by Meara Platt
Though his face revealed nothing, she sensed in him a sudden ache that ran deeper than anything Anabelle could have imagined. “I have encountered more evil in my thirty years,” he said softly, “than other men have experienced in a hundred. You know nothing of cruelty and I vow you shall never experience it while under my guardianship.”
He spoke so earnestly, she almost believed him. Impulsively, she raised her hand to his cheek, to somehow soothe the sting of her words, then quickly caught herself. She must be attics-to-let to feel the slightest sympathy for this man. He neither needed nor wanted her consolation. Was this another of his tricks?
Still, she couldn’t help herself. “You may have seen much evil, Your Grace, but Harleigh Hall is a place of love. If you remain here, you will come to know the good.”
Why had she said that? She didn’t want him here a moment longer than was necessary. But there was something about him, the quiet torment of a man who had truly experienced extreme pain and cruelty.
She felt a knot twist in her heart.
“I have no intention of residing in so small a manor, or leaving you and Robert here, for that matter. I shall take you to London for the Season. After that, you and your brother shall return with me to Castle Draloch.”
“What?” She drew back as though scalded. There it was, the moment she had dreaded. He truly was a force of evil come to snatch her away from her beloved Harleigh. Society thought of him as a dragon, but she knew what he truly was…the Devil. She had been a fool to dare hope otherwise.
“I will not stay here, nor will I leave you here to run wild. Lord Markby warned that you needed close supervision, and after the little spectacle you and your brother put on, I fully agree. Don’t look so stricken, Anabelle. Until you marry, life at Draloch will not be so terrible for you.”
She shut her eyes tightly, as if that alone could protect her from the changes threatening to turn her world upside down. Never. Lord Markby had awarded Harleigh to the Dragon of Draloch, had even placed her in the Dragon’s care, but Lord Markby could not force her to obey, nor could he force her from the one place on earth she loved most. “I shall never leave here.”
“Nonsense, girl, you shall do as I command.”
He seemed furious, a quiet, seething fury. She didn’t care, for she felt much the same way toward him. She reached for the closest object at hand and hurled it at him. It whizzed past his head and shattered against the wall behind him. Drat! Too late, she realized she had destroyed a rather valuable porcelain vase. She quickly searched the room for something unbreakable. Dents could be banged out of the more durable objects.
“Enough, Anabelle! There shall be no more amusement at my expense.”
Spotting a large pewter fruit bowl, she quickly dumped its contents and, holding it with both hands over her head, for it was heavier than expected, hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder and she cheered. “Take that you miserable cur! And that! And there’ll be more–”
In the next instant, he was upon her and she was again swept into his arms, but this time, he took no care to be gentle. He caught her hands in one of his and pinned them against the wall as he shamelessly pressed his body against hers. For one hysterical moment, she thought he planned to ruin her right then and there. “Get off me you heathen!”
“With pleasure, if you will stop tossing objects at me. Will you behave?”
“No!” The word flew out of her mouth before she could prevent it. In despair, she realized that he would never set her free now. And the weight of him, warm and crushing…no, not crushing, just…oh, heavens! Her cheeks grew scarlet hot. She tried to turn her face away, but couldn’t, for the shameless cur had purposely trapped her hair beneath the weight of him.
“Be reasonable, Anabelle. I cannot leave you here unprotected.” He sounded more perplexed than angry.
“I am being reasonable, you heartless beast. I don’t need anyone’s protection. Certainly not yours.”
“Damn it, girl.”
“Curse you, Dragon.” Her heart beat wildly as it pressed against his chest, or was it his heart rampantly beating against hers? No, it must be hers. She was exhausted and gasping for breath, while he hardly seemed winded. In fact, he suddenly seemed to have stopped breathing altogether and he eyed her rather strangely.
