by Jenna Jaxon
He kissed her face, her brow, her cheeks. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We will find a way to right this. You are my wife, Juliet,” he whispered, convinced he lied to her for the first time in their acquaintance. He could make no assurances, for their marriage had never existed in law. If they could not find grounds for an annulment, it never would.
As though from a great distance he heard her brother saying, “What is it you want, St. Cyr? If it is money, I will see you receive an amount equal to what Juliet would have brought to the marriage. Some twenty thousand pounds for her dowry, and perhaps an additional ten thousand in properties and jewels. I will have a draft prepared at my bank on Monday. In return, you will start annulment proceedings immediately. God knows you have grounds enough.”
Amiable rose, Juliet clutched in his arms. Dalbury stood in front of them, shielding them from the Frenchman, who had apparently stepped forward at the pronouncement to claim his prize.
St. Cyr’s lips curled upward, malicious glee in his eyes.
“If you recall, Lord Dalbury, according to the marriage settlements, I am to have dowry and property and my lovely Juliet as well. How could you ever compensate me for the loss of so exquisite a wife?” His eyes raked Juliet. His desire burned there unchecked. “I have waited too long to have my bride in my arms. I will wait no longer. Juliet, ma petite.” He stretched his hand out, commanding, “Venez-moi.”
Everyone turned to stare at Juliet, rooted to the floor, shaking as tears poured from her eyes.
Blood seething, Amiable reached to his hip, but his hand still closed over nothing. He would go stark mad if he couldn’t find the means to kill this bastard. He gazed about the room in search of some type of weapon, his heart sinking. Nothing in his military training had prepared him for this. Short of killing the man, he saw no way to prevent him from taking Juliet from the house tonight. Damnation. Not a single usable weapon in sight.
“Come with me now, Juliet, before it goes ill for you.” St. Cyr looked around the circle of hostile faces. “I am sure your brother and his friends do not wish you to bear the brunt of my anger at their interference.”
Amiable sprang at him, hands outstretched to throttle him. “If you harm her in any way, St. Cyr, they will be feeding pieces of you to the ducks in Hyde Park for a week.” Dalbury grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back. He tried to jerk out of the steely grip without success. Furious, he twisted his body, trying to break the hold.
“Are you just going to stand there and let him take her?” Why wasn’t Dalbury trying to help him kill the bastard?
“There is little else anyone can do at the moment, Morley.” Dalbury’s voice strained with the effort to hold him. “We cannot circumvent the law any longer and the law says Juliet is his wife to take where he pleases.” Dalbury released him and adjusted his coat. “Where may I send Juliet’s clothes and belongings, St. Cyr?”
Ah. A glimmer of hope. Did his brother-in-law have a plan of sorts perhaps? If they knew where he was taking her…
A smile puckered the Frenchman’s smooth face. “Send everything to my father’s house in Paris, Lord Dalbury. My bride and I will be removing there shortly. Until then she will have little need for clothes…or anything else I cannot provide.”
Horrified at the implication, Amiable launched himself at St. Cyr and again Duncan dragged him down.
Smirking at his adversary’s rage, St. Cyr held out his hand once more for Juliet. “Venez, ma petite. We must leave this charming company now. Donnez-moi votre main.” With lightning speed, he reached around the struggling men and grasped Juliet’s hand then pulled her through the tangle of bodies surrounding her. Once she stood beside him, her dazed eyes terrified, he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the entrance hall. The small group of spectators followed quietly, no one seeming to breathe.
“We give you all a Joyeux Noel.” St. Cyr grinned then paused as something above him caught his attention. “Ah, the so quaint custom of the mistletoe. This is where we began, n’est pas cela, chérie?” One swift movement and his mouth took hers, kissing her with a deliberation designed to flaunt his triumph.
Murder in his soul, Amiable catapulted past the rest of the stunned spectators. The next thing he knew he lay flat on his back, Dalbury pinning his shoulders, Haimes pressing a pistol to his head.
