by Jade Lee
She swallowed. “I don’t care,” she lied.
He smiled, a slow lazy stretching of his lips. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, the gesture reinforcing her thoughts. “I am sure.” She would find a way to survive. Her friends would help. She could find another job. There was always something.
“Penny cared when her parents died. Irene cared when she was hunted by a madman.”
Wendy’s mouth went dry as she realized the truth. Damon was behind all the troubles that had tortured her friends. She had certainly suspected it, though she hadn’t wanted to admit it. Others had voiced it as well, though there had never been proof. Looking in his eyes now, she knew it was true.
“Why would you do those things?” she whispered.
“Why would you seek to survive without me?”
Her eyes widened. She didn’t understand what he’d just said. Why would she try to survive without him? What sense was that question? Of course she would work and live independent of him.
“Do you remember the day you decided to become a thief, not a whore?”
She gasped, reacting on instinct, rather than sense. Heedless of the knife touching her throat, she shoved hard. He rocked back enough that he was forced to set a foot behind him or fall. She took satisfaction in that, even though she now had a thin bloody streak from mid-throat to chin.
“I am not a th—” Her word was choked off when he held up a hairpin. It had been years since she’d seen it. Three jewels glittered in metal shaped like Christmas holly. Two emeralds and a ruby, all small, but no less beautiful. Except something had happened to the emeralds. Where the gems had been set was now empty. Nevertheless, she recognized it immediately.
Lady Strichen’s hairpin. The last she’d seen of the thing had been years past. She’d been working in someone else’s shop then, and Lady Strichen had been a customer. The woman was a shrew flush with coin, but she clutched her possessions like a miser gripping sand. And she was a demon to please. Her dresses always had some flaw, something that required the dress to be redone and the pay to be cut in half. The bitch that ran the shop allowed it, because she could take the extra coin from Wendy’s purse, claiming a girl who made a dress badly should never be fully paid.
It was a system, she knew, one that took the coin from the most vulnerable soul in the process. Wendy had withstood it. She’d been young—barely seventeen—with no power and no alternatives if she was sacked without a reference.
But then came winter. Henry was gone, Bernard was sick with a hacking cough, and her mother was steeped in despair as the food disappeared, not only from their table, but from the whole neighborhood. And then, one afternoon, Lady Strichen dropped her hairpin.
Wendy didn’t see it fall, didn’t see it catch on her own hem, and didn’t discover it herself until later. She’d had pins in her mouth, and her mistress was chatting up the lady as she always did with customers. She’d said nothing as she worked, but the twin emeralds had burned in her mind. Not the ruby, for some reason, but the two emeralds. She’d never seen stones that color before, and her mind was gripped by the idea that gems could be such a rich green color.
Meanwhile, the fitting had continued. Her stitches were disparaged and her mistress called her a thick-headed brute of a girl. The whole interaction filled her with bitterness and fury, and if it hadn’t been for that, what happened later might have gone differently. When the hairpin was found missing, the lady had screamed, the mistress had come running, and both ladies eventually blamed her. They had no reason to accuse her beyond the obvious. After all, there were only three women in the room. They were right, of course, but Wendy didn’t know it at the time.
They never found it, but it hadn’t mattered. Who else were they to blame but her? And the lady demanded she be fired. Wendy had protested then, furiously pointing out that they had torn apart her workstation and found nothing.
It didn’t matter. An apparent theft had occurred, and she was to blame. The injustice had burned in her red face, even as it chilled her soul. She was sacked for a crime she hadn’t committed. Yet.
Days later, washing her dress, she’d found the pin lodged in her hem. Before, she would have returned it—she knew to whom it belonged. She knew it wasn’t hers, and to keep it made her the thief they’d accused her of being.
But she’d vowed to begin a dress shop that would utterly destroy her former mistress. This pin gave her the means.
So she had done it. She’d already met Helaine, but now, she pursued the talented designer with single-minded determination. By the time Helaine agreed to try, Wendy had already pawned the hairpin and used the money to begin A Lady’s Favor. And then, she’d quietly pursued every one of her former employer’s clients and wooed them over. Well, every one but Lady Strichen, knowing that the shrew would one day come knocking. She had, and Wendy had slammed the door in her face.
And now, Damon held up the hairpin that had begun her march to success, spinning it before her eyes as if he knew her tale.
“How did you get that?” she asked, though she already guessed the answer.
“Do you think that any woman can sell such an item—in our neighborhood—and I not know about it? I knew the tale within hours.”
She shrugged to hide the sickness growing inside. She’d managed, somehow, to bury all memory of how she’d started her shop. That he brought it up now seemed like the devil finally returning for his due. Inevitable. And yet, she refused to pay.
She lifted her chin and affected a calm that she did not feel. “What of it? Certainly, you cannot claim to be horrified by a single theft.”
“Horrified? Hardly. I admired you. It brought you to my attention as few people have. A single item of such value, sold so quietly, and for a well bargained price. I wanted to bed you that very day.”
She rolled her eyes, stunned by her audacity. “You grow tiresome, Damon. You are not the first to desire me, nor the last. Do you know how many drunken sots sit at my vingt-et-un table and talk about how they want me?”
Far from being repelled, he actually smiled at her jab. “And yet, I will be the one to win you.”
She released a sigh, trying to suggest she was bored. In truth, she was terrified at the dangerous game she played. How many people had she heard at the hell? Men who thought they could outwit a demon? Their screams echoed in her mind still. After all, Damon made sure everyone heard the scream.
And yet, she still thought to match wits with him. “Are you done posturing, Damon?” She touched her chin, reassured when the blood that came away on her thumb was not so bad. In fact, the sting from his knife was already fading. “Done cutting me?”
He was on her in a moment, his groin harsh against her pelvis, his hand in her hair. While he trapped her against the wall, he slowly drew her head back. It was terrifying—the way he went so slowly. He fisted his hand in her hair and steadily tilted her back, exposing her bare neck.
She knew what he was going to do long before his lips touched her flesh. She knew he was going to lick every drop of crimson blood, and God help her, she was mesmerized by the hideous idea.
She looked to his eyes. In truth, she had no choice. And in the depths of his pupils, she saw a manic desperation, and it terrified her.
Then he licked. The swirl of his tongue, the rasp of wet coupled with the tender press of lips was both erotic and nauseating. The hard bite of his fist in her hair and rhythmic grind of his cock against her made for an opposition of pain and desire that disoriented her.
How was she to react? Pain and pleasure, attraction and terror—it was everything she hated about her life, and yet it was as true as the coldness in her belly. Was nothing pure? Was nothing simply joy? She couldn’t deny the wild beat of her heart even though her chest felt constricted with fear.
Who was she to expect simple joy? Love without fear? She was a thief and a liar. She deserved no better than this half-measure of mixed sensuousness and pain.
Then he pulled away. He ease
d his grip on her hair and allowed her chin to drop so that they faced each other. