What the Groom Wants

by Jade Lee

  Bloody hell. He wanted to run after her, somehow make it right. But she and Mr. Knopp were already out the door, and what could he say to mitigate the damage? Nothing. So he held his tongue when all he really wanted was to curse.

  Then his gaze chanced to fall on another one of her hairpins. He picked it up, spinning the thin piece of metal in his hand. It was a simple thing with no more decoration than a vague ripple. This was something a poor seamstress would own—pure function—except perhaps, that vague yearning for more in the ripple.

  It was a fanciful thought, but one that gripped him. His Wind was a simple creature by necessity. She worked. She lived. And she was completely untouched by anyone but him—he was sure of it. When she had come apart beneath him, she had been a wild creature completely unschooled. Her reactions had been pure and honest in a way that made his chest swell with manly pride. She was his completely.

  Yes, he was impatient to get her in his bed, to complete what they had begun last night, but he had time. After all, if she had no room in her life for a duke, then he could be sure no other man was sniffing at her door.

  He grinned as pressure eased from his heart. He had spent the last ten years fearing that another man was courting her, that someone else had caught her fancy. That while he was away making his fortune, someone who lived right next door had seduced her.

  Now he knew it wasn’t true, and that made him giddy with relief. “I can be patient,” he said out loud. The words steadied his nerve and hardened his resolve.

  He would go slow. After all, he wasn’t shipping out ever again. He had all the time in the world.

  ***

  The ride to her home was the best and the most excruciating moments of her life. How a ride with Mr. Knopp could compare to a night spent with Radley, she didn’t know. Except that she wasn’t ready to dwell on what they’d done—and not done. In truth, it was rather shocking that she was apparently still a virgin. What she’d felt—what they’d done—had been so earth-shattering that she knew she’d never be the same. It had to be the shift from virginity to fallen woman. It had to be, and yet, he’d said she was still innocent.

  Had it been a lie? She was ashamed to admit she didn’t know. There had been no pain, but she knew some women claimed that their first time had been easy. So she didn’t think about it—couldn’t handle it just then—which made her focus on Mr. Knopp, as reassuring as it was horrible.

  He was kindness itself. Fatherly, as she had never known since her own father disappeared when she was seven. He’d been impressed, they believed, grabbed and dragged to work on a boat where he probably died. So she had spent her adolescence wondering what it would be like to have a man look at her as Mr. Knopp was now doing.

  Answer: it was excruciatingly bad. He was polite, asking about the dress shop and what she did. He patted her hand and seemed to smile, even though there was sadness in his eyes. A distinct melancholy—or was it disappointment—and she twisted inside at the shame.

  By the time the carriage stopped, she wanted to run inside and hide under her bed. And yet, perversely, she longed to throw herself into his arms and feel a fatherly man hold her again. Instead, he touched her hand, stilling her movements.

  “If you might indulge an old man for a moment, Miss Drew?”

  She paused, turning back to look into his steady gaze. “Sir?”

  “Do not sell yourself cheaply. You are worth far more than you realize. And it does us men good to be reminded of that. Frequently.”

  She blinked, overcome by tears. What he said was so simple, and yet, it rocked her to her soul. How had she forgotten that? Wasn’t she the one who always said to get payment first, to barter the deal on everything, no matter how inconsequential? And yet, Radley had kissed her, and she had given up everything. No questions, no hesitation, just a simple yes. Yes, I will give you everything.

  What had happened?

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She wanted to say more. She wanted to throw her arms around him and sob out her fears and confusion. She wanted to sit and ask questions, getting answers without judgment. She wanted such a thing, but she barely knew this man. He was father-in-law to a friend who worked at her shop.

  Still, she squeezed his hand. “I will not forget your kindness, sir.” It was the best she could say.

  “My dear, don’t forget what I said.”

  “I won’t,” she vowed. Then she had to get out and climb the steps to her new home. She stepped through the building’s front door, listening for when the carriage left. It was a small gesture, but the driver waited until she stepped into the tenement house before departing. That tiny kindness had made her feel cherished as never before.

  She was still flushed with the warmth of that moment when she found her way to her new home. She’d only been here once, so it took her a bit to remember which was the correct door, and even longer to find her key.

  Eventually, she did, and she pushed open the door. Soon enough she would face the questions that last night had created. She would also think of the work that waited. But for now, she would think of Mr. Knopp and the way he had treated her like a daughter.

  She started humming, a tune her father used to sing to her. She had not thought of it in such a long time.

  “Did he hum that to you?” a cold voice asked, cutting through the gloom in her main parlor. “Or were you the one singing as he fucked you?”

  Fifteen

  Wendy kept from screaming. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Inside, her thoughts were one long shriek of terror. But outside, her body froze as she looked at Damon. He was sitting at ease on the parlor settee. His long fingers dangled—one hand off the armrest, the other stretched across the back—and each hand held something terrifying.

  The right toyed with a tiny scrap of foolscap with writing on it. Her writing, her note, her private thought. He had read it. And a single glance at a stack of pages beside his legs told her he’d found all her notes.