Undeterred he struggled to rise. “I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll see you dead tonight, St. Cyr. Let me up, damn you, Dalbury. You cannot let this forty-faced liar take my wife!”
“I will not let him shoot you like a dog, either, Morley.” The marquess continued to restrain him as Haimes stepped back, the pistol still aimed at Amiable.
St. Cyr raised his head and laughed. He bowed to them, took Juliet’s cloak from a waiting footman then swept her out the front door and down the steps to a waiting carriage.
Haimes covered their exit, brandishing the weapon until he too withdrew across the threshold.
As he did so, Amiable scrambled up from the floor and staggered to the doorway. The last he saw of Juliet was her blue satin slipper disappearing into the carriage. The door closed, Haimes mounted his horse, the coachman slapped the reins, and the horses melted into the cold, damp London night.
Chapter 31
The moment Philippe grasped her hand, Juliet entered a nightmare world. She could hear nothing clearly but the racing beat of her heart pounding in her ears. Could see only the looming figure of Philippe dwarfing her as he drew her to his side. Could feel nothing except a deathlike chill wash over her, her blood turning to ice in her veins at his touch. Dazed, she felt him turn her around and stop then his mouth seized hers as he thrust his tongue savagely between her lips, bent on conquest and subjugation.
She almost gagged, and her revulsion wrenched her mind back from the edge of madness. By the time she sat down in the carriage, pulling her cloak around her like a shield, her senses had cleared and she could think again, thank God. She sorely needed a strategy to sustain her through the long hellish night to come.
First, assess her tormenter. He sat sprawled in the seat across from her, lounging against the black leather upholstery, his face smug in victory. She wondered how quickly he would lose that look were she to whip out a knife and bury it in his chest. She smiled as she pictured his look of surprise.
He chuckled as he sat up and took her hand, “You see, chérie, I knew you would capitulate once you had again tasted my charms.”
She pulled her hand from his, drew back, and slapped his face. The sound cracked like a shot in the small space, resounding so loudly she winced in spite of herself.
Philippe shook his head, eyes wide. Then he narrowed them and grabbed her by the shoulders, thrusting his face to within inches of hers.
“An incredibly stupid thing to do, ma petite. You would so anger your husband on your wedding night? My tongue is not the only thing I can put in your pretty mouth.”
“That is why God gave me teeth, Philippe. Best beware lest you draw back a bleeding stump.”
He let her go and she sank back against the upholstery, once again assessing him. He sat back as well, a new tension in his body as he studied her with more care. “You have changed a great deal from the girl you were at our first meeting. That girl would have run to me with open arms if I had I appeared saying we were wed.”
“That girl had not suffered your cruelty and abuse. Neither had she experienced the love and devotion of a true man.”
His mouth hardened into an ugly smile. “You have yet to suffer true abuse at my hands, petite, but it will be my pleasure to initiate you this very night should you insult me again.”
Juliet drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She edged back from him until she pressed the leather cushions almost flat. Perhaps she could reason with him if she softened her approach. With just the proper amount of pleading in her voice, she asked the question that had plagued her from the beginning. “Can you at least tell me what this has all
been about, Philippe? You are not in love with me. You do not even wish to possess me, I think. I was amazed you did not take Duncan’s offer of thirty thousand pounds. It would have set you up for life and you could have still had your pick of the girls of the French aristocracy. So why pursue this marriage?”
St. Cyr relaxed against the seat, a genuine smile playing about his sensual lips. “You underestimate your bounteous charms, petite.” His gaze fell to her bosom and desire flickered in his eyes like the flame of the candle that illuminated him. “I have pursued you not for your money, and as you say, not from any great love for you, although I have awaited the consummation of our marriage for many months with great eagerness.” That hungry look in his eyes deepened.
Her stomach twisted.
“So sad we were interrupted at the Ambassador’s party.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Mostly, though, I have pressed for this marriage because the alternative is too wretched to endure.”