“Anabelle?” He shifted position, easing off her ever so slightly and clearly impatient with her outburst. He seemed more intent on ending their impasse than seducing her. Of course, she thought morosely. Despite his craven heart, the man was England’s most eligible bachelor. A notorious rakehell often seen in the company of renowned beauties. What interest could he have in a simple country girl? “Are you ready to be reasonable now?”
Their intimate position meant nothing to him, no more than if he were astride his horse. She had to appear equally unaffected, for if he sensed any weakness in her, he would use it to his advantage and mercilessly bend her to his will. Her resolve firmed, she opened her eyes and coolly gazed at him. She spoke calmly, almost blithely. “I am always reasonable.”
He laughed softly and leaned his forehead against hers, unaware that this simple gesture roused sensations in her that no girl of good breeding ought ever feel. She was about to renew her struggles, when he abruptly released her and moved away.
“I have a sudden thirst for tea,” he said, his muscles flexing as he distractedly rubbed the back of his neck.
“Tea?” She gazed up at him, at once relieved and hurt that he’d felt nothing while her own body was humming and throbbing. What was it about this dangerous man’s touch that affected her so? “Certainly, Your Grace. I shall ring for it at once.”
Had he felt anything for her? It was silly to believe the worldly duke might lose his self-control and succumb to her unsophisticated charms. Yet, there had been some small signs of discomposure in him. His eyelids had lowered over intensely blue eyes, his lips had strayed closer to hers, his touch had gentled, and she had sensed a sudden change in his pattern of breathing, an urgency not apparent only moments earlier. But just as she had been sure he would kiss her, he had instead shrugged off her and asked for tea.
Was it a thirst for tea, and not for her, that had quickened his breath and brought a gleam to his eye?
She watched him stroll to the window, glad he’d put some distance between them. “Your Grace,” she said, clearing her throat.
He turned to her with impatience. “What is it now?”
“The bellpull is at your shoulder. Perhaps you ought to ring for the refreshments.”
“Ah, so it is.” He tugged the cord and turned away from her once again, brushing aside the velvet curtains as though intent on studying the great expanse of land beyond the manor house. “Your bluebells have bloomed early.”
“No, they thrive all year round. It’s odd, I know. But there are several spots around the Lake District where this happens. It’s because of underground hot springs, or so I’m told.” Anabelle sighed when he failed to respond, but dragons weren’t known for engaging in conversations.
She sighed again.
“What now?” He still sounded irritated.
“Nothing. I merely sighed.” She knew he would never see the beauty of Harleigh at this time of year. Despite the beds of bluebells, the winter view would appear bleak to anyone not familiar with this estate.
She tensed as he turned toward her, expecting more argument and steeling herself for it, but he paused suddenly as if struck by an intriguing thought and merely returned his pensive gaze to the window.
“I shall wear you down, Your Grace.”
“I have no doubt of it, Anabelle.” A moment later, his shoulders began to shake. At first, she thought he might be crying, but the man did not appear the sort to shed a tear for anyone, not even for himself.
Suddenly, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
It was a dark, demonic sound that rang ominously throughout the parlor and shook Anabelle to her very core. She glanced nervously toward the door a
s his laughter increased. The Dragon of Draloch was feared throughout the ton, and now she fully understood why.
“You need not be alarmed,” he said, noticing her desire to escape and moving to block the door with the powerful, swooping grace of a majestic hawk. “Indeed, I think you will enjoy the jest when I explain it.”
“Jest?” There was no mirth in the steel glint of his eyes. She drew her hands behind her back and wiped her moist palms against her sturdy, wool gown.
Not a majestic hawk, but a predatory dragon.
“It all came so easily.” He took another step toward her, unnerving her as he approached.
“Of course it did, Your Grace,” she began to prattle. “You always win. At the gaming tables, at business, at love, you always get your way. No one ever gets the better of you.”
He roared again.
What had she said to so upset him? Perhaps she ought to have stayed silent, but drat! She found it hard to hold her tongue when he sought to torment her with his victory.
