by Hatch, Donna
The chill early morning air had turned her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkled. She smiled so brightly that his heart flipped over. How he loved this woman!
But he shouldn’t have kissed her. Despite the circumstances that led to her marriage, despite the man she married being a monster, she was still married. And that was a boundary he should never have tried to cross. He made a silent vow not to kiss her again until she could be free to truly be his.
“Good morning.” She took off her hat and smoothed her hair.
Smiling, he brushed a stray curl back from her face. “You look radiant.”
She smiled. “I feel wonderful. Being here with you has turned me into a new person.”
He smiled, aching to take her into his arms. He’d lain awake in bed the previous night remembering her touch, her kiss, her words of love.
She moved within arm’s reach and smiled up at him. Unable to stop himself, he touched her face. She was so soft.
Soberly, she looked up at him. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I want to sue for divorce.”
Christian let out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear that. Because today I’d planned to give you all sorts of reasons why you should do that very thing.”
“I realize it will be long, difficult and scandalous, but I refuse to be subject to his bullying.” Emotions played across her face—a darkening fear in her eyes, the resolute set to her chin. Standing up to the man who’d terrorized her for the past year was an act of admirable courage.
His mind raced. She could sue on grounds that she was coerced into marrying Wickburgh, but that would drag her father into it, and they didn’t dare risk that. Not yet. There must be a way to help her father with that problem, too. Perhaps his friend at the admiralty who helped him manipulate the near hanging that saved Jared’s life ….
“But if I divorce him, it may taint you. Possibly the whole family.”
“It won’t matter as much as you think it will.”
“Your suing for divorce will embarrass and infuriate Wickburgh,” Grant’s voice rang out.
Christian jumped. He hadn’t even noticed Grant enter. He let out a sound of exasperation. “Don’t do that.”
Grant leaned against the wall with his arms folded, somehow still managing to look as if he were about to spring into action. “He’ll lash out at you both and hang the consequences.”
Christian raised his eyebrows as Grant voiced the very fears nagging at him. “You sound as if you know him well.”
“He’s mentally unbalanced. Which means he’s completely above logical behavior.” He turned a piercing stare on Genevieve. “If you expose his lies, he’ll have nothing to lose by killing you or dragging you home and torturing you in ways he has not yet explored.”
The color drained from Genevieve’s face. Silence descended upon the room. It was frightening, really, how well Grant understood ruthless men like Wickburgh. Christian suppressed a shiver and rested his hand on his gun. Wickburgh would never touch Genevieve.
Genevieve spread her hands. “Now what?”
Christian glanced at Grant and their gazes held. For probably the first time in his life, he could almost read Grant’s thoughts; it would never be over, not as long as Wickburgh was alive.
Christian would have to duel Wickburgh after all. Too bad he couldn’t simply beat the man with his bare hands. One way or another, Genevieve would be free from Wickburgh’s tyranny.
CHAPTER 23
Genevieve sat quietly in the sun-drenched front parlor, her hands folded demurely in front of her while Rachel fingered swatches of material. The modiste gushed over Rachel’s lovely hair and willowy figure in her fake French accent. Genevieve almost smiled. Many of the haut ton were so obsessed with French fashion that they insisted on a “French” modiste to create their wardrobes. Silly, of course. Their success ought to be due to their design and workmanship rather than whether or not they were French.
She glanced at Christian who sat at a secretary desk catching up on correspondence. He seldom left her side, a clear mixture of wanting to be near her and fearing to let her out of her sight for safety’s sake.
Grant Amesbury’s silver gray eyes watched with an overt alertness even as he appeared to lounge casually. Although he’d been perfectly terrifying at first, there was something reassuring about his commanding, albeit formidable presence. The other guards seldom appeared, spending most of their time patrolling the area; they clearly protected her with diligence.
Outside, horses clopped past pulling rattling carts. Merchants called to shoppers to try their wares. A pieman walked by and the fragrant savory smells of pies wafted in through the open windows.
Rachel moaned as she gestured at fashion plates scattered around her. “I cannot believe how much fashions have changed since I left the city.”
Genevieve shook her head in surprise that Rachel suddenly cared now that she was in London, after being so unconcerned about her appearance at her cottage. Perhaps being the daughter of an earl prodded her to make a good showing in London where she would be in the public eye, if nothing else, for the sake of the family image.
The dressmaker held up a new swatch. “Ah, mademoiselle, dees one, eet ees more flattering for your complexion, I think, non?”
“I like it but I’m still in mourning for my father. I’ll take the silk.” Rachel tugged Genevieve’s arm, drawing her to the bolts of fabric the modiste had brought. “Now you pick some. No companion of mine will be any less than the height of fashion.” She fired off a list of gowns she considered absolute necessities.
Genevieve shook her head. “Oh, no, I don’t need—”
Rachel held up a hand and affected a regal air. “We’re in London, my dear, not the country. Here we must uphold an image.” She smiled and rolled her eyes.
