by Joanna Shupe
He inched toward her, unsure for a moment about what he was supposed to be doing. All he could contemplate were the silk skirts rustling as he pressed in, the mounds of her breasts nearly meeting his chest. Her lips parted as her breathing increased, and satisfaction surged inside him. He affected her, which was damn gratifying considering the buzz humming along his skin at the moment.
Nothing escaped his notice at this distance, not the gentle bow of her upper lip or the smooth skin of her cheek, the sweep of dark brown lashes or the two tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. He’d never seen a lovelier face, one so beautiful it made his chest ache.
Her eyes darted to his mouth and his breath caught. Was she hoping he would kiss her? God knew he could think of little else in this moment. She would undoubtedly taste glorious, warm and slick, her lips pliant and eager under his.
You need to rejoin the rest of the world.
Henry’s words came back to Oliver, and he gave himself a mental shake. What was he doing, seducing her? To what purpose? He refused to marry a society girl and spend his time ignoring the sneers and insults at teas and parties. Time to get this over with.
Without the use of his hands, he was forced to use his voice. “Fight me,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“If I were advancing on you like this, you need to fight me.”
“Oh.” She gave a weak shove of her arms but did not budge him.
“No hands,” he said. “Your knee.”
She nodded and then lifted her knee the tiniest of amounts. It came nowhere near the intended target.
“No, move in closer,” he told her. “Make him relax and then lift your skirts to jam your knee up.”
Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, delicate fingers threading into his hair. Sparks raced down his spine, causing him to shiver, and he watched, fascinated, as she licked her lips. He felt his sanity slipping, his willpower evaporating, with each second this dragged on. Damn it.
His limbs grew heavy, his body drugged on her. If this were any other woman, any other situation, he would ask to kiss her mouth, her throat, the tops of her breasts—and he noted the subtle shift in her body, the transfer of weight. Then it dawned on him what was happening. He jerked to the side just as her knee flew up, thankfully landing on the inside of his thigh. It hurt like hell but did not unman him.
Releasing her, he bent at the waist to catch his breath as the pain receded. Christ, if he had not moved out of the way he’d be on the ground at the moment, writhing in pain. When the worst of it passed, he exhaled and straightened. Christina was gesturing at him, her mouth moving rapidly, saying words he could not hear.
He held up his hand. “I cannot read your lips if I cannot see your face. And speak slowly.”
“I am so sorry.” Her hand landed on her chest, gaze brimming with worry. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I am fine. You caught my thigh.”
“Thank heavens,” she said. “You had me worried. Do I need more practice?”
Any more practice might kill him. “No, I declare you more than ready.”
“Mother, please,” Christina breathed. “I cannot do it—”
“Stop that. You are being ungrateful, Christina.” They were outside Van Peet’s home, sitting in the carriage. Christina had hoped she could reason with her mother at the last minute, that she could somehow convince the countess not to force her inside.
She should have known better.
“Do not ruin this,” the countess hissed, her eyes narrowed to slits. “You know our situation. You need to marry, quickly. He’ll be dead soon and he has no sons. We shall have control of his fortune. What more could you ask for in a husband? Now, be a good girl and do as you are told. Above all else, smile and be polite.”
Christina’s stomach clenched, panic and unhappiness like a lead weight in her belly. Why hadn’t she loosened her corset? She could hardly pull air into her lungs. Heavens, what if she passed out in front of Van Peet?
What if he hurts you?
Oliver’s question had haunted her all day. Why was it a near stranger felt more concern for Christina than her own parents? She tried one more time. “Come in with me. I do not wish to go alone.”
Her mother turned the latch and threw open the carriage door. “Off you go. Van Peet will send you home in his carriage. I expect good news upon your arrival.”
Christina had no choice but to step out onto the walk. There had to be something she could say to prevent this. Legs shaking, she spun to face her mother. “What if—”
The countess’s mouth tightened, lips white with anger. “Go, Christina. He is waiting.”
The carriage door slammed and Christina watched in horror as the conveyance disappeared down the street. She swallowed and wondered if she could start walking and never stop. Just keep going until she disappeared. Would anyone miss her?
“Welcome, Lady Christina.”
Van Peet’s butler had pulled the door wide and was watching her. Dragging in a deep breath, she made her way up the steps and into the house. Her maid came in as well—a servant borrowed from the Kane household who had not acted particularly friendly toward Christina. Still, Christina longed to grab onto the girl and never let go. Not until it was time to leave, at least.
You will get through this. He won’t hurt you. Remember what Oliver taught you.
The entryway was dim and gray. No flowers or artwork, just cold marble and bare plaster. A house as uninviting its master.
“You shall await your mistress belowstairs,” the butler told the maid in a tone that invited no argument.
A hysterical bubble rose in Christina’s chest, pressing in on her throat. Her maid was not to even wait in the hall? It seemed everyone wanted Christina at Van Peet’s mercy, alone without a chaperone of any kind.
“I shall show you the way as soon as I return,” the butler told the maid. Then he faced Christina. “Please, follow me, your ladyship.”