“Lord Markby seemed so accommodating,” he said, taking yet another step toward her. “Every motion granted, every point of law sustained. He gave you nothing and gave me all, and I did not find it odd. Verily, he gave me all I asked for and more.”
She frowned at him. “I wish you’d stop boasting about it.”
“It isn’t a boast. Take Harleigh, Your Grace, he said, for the law supports your position and I would not deny such an honorable man.” Saron was almost upon her now, but she refused to back away. “Do you not find it odd, Anabelle? No? I did not either, though I should have. Most men fear me, few think me honorable.”
“I fail to see the humor. He betrayed my father’s friendship.”
“Ah, but he did not. The man is brilliant, subtly brilliant. Don’t you see it yet?” He now stood smiling over her. “Come, Anabelle, you are a bright girl. I noticed that in you from the first.”
“Forgive me if I seem dense at the moment. You have Harleigh and I do not.”
“Sit down, my dear.”
“I wish to remain standing.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “As you wish. I prefer you standing, at any rate.”
“Perhaps I will have a chair after all.”
“Precisely my point.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ah, I didn’t finish my story. Let me continue. After awarding me Harleigh, Lord Markby approached me a day later at my club. He had a problem that weighed heavily on his mind. You are an honorable man, he said to me, and I have a small favor to ask of you.”
Anabelle sniffed. “Honorable? Decidedly not.”
He ignored her and continued. “Of course, I replied, so full of myself from my easy victory. We men of honor must do what we can to help each other. You may count on me. He was pleased I saw it that way and took himself off.”
“I’ll contest on grounds of Lord Markby’s insanity.”
He ignored her again. “But you didn’t explain the problem, I called after him. There is no longer any problem, he responded. Just remember your words, and hold to them, for after all, you gave me your word of honor. I thought no more about it, until my solicitor contacted me one week later. A terrible thing has happened! he exclaimed. You have been awarded Harleigh.”
“At least your solicitor has sense. It is a terrible thing that must be rectified as soon as possible.”
He shot her a glower that ought to have frightened her, but instead, warmed her body and set her heart fluttering. Actually fluttering?
“I grew impatient with the man,” he continued. “Lord Markby had advised me of that fact several days earlier. The recording of his decision was merely a formality. But, my solicitor continued, he has awarded you the Lady Anabelle as well.”
“Of course,” Anabelle said, not bothering to hide her disgust. “Lord Markby’s betrayal was complete. You control Harleigh and now you control me, or at least you think you do. But mark me well, if you take me away from Harleigh, I shall destroy you. I shall bring Castle Draloch down about your arrogant shoulders. I shall see you crawl among the ruins, a broken man.”
“Oh, but Lord Markby was fiendishly clever. He knew you well, did he not? Don’t you see it yet, sweet Anabelle? Gentle Anabelle. Compliant, submissive, obedient Anabelle. Do you see yourself in my descriptions? Of course not, and neither would Lord Markby.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes widening in fright as he wound his fingers in her hair and forced her up against his hard body.
“Curse you, little one,” he said in a husky whisper. “You are Lord Markby’s revenge on me.”
Chapter Three
“Revenge?” At first, Anabelle appeared stunned by the notion, but as the realization sank in that Lord Markby had purposely bound her to Harleigh Hall, she laughed in delight. “By his decision, Lord Markby has given me free rein against you. And you’ve given him your word of honor to protect me. You’re obligated to take care of me, no matter what I do to you.”
Saron’s expression turned grim. “I do not give in to threats, little one.”
He ought to have dismissed the odd tugs to his heart before he’d ever met the girl and simply ended the ill-fated card game. Those tugs to his heart had only grown stronger as their legal battle unfolded.
Why hadn’t he put an end to the dispute and returned Harleigh to this girl?
There was no dismissing the judicial decree that now bound him and Anabelle together under the law. Yet, he couldn’t blame Lord Markby for failing to understand the danger posed to Anabelle. That blame fell squarely upon his own shoulders. “Escalating the battle will never regain you Harleigh.”
