A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  “We'll find Drew, darling. We'll find him and bring him home, together.” The sound of his brother's name on her lying lips strengthened his resolve. She deserved this, he told himself. She deserved far worse.

  “Let me pleasure you, darling,” he crooned. “Let me show you a woman's glory.” He worked her skirts upwards and stroked his hand along her inner thigh. She pushed at his hand.

  “Michael, I...I don't think... What if we're discovered?”

  “We're to be married, love,” he whispered against her ear. “Besides you saw me lock the door.” He found the slit in her pantalettes and eased his fingers inside them to touch her feminine core. She gasped at the sudden sensation. His thumb sought the shy nub at the top of her sex and began to circle it gently. Araby jerked in his arms and dug her fingers into his shoulders. He continued to tease her until she pressed herself more firmly against his hand. “This is what you want, what you need,” he said, biting her earlobe. Michael carefully slipped his forefinger inside her as she began to tremble. He worked the digit in and out of her as she clung to him, her breath coming in shallow pants. Araby arched her back bringing herself as close to his hand as she could. Michael increased the friction as her hips pumped it time with his finger. His other hand kneaded her breast. She was almost there.

  “Araby,” he snarled. “Look at me. Now.” He snapped out the last as a command that couldn't be disobeyed. He dropped the romantic mask from his eyes and let the fury, the rage he felt fill his eyes. “I want you to watch me make you come. I want you to remember this night for the rest of your life. My fingers in your quim, you riding my hand as randy as any ha'penny slut. You want this, don't you? Say it,” he barked. “Say that you want me to fuck you.” She looked up at him, confusion filling her eyes while the needs of her body drove her relentlessly on. He had her now. He could demand anything he liked of her and she would give it to him. “Say it,” he growled, his eyes burning into hers while she whimpered her need. “Say, 'Finger fuck me, Michael’,” he commanded. He slowed his movements and began to withdraw his hand.

  “No, Michael,” she pleaded. “Please, I need you to, I don't know what, but please, don't stop. Don't leave me.”

  He grabbed the back of her neck and forced her to look at him as he continued his slow, agonizing ministrations, his own cock throbbing against the inside of his trousers. “Then say it, ma petite belle,” he crooned. “Say it and I'll make you fly.” She looked afraid of him. He didn't care at this point. Let her see his anger, his hatred. It was too late for her to escape anyway. “Say it,” he repeated, lacing his words with menace.

  “Please...finger f..fuck me, Michael,” she said, her voice ending on a broken note.

  He began working his hand in earnest again. Araby cried out as she clung to him, helpless to do anything else but feel. He wasn't done yet. He’d make certain tonight stayed burned in her memory. “Say, 'pretty please',” he demanded. She dropped her gaze and muttered the words he'd commanded. Her limbs began to shake. It wouldn't be long now. “Look at me,” he ground out. “You're going to come hard and for the rest of your life you'll know I was the first man to make you feel like this.” She began to shudder and he swallowed her cry with his mouth while he milked her orgasm from her body drawing it out long and slow as she rode his hand until the final tremors drained away. She tried to collapse against him but he held her back grabbing her by the back of the head so she was forced to look at him. He shook her slightly to gain her attention, not hard, because his words were a much more effective weapon. “Every time a man fucks you. You'll remember tonight. You'll remember how you begged me for it, how you stood here rocking and moaning with your pretty ballgown down to your waist while I fingered your cunny and twisted your pretty little tits.” He removed his hands and she stumbled with the suddenness of his withdrawal.

  He made no move to aid her. “What are you saying, Michael? Another man? You said we would be married. You said you that you loved me.”