  She swallowed, the motion thick in her frozen throat.

  What the other hand held was oddly less terrifying. A thin stiletto twisted in his nearly lax grip. Like a moth dangling from a web, it twirled and flashed dully in the sunlight. She didn’t need the reminder that Damon was deadly, but she saw it, nonetheless, and took its warning.

  “What are you doing here, Damon?” she asked, her voice hard with bravado.

  “Waiting for you,” he answered quietly. “When you didn’t show for your shift last night, I grew worried. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that you were with that bilge rat.”

  She didn’t acknowledge his statement, taking the time instead to pull off her wrap and set it carefully on the peg. She didn’t want to expose more of her body—and certainly not given what she was wearing—but he’d already seen it. She gained nothing by hiding.

  “Where is my mother?”

  “Out looking for you, I imagine.”

  She turned back and frowned. “You imagine?”

  He shrugged. “I have been here since two this morning, Wendy. By six, she grew uncomfortable with my presence and went out.”

  As it was now nearly nine, he’d been here for seven hours. “What about my brothers?”

  His eyebrows rose. “What about them?”

  She wanted to know where they were, obviously, but then realized that it didn’t matter. Even if they were here, they couldn’t help her. Not when Damon’s eyes glittered with anger.

  “I’m sorry I missed my work shift last night. It won’t happen again.”

  He didn’t speak, and she grew increasingly panicked at the way he sat staring at her. The dagger twisted in his fingers, nearly forgotten. As did the foolscap in his other hand.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change. I have to get to work—”

  “Did he fuck you, Wendy?” he asked. “Did you scream? Did he do it hard or gentle? How much did you bleed?”

  “I didn’t bleed,” she said, stunned by the flat honesty in the words that suggested somethi
ng entirely untrue. She’d implied that she wasn’t a virgin and hadn’t been for some time.

  She saw his eyes darken, and the stiletto momentarily stopped twirling. He held it still in two fingers. One beat. Two.

  Then suddenly, it began to spin again. “You’re lying.”

  “I swear, I am not.”

  “You forget that I know better. You know nothing of men.” His eyes narrowed. “If I fucked you right now, I would feel your blood wet my cock. It would slick your cunny and feel like ambrosia.”

  Her breath caught at his words. It wasn’t the crassness of the statement, but that it came out more as a promise than a threat and included a word she barely understood: ambrosia. How could such a cultured word come in the middle of such an ugly threat? It was only on second thought that she realized he’d been working to expand his vocabulary, to smooth his accent to fit in with the cultured elite.

  “Get out,” she said, wishing there was more steel in her voice.

  “No.” He leaned back, completely at ease. He cut a handsome picture, she realized. He was dressed in well-tailored evening clothes of better quality and fit than anything Radley owned. He was immaculately groomed without a hair out of place. And given the way he stretched across the furniture, she was aware of the broadness of his chest and the power in his hands. That was his intent, of course. He wanted her to see his elegance and his power.

  You are worth far more than you realize.

  If she hadn’t just heard those words, she might not have found the resilience to face Damon. But she had, so she spoke with casual aplomb.

  “Sit then,” she said. “I need to change.” She turned to go to her bedroom. It would make her skin crawl to undress with him in the other room, but she wanted to get out of this gown. She hated that Damon saw her in the dress she’d worn for Radley.

  “Interesting reading here,” he said before she could take more than a step. “You have sharp ears and a sharp mind.”

  She stopped, not bothering to look back. She knew what he read. They were notes scrawled on whatever she had handy after she’d learned something interesting. Men in their cups said things that they shouldn’t, and she’d heard many an interesting tidbit when dealing vingt-et-un. Bad enough that Damon had read those, but she took comfort that he likely already knew everything she’d overheard at his hell. After all, she’d told him at least half of them. And if she’d heard it, likely, someone else had as well.

  More frightening were the other things she’d heard… and written down. The secrets whispered by women in her dressing room while she crawled around their feet setting pins in their unfinished gowns. Most spoke of nothing more scandalous than gossip. Vicious certainly, but primarily unfounded speculations that were on everyone’s lips.

  Then, there were the few others who had true secrets. Who whispered to one another because they thought she was too dull or too unimportant to hurt them. She had written those secrets down and hidden them in her bedroom in a chest that… She sighed. That Radley had given her years ago through her brother. Obviously, Damon had gone through her things. And just as clearly, Damon now knew every secret she’d ever collected.

  “Does he know?” asked Damon, his words growing softer, so that she had to face him to hear clearly.

  “What?”

  He smirked. “Does the bilge rat know you’ve been blackmailing people?”

  She felt her jaw clench, but she still managed to force out the words. “I haven’t blackmailed anyone.”

  He flicked a piece of paper at her. She didn’t need more than a flash to remember that tidbit. A prominent political known for his Christian rectitude had beaten his wife. Wendy had seen the bruises when she’d helped the woman dress. That, in itself, was hardly remarkable. They were man and wife, after all, and such cruelty was common among couples. What came after was what was damning.

