’t try to act innocent with me.”

  Laura stepped back as he advanced into the room.

  “I know what you are. Rutting with Rothstone all about town. The funny thing is, I don’t care about any of that. That part, at least, was true. Who you open your legs for is of no consequence.” He reached her and leaned over her form as she crowded herself back against the legs of the chair in the corner. Fennimore’s voice became soft. “But don’t act like you’re better than anyone else who is forced to work on their back in the alleyways of Seven Dials. You think because you act passionless and produce heirs instead of children, you’re somehow above the rest of humanity.” His breath fanned her face in sour waves. “You’re not. You’re just more expensive and more trouble.”

  Laura was trembling and fought to control her breathing. She didn’t want him to know she was terrified. It would make the situation real somehow. His insults stung in a part of her that even the dragons of society gossip hadn’t touched. Was that all she was- just another woman selling herself for a comfortable lifestyle? When she thought about her own motivations going into the marriage with Grayson, she couldn’t honestly say that they were all pure. She did want to have a comfortable life and have children that would want for nothing.

  Though now, she thought a life in the workhouse was probably preferable to a life with the insane man who now loomed over her with bared teeth and flashing eyes.

  “Grayson, I’d like to go home now,” she told him, proud of the way her voice held steady.

  He laughed. “No, sweeting, I don’t think so,” he mocked. “In fact,” he said, pushing down on her shoulders. “You’re going to stay right here until you can be useful for once instead of a prettily-dressed thorn in my side.”

  “Oof.” The breath rushed out of her as she was forced down into the seat of the chair. Laura pushed at his chest. ‘Get your hands off of me,” she snapped.

  He didn’t budge. “Stop moving, brat.” His eyes gleamed as he studied her.

  Laura tried not to panic. She had never had someone restrain her from movement the way he was doing now. She felt claustrophobic, a great welling of fear about to force its way out somehow. Did she dare scream? Would anyone here even care? The way the maid on the stairs had reacted to his manhandling of her, or not reacted, rather, had been disturbing. Did his staff see this sort of thing regularly? The entire situation was becoming unreal. Surely she must be the target of some great hoax if mild-mannered Grayson Fennimore was treating a lady like a piece of chattel in front of his own staff.

  She held very still, afraid of what he might do if she didn’t. He seemed capable of anything. His cologne, expensive and familiar as it filled her senses, was in direct contrast to the man before her.

  “Now then,” he said, takin
g his hands off of her shoulders. He crouched down before the chair, but put his hands on the arms of it, forming a cage. “Since you’re far more stupid than I’ve given you credit for, I suppose I’ll have to spell it out for you if you’re to be of any use.”

  “And since you’ve clearly gone mad, I think any explanation would be superfluous,” she returned.

  Her hands rose in reaction, but the slap to her face was too quick. This wasn’t the slap of a petite grieving woman, but one that carried with it the rage of a man much larger than herself. Her head snapped to the side, and lights danced before her yes. She gripped the chair for support, one finger touching his. He took the opportunity to put his hands over hers, securing her to the piece of furniture. She didn’t struggle against him, but against the black void that threatened to consume her. Blinking, she fought to stay silent at the pain that rushed in behind the shock. The skin of her face stung, but her eye socket throbbed with a deep ache.

  After a moment in which she barely managed to gather her wits, she drawled, “I can’t say that didn’t hurt, but I’ll be damned if it made me want to listen to your nattering any more than I did a moment ago.”

  Nostrils flaring, his eyes narrowed on her. “You insolent whore. I should have killed you that night in the orangery instead of waiting for someone else to dispose of you. Hired help really isn’t what it’s made out to be these days.”

  “What?” Laura’s mind tried to wrap itself around his words.

  Fennimore’s fingers dug into the flesh of her arms. “Yes, you heard me correctly. Your idiotic hobby has caused me quite a lot of trouble, and I should have simply taken care of the entire business then instead of being cautious.”

  “I don’t understand anything you’re saying. You need help, Grayson,” she pleaded, trying to appeal past the manic blaze in his eyes.

  “I thought I did, yes. But that turned out to be a disaster as well.” His lips quirked in annoyance.