  He laughed making it an unpleasant sound. “I lied, my sweet, but then, lies are something you know a great deal about, don't you.” He pulled out his handkerchief and made a show of wiping his hand. “You're not too bad for a little slap and tickle. Perhaps I should teach you how to pleasure me with that succulent little mouth of yours. A little practice and some more effort on your part and I dare say you'll become passable bed sport.” He tucked the linen back into his pocket. “Still think a little trollop like you is too good for my brother?” He heard the unmistakable sounds of men in the hallway outside of the parlor. Damn it, Rafe was early. He tossed the key to the door onto a nearby table. Araby watched his movements, her face still curiously blank. She still didn't grasp the significance of the noise in the hall. “It would appear I forgot to lock the door after all,” he drawled. The bodice of her gown was still pulled below her breasts, but she stood there, her eyes wide and staring as if in shock and against his will he felt the stirrings of regret. He steeled himself against any form of compassion. This girl had tried to play both him and his brother for idiots and now she paid the price.

  “Cover yourself, you little fool,” he snapped, but she continued to stand there, her breathing shallow making no effort to save herself as the doorknob turned.

  “You can't mean this, Michael. You can't,” she whispered brokenly as one lone tear trickled down her cheek. “I love you.”

  “So be it,” he said roughly, as he pulled her back into his arms for the final scene. He brought his mouth angrily down upon hers. She didn't even try to fight him. Rafe Kingsford strolled into the room. Michael tore his mouth from Araby's and watched the other man's eyes gleam with satisfaction he viewed the tableau in front of him. He turned to regard the man trailing behind him, Viscount Iredale.

  “Sorry, old man, it appears we've stumbled into the wrong room,” he said jovially. “I say, Iredale, isn't that your fiancee´ with her gown half off?”

  His words did what Michael's couldn't. With a cry Araby tore herself from his arms and turned her back to the men while she struggled to tuck herself inside her corset and pull up the bodice of her gown. Michael stepped in front of her, shielding her from their view. He faced Iredale who stood silent, his gaze traveling between Michael and Araby. He'd turned the color of parchment, his jaw clenching as he struggled to contain his anger. Michael watched him closely. He was willing to take a blow or two for the sake of the man's pride. He certainly deserved them for compromising another man's fiancee´, but regardless of his feelings about Araby, Michael could not simply walk away and leave her to deal with a violent man. He would never allow Iredale to strike her. She'd been punished enough. Her engagement had come to an abrupt and very ugly end.

  Tonight's events left him feeling tired and jaded. Drew was bent on heading into the maelstrom brewing in eastern Europe because of this half-dressed, trembling chit behind him. She'd destroyed what little connection Michael had left with his family and he'd taken his revenge against her, raw and vicious as it was. Now, he simply wanted to be done. Still, part of him longed to order both Rafe and Iredale from the room. No matter that the Incomparable Araby had earned her fate, he didn't like Kingsford leering at her. He fought the urge to wrap his coat around her shoulders. He glared at Rafe, silently cursing the other man's unabashed enjoyment of her humiliation. Revenge had lost all sweetness and now burned like acid in Michael's gut.

  “Come along, Lassiter,” Rafe Kingsford said heartily. “Let's leave the love birds alone to sort out their differences, shall we?” Michael hesitated and for the life of him he didn't know why he should. It was over. As her fiance´, soon to be former fiance´, Iredale had more rights here than any of them and it was his place to resolve the rest of the matter. Michael headed for the door. He paused as he reached Iredale, offering the man a chance at redress. Iredale remained silent and unmoving. Michael leaned closer to him and delivered a whispered warning. “Lay one finger on her in anger and I will kill you.” He continued on his way to the door.

&n
bsp; Behind him he heard Rafe offer a parting shot as he followed Michael. “Oh, and Iredale?” Kingsford said. “Let me know when you're done with her. I might want to be next.” Michael heard Araby give a broken sob and he forced himself not to turn around and go back. He'd done this to her and he told himself it served her right. She'd suffered horrible humiliation tonight, but the incident would remain private. Iredale wouldn't talk for fear of worse scandal than a broken engagement attaching itself to his family and neither Kingsford and Ambrose had any wish to see the man publicly embarrassed. Their revenge against Araby ended by her losing the title she'd so desperately wanted and by her loss of standing because of a broken engagement to a peer of the realm. Next season would see her married to some squire, or knight, but there would be no further consequences other than her embarrassment whenever she faced any of these men in the years to come.