  The man had beaten his wife because she’d walked in on him when he’d been bent over and fucked in the arse by his banker. Six months ago, Wendy wouldn’t have understood the woman’s whispered description. Now, thanks to her time in Damon’s hell, she had an intellectual comprehension, even if she was as baffled as the wife at the reasons for such a thing.

  But she’d needed no help in recognizing the possibilities in such a secret. Blackmail was only the first and easiest choice. Selling the information to the man’s enemies was equally viable. As was the possibility of tempting man and lover into further depravity—for a price, of course.

  She hadn’t done any of those things, but she had recorded the names of everyone involved. And she had kept the secret in a locked cabinet, like a miser hoarding his wealth. And now, Damon knew something damning about three people who had never set foot in one of his hells.

  Damon stood, moving with a dark grace. She’d seen it before, of course. He prowled his hells in much the same way—calm, quiet, but with presence felt long after he wandered on. She never thought to see it in her own home.

  She knew better than to flinch away, so she stood her ground, even as he flicked the scrap of foolscap beneath her chin.

  “You gather secrets like I do.”

  She couldn’t deny it.

  “You lock them away like diamonds, and you take them out to read when you’re alone.”

  She shrugged. There was no shame in what she did. “They were mine, Damon. And now you’ve stolen them.”

  He stroked a long finger across her jaw. “You were mine last night, but since you didn’t work your shift, I took my payment in other ways.”

  She moved as fast as she knew how, backhanding his hand away from her face. “Then you have what you were owed,” she hissed. “Now get out.”

  She had a brief second to think she’d won. A short breath to believe she might get through this encounter with simply the loss of her stash of secrets. But she’d forgotten about the stiletto.

  He sliced it down across her chest. He’d probably allowed her to slap his hand away to give him the space he needed to cut her dress in two. It split easily, as did the ties to her corset, and the cotton of her shift underneath. Within moments, her gown sagged off her shoulders, her corset slowly eased apart, and her shift absorbed the tiny drops of blood that spilled where he’d cut too deep.

  She gasped. Her sob and her scream caught in the cold pit of her belly long before either could escape.

  She jumped back. Of course she jumped away, even though she knew he would follow. A second later, she found herself trapped against a wall with his body slowly, inevitably closing the distance.

  She held the dress up with her hands. She tried to clutch it together, even though she knew he might cut it off just for spite. Or lust, she realized dully. With him, there was always lust.

  He kept coming closer. Inch by slow inch, until she felt his feet trapping hers. His knees braced against hers, then thighs, thick and corded, pressed against hers. His groin came next, his cock unmistakable where he ground it into her.

  She tried to scream—wanted to scream—but to what purpose? Who would save her in his building? She had only met a few of her neighbors, but she already knew they were all beholden to Damon.

  Meanwhile, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, and she shivered at the feel of him so close, so intimate.

  “Did he say sweet things to you? Did he talk about your beauty as he spread your thighs? Did he whisper that he loved you?”

  She closed her eyes, trying to think of a way out. But her mind was slow, and her choices were few. She couldn’t run—she’d heard plenty of stories about what happened to people who thought they could run from Damon. They’d died, some horribly. But more than that, she was trapped in a corner. He was bigger and stronger and had a knife, which he used to cut away the shoulders and sleeves of her gown.

  “What did you say when he sucked your teats?”

  He set the knife tip to her chin. She felt it as a sharp prick that went no deeper. Though, of course, it could. With a flick of his wrist, it could stab through her jaw, straigh
t to her brain.

  “What did you say, Wendy?”

  “Nothing!” she rasped.

  She watched him smile. A slow spread of his lips revealed a flash of white teeth. “Nothing,” he echoed. “Of course not. And do you know why?”

  She didn’t answer. She had no idea what to say, what could possibly save her from this dangerous predator of a man.

  “Because he does not know how to make a woman sing. He doesn’t know how to find her secrets, how to make her talk.”

  Her gaze shot to his, and suddenly, she knew what to say. “Secrets? Is that what you think you have from me? Scraps of paper about other people. You know nothing of me.”

  His eyebrows rose, clearly surprised by her calm challenge, when he still held a knife to her throat. “Really?” he drawled. “Teach me.”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps I should teach you. Shall I tell you what I have done? For you.” He leaned to an inch away from her ear. “What lengths I will go for you?”

  She shivered, her belly tight with anxiety, and her groin a hard ridge that clearly delighted him. She wanted nothing about her to intrigue him, and yet, she couldn’t deny she wanted to know what he offered. What secrets did he want to share?

  “I know where Helaine’s father is.”

  Her gaze leaped to his. Helaine’s father was the Thief of the Ton. It was an old scandal of a ridiculous crime, but it was one that could electrify the elite. If the scandal were renewed—if Helaine’s father reappeared—then the ton would revile anything associated with the salacious tidbit.

  Helaine would be humiliated, and no one would dare wear her clothing designs. Orders would disappear in a second, and money already owed would never appear. The dress shop would die. And without the dress shop, Wendy had no livelihood.