She followed him deeper into the house, all the while examining the sparse and dreary rooms. Nothing appeared well used or lived-in. Barren and devoid of life, the space gave no impression that anyone lived here. The idea of this crypt as her home caused her stomach to roil.
The salon was blessedly empty and the butler instructed her to wait. She sat on a small sofa and repeated her inner dialogue. He won’t hurt you. It is broad daylight and there are others in the house. He is not your husband. Not to mention, if he tried anything improper, there was always the knee-between-the-legs trick. Thank you, Oliver.
Heat went through her, a brief distraction from her terror. This morning something had changed between she and Oliver. Had he been about to kiss her? No man had ever stared at her quite so hotly, and there had been the way he inched closer, his breath hitching when she’d licked her lips . . . His reaction had sent her pulse pounding with sensation, her body becoming demanding in ways she had not expected. It was as if he had turned a switch inside her, electricity causing her to come alive.
The moment had quickly passed, however, with him returning to his instructions on how to fend off an attack. Still, she had ruminated on the exchange all day. Had she misread the situation? They were barely friends. His desire for solace had been communicated clearly.
Though it had almost seemed as if he had been waiting for her this morning.
A thumping noise caught her attention. It grew louder, and she recognized it as the sound of Van Peet’s cane. She braced herself, muscles clenched against the urge to flee.
Van Peet came through the doorway, his coat hanging awkwardly on his thin, bent frame. “I am pleased to see you are on time,” he huffed in greeting.
She rose. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Frosty gray eyes swept over her, the cold appraisal prickling over her skin. She fought not to squirm or cover herself.
“Other than wearing a very unflattering shade of pink, you appear healthy. You may sit.”
Flustered, Christina lowe
red herself once more and arranged her skirts. Her mother had borrowed the pale rose dress from Patricia, insisting the color made Christina appear more youthful.
“You won’t wear colors such as that if we marry, of course,” Van Peet said offhandedly as he dropped into an armchair across from her.
She would not marry this odious, rude man. Never. Backbone, she remembered. “Oh, but this is my very favorite color.” She smoothed the fabric. “I have always had good luck while wearing it.”
“Nonsense. There is no such thing as luck and you will learn not to test my patience.”
Or what? The words hung there and she bit her lip. Remain strong. Do not let him win. She took a deep breath. “I am forever trying my mother’s patience. Perhaps you’d be happier with another girl, one who is better behaved.”
His mouth flattened, his loose skin pulling taut. “Have you no idea why I chose you?” He settled deeper into his chair, gripping the knob topping his cane. “I have need of a young wife. I want more children and God knows these American girls are too impolite. They do not possess the proper manners of you British girls. You will make me a fine wife.”
She suppressed a shudder and gathered her courage. “What if I cannot bear children? After all, many women are unable to do so.”
“The problem is not mine. I have sired half a dozen children. You will conceive.”
That hardly answered her question, nor did it assuage her fears. “Sir, I cannot see how a marriage between us would work. Surely you want a more . . . Well, someone else.”
He sneered, his gaze downright chilling. “You do not seem to realize, Lady Christina, just how dire your circumstances are at the moment. I have done my due diligence on you and your family. You are all reviled in London society. Did you know they promised you to a man there for a large sum of money before taking the funds and sailing for America? Your parents are no better than common thieves.”
Mouth agape, she rocked back in her seat. Events began to fall into place, things becoming clear in her mind. There had been very little money in the past few years until suddenly the funds for passages to New York had appeared. Had her parents actually promised her to someone only to renege and keep the money? “Who?”
“Avington’s his name. Do you know him?”
She shook her head, unable to speak. Why would her parents do something so despicable, so dishonorable? Even with her father a stone’s throw from debtor’s prison, to steal from others was wrong.
Van Peet sniffed, his nose in the air. “I assure you I have no intention of allowing your parents to do the same to me. Whatever I purchase, I keep. And the poorer they are, the more desperate. No, I won’t be handing over any money until I am assured you shall suit—and after your father helps me with a small matter in parliament.”
She slumped in her chair as the idea sank inside her, deep in her bones, turning them cold and brittle. Was this it, then? Was this to be her future, marriage to a cruel and ruthless man? You are a possession to be bought and sold. You are not a daughter or a lady. You are nothing. She hung her head, fighting the urge to cry.
“Do not start sniveling, girl. I cannot abide tears and women’s emotions. This house is not built for caterwauling.”
Christina felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out her guts and thrown them away. There was nothing left. She was numb. “I beg your pardon,” she mumbled.
“That’s better. Now, go and tug the bellpull, will you? There is one thing we need to sort during today’s visit.”
As if controlled by strings, Christina did as she was told, rising and walking to the cord hanging by the mantel. After tugging it, she started to sit in a chair, not sure her legs could support her any longer.
“Return to the sofa,” Van Peet said. “You shall be more comfortable there.”
Comfortable? Oh, sweet heavens. What had he in mind? Her throat closed as she considered the terrifying possibility. Would he now force himself on her? If so, why were they ringing for a servant?