  Michael heard his own voice echoing in his head, ‘you'll know I was the first man to make you feel like this.’ And so will I, he thought. As the door to the parlor shut behind them Michael told himself it didn't matter.

  ***

  Araby worked to tug her bodice into place. She'd destroyed everything. Like a fool she'd trusted that Michael loved her enough to forget her hasty words to Drew. Enough? He didn't love her at all. He never had and she'd allowed herself to betray an honorable man, destroying everything, even herself. She felt nothing but a great, cold emptiness inside her. There was no place to feel anything in that void yet, not even fear. Fear would come later. Her hands shook and she realized with despair that the two hooks at the back of her gown were still undone and that she had no hope of fastening them herself. What was the proper etiquette for a situation like this? Should she ask for Iredale's assistance? She gave a choked sob as she gave up and turned to face the man, who in her foolishness she'd so gravely wronged. He held himself still, his expression drawn and she instinctively stayed quiet waiting for the explosion of temper that was bound to come. Minutes later she still waited. Iredale quietly reached to take her arm and turned her back to him. He fastened the hooks and then turned her back towards him. If Araby lived to be 1000 she would never forget the pain and sadness in his eyes. She began to cry.

  “They did this on purpose,” she said between gulping sobs. “It doesn't excuse what I've done; I know that, but it was all a trick.”

  “I know,” Iredale acknowledged in a quiet voice.

  “Please forgive me, Leo. I know I've betrayed you – dishonored myself, you and our betrothal, but I'm asking you to please find it in your heart to forgive me.” She covered her face with her hands too ashamed to look at him. He said nothing and let her cry. Time crawled by as she fought to control her tears knowing she had to look at him and face what she'd done. He deserved the chance to have his say. When she was able to meet his gaze he handed her his handkerchief. She took it, thanking him in a small voice.

  “Araby,” he began, “I will forgive you for this eventually.” Her heart soared with hope for a moment before his next words brought it crashing back to earth. “If you were able to see past your own feelings now you'd understand that there's more to this than merely Lassiter and Kingsford's plot, ruthless as it was. If you were furious with Lassiter, or reviled him for his betrayal it would be one thing, but you see, my dear, you can't do that, because you actually love him and he broke your heart.” Araby started to deny what he said, but stopped herself. He was right. For all the ugliness and the humiliation she'd suffered during the past hour, the worst of it was that she'd been played for a fool by a man she truly loved, a man who could never love her in return.

  “I know I don't hold your love now,” Iredale continued, “but I'd hoped I could capture it once we married. I'm afraid though, that Lassiter will always hold onto a piece of you, however small that piece is, or however reluctantly you give it to him.”

  “No, please,” she cried, “You must listen to me. I'm so sorry. Let me prove myself to you, let me....” Now the fear began to work its way past the ice inside her.

  “Don't beg, Araby. You demean us both. The fact remains that if you'd had any real regard for me, Lassiter could never have played his foul trick. I can't marry you. I refuse to take someone as my wife who isn't free to give me all of her heart. I deserve more than that.”

  She nodded, knowing he was right and that she'd lost all her chances through your own folly. “I will be discreet,” he continued. “No one shall hear anything about tonight from me, or from anyone else. I shall make certain of that. It's best if each of us leaves London now. You can return to town next season. By then all this will simply be a distasteful memory and we can both go on with our lives.”

  She put her hand on his forearm and he gently, but firmly removed it. “Don't say anything further,” he said coolly. “It is done and we both must go on from here. Fix your hair and dry your eyes. I shall go and ask Lady Katherine to attend you. Between us we'll get you out of here and away from prying eyes.” He gave her a slight bow and the courtesy made her feel even less worthy of his regard. Iredale turned to leave, but stopped for a moment at the door. Without turning back he said softly, “I would have loved you, you know.”