Genevieve closed her mouth and nodded. If she were going to be traveling abroad, she’d need some clothes. She acquiesced to the process of measuring, tucking and pinning. Since September was far from the London Season, the modiste had few other orders and she happily bustled about finding new things with which to tempt them. By the time they had finished, Genevieve had ordered far more than her wages would earn all year. Staring at the daunting pile, she began mentally choosing items she could order now and which to order later.
“Now, now. Nothing goes back. It’s all part of room and board, you see.” Rachel nodded emphatically.
“No, I–”
“No use arguing with her,” Christian called from the desk. “You should know by now Rachel always gets her way.” He leaned back, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Did you put her up to it?” Genevieve demanded.
“I take offense to that,” Rachel interjected with an exaggerated huff. “I put him up to many things. He never puts me up to anything.”
“Do, it, Jen. Besides, the bill goes to Cole.” He grinned wickedly. “And be sure to send for the cobbler so you can have a decent pair of shoes.” He gestured to her feet.
She laughed softly and nodded. “Now that, I won’t refuse.”
Mentally adding these purchases to the list of money she owed the Amesburys, Genevieve capitulated. Somehow she’d pay them back. They didn’t need her money, of course, but she refused to take advantage of their kindness and be an object of charity.
After Genevieve ordered enough clothes to satisfy Rachel, the modiste and her assistant gathered up her swatches and drawings and after promising to bring a few of the more essential items for a fitting tomorrow, they left.
A footman came in carrying a letter on a silver platter and held it out to Christian. He tore it open, his expression growing grave as he read.
She set down the dress engraving she’d been examining and went to him. “Is something amiss?”
He smiled but something hidden darkened his eyes. “The solicitor replied to my inquiry. He said the divorce may not be final for a very long time, if ever. It’s a lengthy process and ultimately must be approved by Parliament. As Cole mention
ed, women are seldom granted divorces.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” Genevieve said, “but even if we married today, it wouldn’t be soon enough.”
She smiled at the thought of marrying Christian, but he looked pained. Had he reconsidered and decided marrying a divorced woman would be too much scandal to bring to the family? After all, he had his siblings’ reputations to consider. Or had he realized how broken she was and decided he didn’t want used merchandise?
One of the Grant’s men darted in and made a gesture to Grant. Christian’s brother leaped to his feet with the fluid grace of a panther and slipped out of the room. Christian stood, keeping his gaze trained on the doorway. After a brief exchange of words, Grant came in. With a mere glance, he and Christian seemed to have an entire conversation. Christian took up a defensive stance next to Genevieve. Their state of alert sent Genevieve’s heart pounding.
Christian’s gaze darted to the windows and he stood blocking her from the windows with his body. In one hand he gripped a gun that seemed to magically appear.
Rachel turned to him. “What is it?”
“Something has Grant’s man alarmed.” Christian’s wide and darting eyes took in the room all at once while his hand gripped his gun with white knuckles.
“Well, I’m going to go find out what it is,” Rachel announced.
“No, you’re going to stay right here where I can protect you.” Christian’s grim voice left no room for argument.
Rachel folded her arms and glared mulishly at Christian, but kept silent. A dark foreboding curled in Genevieve’s stomach. Wickburgh was here. He’d found her. She’d never be safe from him. Sooner or later, he’d cut through everyone in his way to get to her.
A moment later, Grant returned. “Lady Wickburgh—”
“Please,” Genevieve broke in, “don’t call me that. I’m just Genevieve.”
Grant paused. “There’s a white cat outside. It’s been disemboweled.”
Genevieve’s stomach lurched and she put a hand over her mouth. “I had a white cat.”
“Next to it was this note.” He held up a paper. “It says, ‘thinking of you, my dear.’”
Christian cursed under his breath.
Grant held out the note but she didn’t need to look closely to recognize his handwriting nor his style of torture. All the strength left Genevieve’s legs and she had to sit down quickly. All her courage fled. “He’s here.”
Her poor cat! She’d always been such a sweet little thing, always content to purr in Genevieve’s lap—often her one companion when she felt so alone. Too bad she didn’t think to find a new home for the poor little thing before she left Wickburgh.
“How could he have found you so fast?” Christian muttered. He turned to her and said firmly, “We’re moving you to a new location.”
“Fire!” shouted a distant voice. “The house is on fire.”
A woman screamed and feet thundered on the stairs. A cacophony erupted as servants began running and calling to each other.
“Stay with her!” Grant shouted. “It’s a diversion.” He ran out into the great foyer.
Christian put one arm around her and hefted his gun with his other hand. “Let’s get out of the house. Rachel, stay close.”
As they strode toward the front door, tendrils of black smoke curled along the ceiling, filling the house with the pungent odor of smoke. Genevieve coughed as smoke thickened. Shouts and thundering footsteps erupted all around them. Christian led her outside into the late afternoon sunlight and down the front steps. She glanced back at the façade of the house. Flames lapped at the side of the structure and smoke puffed upward to a growing dark cloud.
A bucket brigade lined up along the street and began throwing water on the blaze. Christian’s gaze fixed on those working to save the house. She understood. She ached to help, too, but if Wickburgh had started the fire, he’d have men ready to spirit her away the instant she was left unguarded. Genevieve’s heart pounded. All this senseless destruction. How much lower would Wickburgh stoop?