Perhaps he needs the servant’s assistance?
She stood motionless, limbs frozen as she stared at the sofa, and a brief knock sounded just before the door opened. A portly gentleman in a brown suit strode inside, a black doctor’s bag in his hand.
Christina’s gaze swung from the man back to Van Peet, whose eyes glittered like dark stones in the dying afternoon light, almost as if he were anticipating what was about to transpire. Christina took a step back, putting more distance between her and the two men.
You are stronger than you think, Oliver had said. She braced her legs, ready to run. If escape failed, she would fight until her dying breath.
“This is Dr. West,” Van Peet said. “He shall perform the examination.”
She blinked. “Examination? But, I am perfectly well. The illness my mother referred to has completely—”
“You misunderstand, girl,” Van Peet snapped. “I have been lied to in the past, so Dr. West is here to ensure you are still in possession of your maidenhead.”
Chapter Five
Oliver was enjoying an early dinner when a figure stumbled into his dining room.
Christina. Good God, was she . . . crying? What on earth had happened?
He pushed back from the table, shot to his feet, and hurried toward her. Tears streamed down her face, her mouth working as her chest heaved with the sobs. Gill trailed her, his butler every bit as unnerved as his master. “I apologize, sir,” he signed.
“It is fine,” Oliver signed. “Clear the room.”
Everyone quickly departed except for Christina, who wrapped her arms around her stomach and hunched over. Oliver took her elbow and led her to his vacated chair.
When he tried to release her, she turned into his chest, clutched his shirt with both fists, and buried her face in his necktie. Her shoulders shook as she cried, seeming so small and fragile, a bundle of misery against him, and his heart fractured into tiny pieces. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he enveloped her in his arms and held on. Never had he been more grateful for his lack of hearing. Seeing her upset tore him up; if he had to listen to her anguish, he’d likely murder the cause of it.
Then he stiffened. She’d gone to pay a call on Van Peet this afternoon, alone.
Goddamn it. If that old buzzard had harmed one hair upon Christina’s head, Oliver would see him buried. Van Peet possessed a fortune, yes, but so did Oliver. He hadn’t yet found a good use for all his family’s money beyond his inventions, but he would happily use every cent to avenge this woman’s wrongs, if necessary.
Occasionally, he stroked her back or hair but mostly he merely embraced her. She trembled, her small body tucked into his as she sought comfort. He held perfectly still, even though the anticipation as to the cause of her misery was killing him. A primal need welled up in his chest, a need utterly foreign to him. Protection. He wanted to shelter this woman from everything dark and unsavory, anything that might cause her pain.
That is idiocy. You hardly know her.
Yet he sensed something inside her, a quality that called out to a long-forgotten part of him. Sadness? Loneliness? Desolation?
It does not matter. You cannot keep her.
True, but he could still help her. They were friends—even if he had been thinking about her all day. And his thoughts hadn’t been of the tea and conversation variety . . .
After a long while, she calmed. More than ready to discover the cause of her distress, he slowly moved them toward the chairs and urged her to sit.
She dropped into the ornate walnut chair and he presented her with a linen napkin to clean up. As she collected herself, he pulled another chair closer and sat.
Even with her puffy and red eyes, her skin blotchy from crying, Christina remained breathtakingly beautiful. He curled his fingers into fists to keep from reaching for her again. He withdrew the ledger and pencil from his pocket, then slid them across the table and tapped the ledger with his finger. “Tell me,” he signed. “Now.”
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br /> Biting her bottom lip, she took the pencil and began writing. He leaned in to read as her hand moved, not content to sit back and wait to learn what had happened.
I went to Van Peet’s home, to pay a call alone as he requested.
He ground his teeth together. Whatever was coming, he knew he would not like it.
He informed me my parents had accepted money from a man in London to marry me. Then they left town. That was how they afforded the passage to New York.
Christ, her parents were no better than charlatans. To swindle someone in such a reprehensible way—using their daughter—was unforgivable.
She kept writing. Van Peet said he’d never allow my parents to cheat him, that whatever he bought he expected to keep. And he refuses to hand over any money until he is assured we shall suit.
Oliver’s fingernails dug into his palms. That bastard. Van Peet was acting as if Christina was no more than a trinket, one to use and display, not a person to love and care for.
He—
The pencil began shaking, her hand unable to continue. Oliver reached out and tucked a long strand of chocolate-colored hair behind her ear, the backs of his knuckles brushing her cheek. Take your time, he willed her silently. There was no rush. He was not letting her leave anytime soon, not until he learned what had upset her.
She resumed her writing. A doctor arrived during the visit. To examine me.
Examine her? To ensure she was healthy? He leaned back in his chair, thinking, while studying her face. She would not meet his eyes, her gaze fixed on the table, cheeks flooded with color. She was embarrassed, which made no sense. He had watched Henry perform cursory examinations to injured members of the staff or—
Oh. This had not been a cursory examination, then. It had been personal.
Heaviness pressed on his chest, yet he had to know. Not bothering to take the pencil from her, he forced out, “To what end?”