“The alternative?”
“Once my father broke the betrothal between us, he informed me of the woman who would take your place as my wife—Marie Celeste d’Aubigne, a daughter from a most distinguished and wealthy family in Bourgogne. Impeccable bloodlines.” His eyes bored into her and he snarled. “She is a pig.”
Surprised, Juliet bit back a laugh. “A pig? Really, Philippe.”
His look did not improve at her levity. “You smirk? She stood six feet tall and almost as wide. A round, piggy face; greasy black hair; and an odor of onions pervaded the air around her. Absolutely disgusting. I doubt I could have bedded her even once.” He shuddered. “Is there any wonder I defied my father and held the marriage ceremony in secret?”
“Why would your father want to betroth you to such a woman?”
“Power.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Power. Her family is connected to the Paris brothers, the most powerful financiers in the French economy. They are also linked to Madame Pompadour.”
“Ah.” She understood quite well now. Even she knew of the French king’s passion for his favorite mistress and the influence she held over him. This girl’s family could help Count de Mallain rise at the French court. “You do not seek such power, Philippe?”
“Not at the price of having to wed such a swine.”
“Still, if you married her, you would not have to live with her. Many couples do not live together much at all. Most women expect their husbands to have mistresses.”
“Power can also punish, ma chère. If I do not please the pig, she squeals to her family and my father is threatened with ruin. He would then make me do my duty. I prefer my solution.” He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “You spoke of mistresses. Did you then expect Morley to take one? Before or after the child was born?”
Juliet’s face heated. She turned away from the light to mask her distress. “I did not consider such a thing. But I suppose I did not expect him to.”
“Do you expect me to be unfaithful, chérie?”
That would be her devout hope. “I don’t know, Philippe. You have said you do not love me, so I assume—”
St. Cyr smiled, showing even white teeth. “You will know, chérie, after you have served me for several months, whether I will tire of your bed. Perhaps I will not.” The mounting desire in his eyes made her stomach roll. “You are a very beautiful woman, Juliet, even five months enceinte. I will enjoy possessing every inch of that body. Tonight and every night.”
A shiver of revulsion crawled down her spine, but she bit her lip and did not reply. The carriage slowed. They had come to their final destination. Not the time to antagonize him.
They stopped and Philippe helped her to the pavement before a brick two-story building in a part of London she did not recognize. The damp, still air intensified the deserted nature of the street. Of course, at almost midnight, just before Christmas Day, few people would be stirring. Still, Juliet could tell from the surrounding buildings—all older structures that had seen much use and little repair—they were in a working-class neighborhood. Decent, but not by much. Not the usual residence for the foppish St. Cyr. No wonder Duncan had not been able to find him in all these months.
He grasped her elbow and escorted her up a narrow flight of steps to the front door. A skinny, thin-faced boy of perhaps sixteen opened it. Philippe had apparently been reduced to economizing in more ways than one if this lad served as his butler. He indicated for her to enter and she stepped into a dim, narrow foyer. A steep flight of steps directly in front of her led to the first floor.
“That will be all for the night, Marcel. Pray do not disturb us.” Philippe spoke in French to the servant after he had taken their cloaks. Perhaps he had brought the young man with him from France.
The boy nodded, handed the lamp to St. Cyr, and bolted for the dark recesses at the back of the house.
“This way, chérie.” Philippe indicated the staircase.
Juliet swallowed hard, but she steeled herself to ascend. Her feet made no noise on the worn carpet, though each step sounded in her mind with a dull thud, like nails being driven into a coffin.
At the landing, St. Cyr steered her down a corridor to her left and stopped at the first door. He pushed it open and, with a firm hand on her back, urged her inside. Swiftly he set the lamp down on the bureau, then closed and locked the door.