“But it shall make you wish you had never acquired it,” she answered, sticking her impudent chin into the air.
“Will you devote your life to seeking revenge, then?” He noted the gleam in her eyes and knew she was already forming plots against him. “Lord Chalmers does not think it is in your nature.”
“If the situation had been reversed, you losing Draloch to me, you would have sought to destroy me without hesitation.”
“Perhaps, but you are not like me.”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “And I’m thankful for it. I do not enjoy hurting others.”
“And you believe I do?”
“Your actions have proved it. Harleigh means nothing to you and everything to me. You know it, and yet you will not accede to reasonable terms. I’ve been more than generous in my offers of compromise, yet you remain cold and unfeeling.” She nibbled her lower lip, then raised her eyes to gaze at him in accusation. “Do you dare deny that you’re the most churlish man ever to walk this earth? That you gain enjoyment by imposing misery on others?”
He arched an eyebrow and his lips curled upward in a small smile that she mistook for gloating, though it was the farthest thing from his mind. He was amused by her defiance and pleased that she spoke to him with passionate honesty. She would need those qualities if she was to be his mate.
Why her?
What qualifies her to be a dragon’s mate?
“I don’t know what Lord Markby could have been thinking to force us together like this,” she continued. “I fear it will end badly for one of us. Lord forgive me, but I hope it is you.”
Others might have sought to gain his favor with honeyed words, but Anabelle simply could not pretend to like him. Although her honesty pleased him, it did not bode well for their union that she held such a low opinion of him.
How was he to gain her approval? In truth, he was obstinate and uncompromising. But she was wrong to believe that he still treated this matter as a game for his own amusement.
She had no idea what was truly at stake.
“A truce,” he said, finally releasing her. “There is much to consider and it would be in your best interest to goad me no further.”
She sent him a withering look. “In my best interest? Do you think me a witless child who will be distracted by shiny trinkets and fancy promises you
do not intend to keep?”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “I would not waste my time with you if I thought so little of you as that. You know very well that I came with no shiny trinkets, nor will I make you any fancy promises. Now, will you agree to a truce?”
After some hesitation, she swallowed her pride and consented. “For the moment, though I doubt it will hold for long. I shall control my temper, provided you do not provoke me.”
“A meager start, but a start nonetheless. Are you a woman of your word?”
She huffed lightly. “Of course I am. You’re the one with the wicked reputation, not I.”
“Then let us shake hands to seal our bargain.” His brutishly large hand swallowed her small, delicate one, but she did not seem intimidated by the disparity. Her grip was firm, yet feminine, and she held herself proudly.
He smiled. “We have made great strides toward peace, little one.”
She obviously doubted it and meant to tell him so, but her response was drowned out by the bellow of a plump woman who entered the room at that moment and saw the fruit strewn about the floor. “Bless my soul, child! Ye’ve descended into savagery! Is this how I raised ye?”
Saron was taken aback that a servant should speak to Anabelle with such appalling familiarity. After all, the girl was still mistress of this house as far as the servants knew. He would inform them shortly of the changes, of course.
“Dolly is Harleigh’s housekeeper,” Anabelle rushed to explain, her beautiful fawn eyes turning tender and indulgent. She regarded the woman with great affection.
Her delicious expression halted Saron’s reprimand.
Dolly deposited a tray laden with tea and cakes onto a side table. “And ye’ve shattered yer favorite vase. What were you tryin’ to do? Knock His Grace’s head off his shoulders?”
She bobbed a curtsey to him almost as an afterthought and tramped to Anabelle’s side. Shaking her head in disapproval, she pointedly removed Anabelle’s hand from his clasp. Damn. He’d forgotten he still held it.
“Och! And will ye take a look at yourself, missie. Yer hair’s all wild and that gown of yours is stained as if ye’d been playin’ in the mud. What sort of impression is that to be makin’ on His Grace?” She stuck her thumb in his direction.