She had done this, too, by allowing the Amesburys to help her. They were all in danger. Next time it would be worse than a fire. Next time, he might try to hurt Christian or Rachel. That bullet in Scotland had probably been meant for Christian.
The heat of the flames blistered her face and they all took a few more steps back. The setting sun cast long rays over the landscape and made silhouettes out of the buildings. Rachel stood watching the blazing house, her mouth open and her eyes round with horror.
A wagon filled with men wearing the badges of fire fighters careened around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the house. The horses pulling the wagon snorted and stomped but remained almost calm amidst the smoke and chaos as the firefighters worked a large pump. After checking the firemark on the house to verify the owner paid for fire insurance, one man directed a hose toward the fire and held it steady as a stream of water poured out. Others ran to refill the trough of water inside the fire truck, sometimes stumbling over those in the bucket brigade.
Christian stiffened, vibrating with tension, his gaze fixed on something across the street. She followed his line of sight. A man wearing a long dark coat stood watching them, unmoving. Cold foreboding crept down Genevieve’s spine. The man dashed down a side street. Christian tensed as if to give chase, but never left her side. A sickening crack sounded next to Genevieve’s ear.
Christian grunted and fell onto his knees, his hand on his head. A man with a bulbous nose stood over him holding the butt of a pistol. Genevieve let out a cry. Christian turned, bringing up his gun and pointed it at his attacker. A third man with pocked skin appeared and grabbed Christian’s gun, forcing it down. It discharged, the gunshot deafening her and the smell of gunpowder combining with smoke from the fire. All three leaped toward Christian. Unarmed, he fought them with his fists, landing several solid blows.
Fumbling for Rachel’s tiny hand gun she kept in her pocket, she rushed to his aid. Someone grabbed Genevieve’s arm, swung her around and struck her hard. Pain exploded from her face. She staggered back but his bruising grip kept her from falling. A second gun fired. A woman screamed. Rachel? The assailant dragged Genevieve into an ally. Dark anger boiled up inside of her and she bit and kicked her attacker.
“None o’ tha’,” a male voice rasped, exhaling the pungent odor of old onions and sausage.
She kicked harder and dug her nails into his arm. He struck her face and black spots exploded before her eyes. Dazed, she collapsed, dimly aware of being hauled into a darkened coach. Someone threw her onto the floor. She lay, dizzy and panting, staring at a pair of boots.
“Well done,” said a familiar voice. “I will see you generously rewarded.”
Pinpricks moved down her neck and spread across her arms. She knew that voice. Her husband. Lord Wickburgh. He leaned back against the seat cushions, eyeing her coldly. The coach began moving, taking her further away from Christian.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked him in the face. She’d almost forgotten how cold his eyes were, like the stare of a reptile. She glared at him. “I will not go home with you. Not now, not ever.”
After taking snuff out of a box and inhaling deeply, he looked her over without a glimmer of emotion. “Genevieve, you wound me. After all I’ve done for you.”
“Done for me? Abusing me, locking me away, killing my pets ...?”
“Disobedient wives must be punished just as disobedient children.”
“Disobedient?”
“Surely you didn’t mistake my necessary use of punishment for lack of caring? You know I loved you, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t think you ever loved me.”
He drew his brows together. “Odd, but I loved you more than I ever thought I could love.”
She didn’t miss his use of the past tense form of the word love. Perhaps he was right; perhaps he loved the only way a twisted sick mind like his could.
She drew herself up. �
��I am not coming back.”
He let out a sharp laugh. “What makes you think I want you back now? You’ve been a disappointment. And you’ve clearly cuckolded me. No, I no longer want you back.”
Terror trembled in the bottom of her stomach. “What do you want?”
“Nothing much. You’ve become too much trouble. You won’t do as you’re told, you’ve run from me—twice. Keeping you has been more trouble than you’re worth. Since you won’t stay with me, I shall ensure that you will never be with anyone else, either.” He flexed his fingers.
He didn’t want her back. He wanted her dead.
Cold fear crawled down her spine like a hundred spiders. “You can’t just kill me. If I turn up dead—”
“You are already dead. We...ah...found a body that I’ve identified as you and given you a proper Christian burial. I announced your death in all the papers.”
No. She would no longer subject herself to him. She was a worthwhile human being who loved—and was loved by—a wonderful man. She didn’t deserve this. She’d never let him hurt her again.
She made a desperate leap for the door and yanked on the handle. He grabbed her and delivered a bone-jarring blow. She crumpled to the floor of the carriage. Lord Wickburgh struck her again and then kicked her. After days of living with a total lack of fear and pain with Rachel and Christian, she’d lost her earlier numbness to his beatings.
Christian. Her last glimpse of him had been of ruffians overpowering him.
He could be injured. Or dead. Oh, what had she done? She’d failed to protect the ones she loved.
CHAPTER 24
In the street, Christian fought with his attackers and landed a solid punch. Without warning, the thugs fled. He took a few running steps after them, but remembered Rachel. He ran back to her as she pushed herself up from the street.