The rasp of the key sealing her inside with Philippe brought Juliet to the brink of panic. She stood in the middle of the room, not looking at her surroundings or him, breathing in ragged, short bursts, working hard to regain her composure. She would not be able to think what to do, how to save herself, if she gave in to blind terror.
The room brightened, bringing her out of her deep trance. Philippe had gone about lighting the myriad candles that ringed the room. They bathed the chamber in light, quite as bright as the late afternoon sun.
What a peculiar thing to do. About to ask why, she opened her mouth, then closed it without a sound uttered. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
He came toward her, handing her a glass of wine.
She took it with numb fingers, still unable to look at his face. Her heart beat a fast staccato as she tried not to think what would happen once they had finished the wine.
“Juliet.”
She gasped, raising her head sharply.
He stood mere inches away. The face she had once thought handsome now leered at her in the brilliant light and she had a sudden epiphany why he needed it.
He wanted to see her. He wanted her to see him, to see him enjoy whatever he planned to do with her, to her tonight, alone in this room. Her heart hammered in her chest and the wineglass shook. He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers, sending another tremor of revulsion coursing down her spine. How would she ever bear this?
He set the glass down, then turned back to her. He cupped her face, wiped away a tear she had not realized she shed. “Do not fear me, petite. I am well skilled in the arts of love and I can be kind. Do you want me to be kind, Juliet?”
She gazed up at him, unable to acknowledge or answer.
He drew her head toward him and though she tried to resist, there was no contest. As she had told Amiable, he was deceptively strong. His lips brushed hers, the barest touch of skin, but still it sent an overwhelming disgust through her.
To her relief he stepped back, his head cocked to one side, considering her. The cruel smile had returned, she noted, and her stomach did a sickening twist. She waited. Dreading.
“So, ma petite, your husband wishes to see his bride, adorned as nature made her.” He spoke in that horrible soft voice, his gaze everywhere on her.
Her stomach twisted. He wanted to see her without…She shook her head and tried to cover herself as though her clothes had already vanished. “No, Philippe. You cannot ask me…”
“I do not ask chérie. I command. And it is a wife’s duty to obey, n’est pas?”
She could see how much he enjo
yed her reluctance. “No, Philippe,” she said, firmer this time. “I will not disrobe…”
The right side of her face exploded in pain. The force of the blow sent her stumbling into the bed. She gasped at the fiery ache and clutched her cheek and jaw. With deliberate movements she got to her feet and turned warily back to St. Cyr.
He stood in the same position, the cruel smile even wider. “The next blow will be to your belly, Juliet. Are your clothes truly so important?”
Every ounce of fight drained out of her. She shook her head and swiftly unpinned her bodice, tears trickling down her face. Ignoring them, she tossed the stomacher on the floor and slid the arms of her gown off her shoulders. She must protect Amiable’s child at all costs. Whatever Philippe wanted her to do, she would do to survive. As long as her child did.
The gown dropped to the floor and she stood before him in stays, hoops, and shift. She gazed at him and found triumph and desire mingled in his eyes. She sighed and bent her head to release the hoop petticoat. When it dropped she raised her head. “You will have to unlace the stays.” Her voice sounded odd to her ears, matter of fact. “The strings are at the back.”
“Of course, ma petite. It will be my pleasure.”
She turned her back to him, trying not to cringe as he unlaced her. The corset, lightly laced in consideration of her pregnancy, loosened with one tug of the strings. Before it could slide down over her belly, his hands came around her, cupping her breasts through her shift. She gasped and swallowed hard, fighting the nausea his touch produced.
Even worse, to her horror, her body played traitor. As Philippe stroked and rolled her nipples, they hardened into tight peaks, uncontrollable and wanton. The first betrayal of Amiable. Tears rolled faster, wetting her cheeks.
“Ah, Juliet. Now I begin to see what I have been deprived of, chérie.” He pushed his hips against her, his hard shaft prodding between her buttocks. He grazed her neck with his lips and squeezed her nipples until she bit back a moan of pain and misery.