  Chapter Nine

  Duncan Gillian rushed through the doors of Harley Street Hospital for Indigent Gentlewomen, yelling for orderlies and nurses to attend him. The bundle in his arms moaned softly, his vigorous movements causing additional pain to her injuries. Within moments he'd laid the young woman down on an examination bed and began carefully removing her cape to assess the extent of the harm done to her.

  “Cor, look at that dress,” exclaimed an orderly standing behind Dr. Gillian. “She ain't no White Chapel bint.”

  Duncan eyed the orderly with anger. True enough, the young woman's clothing, though torn, and spattered with her blood had been very expensive. She also wore a suite of amethysts, a necklace, ear bobs, broach and bracelet. Someone had tried to rip the broach from the bodice of her evening gown, though Duncan doubted theft had been the primary motivation. He studied the bruising on her face and neck. One of her eyes was already swollen shut and by tomorrow the ugly marks would be a deep and vivid purple. A nurse set a basin of warm water and cloths down on the instrument table, then briskly shooed the orderly from the room. Duncan picked up a small scalpel and began cutting through the young woman's gown. Her corset and undergarments were of equally fine quality and the nurse was unable to hold back a sigh of dismay as Duncan sliced through her corset laces.

  “It's all right Briggs,” he said drily, “If her family can afford the gown, I'm certain they can afford new laces.” In short order they had her undressed and Duncan completed his examination. His patient had two broken rids, a fractured collar bone and a dislocated shoulder. The marks around her neck suggested that someone had throttled her and in fact may have been intent on asphyxiation. Injuries like these mirrored the types of assaults he frequently saw at the clinic he ran in White Chapel. Those assaults usually came from a brothel's overzealous customer or from the hands of a violent husband. The young woman on the table moaned again and reached her uninjured arm towards him. She was trying to speak, but clearly the harm done to her throat prevented her from voicing any words. Briggs patted her shoulder and murmured reassurances as she assisted Duncan is positioning her so they could slip her shoulder back into position. Although they were successful on the first try, the pain caused their patient to faint. It was a blessing Duncan supposed as he set to work wrapping her ribs.

  An hour later Briggs pursed her lips as she regarded the young woman asleep on the narrow metal bed in the second ward of Harley Street Hospital. “I suppose she could be someone's mistress. That would explain the clothes. They get beaten just as easily as one of those unfortunates in a brothel, perhaps more so.”

  “She could be,” Duncan replied, in the soft burr of his Scottish accent, “but the cut of her gown and its color was too modest for one of the demimonde. Besides, my examination determined the young lady has never been...married
.” He colored slightly as Briggs raised one eyebrow at his remark. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.

  “You mean she's never been intimate with a man.” Duncan nodded. Briggs smoothed the blanket on the bed. “It's a mercy the lass wasn't raped out there on the street. This was bad enough.”

  “Aye,” Duncan agreed. “At least she's safe here for the time being and she'll soon recover.” He pulled up a folding chair and sat down to watch his mysterious patient sleep. He bet once the bruises and scrapes healed she'd be lovely. Chances were that someone would be looking for her. He just hoped they wouldn't be returning her into the hands of her abuser.

  ***

  She slept fitfully for the first few days, her dreams twisted by the laudanum and the events that had left her broken on the streets. As her pain lessened, so did the drops of the milky opiate, leaving only the memories of the attack. By rights she should be dead, a nameless victim of the London streets, but instead of some soulless thug finding her and finishing the job started by another, she'd been rescued by a tall man with a soft Scottish accent. Through her pain and terror, she'd felt him lift her and carry her to safety. From then on he'd stayed close by.

  She didn't answer their questions – not about who she was, or where she came from. It was safer to pretend she couldn't remember and frankly, she'd rather forget everything that had come before she'd been brought to this place on Harley Street. Sometimes they whispered by her bed when they thought she slept. There had been talk of taking her to an asylum since her injuries were healed but her memory remain a blank slate. No one had come to claim her, they said, and she couldn't stay here forever. No one would come to claim her, she was reasonably certain of that. Elkhorn would want to remain as distanced from the events of that night as he could get. No, there was no one left to care what happened to her.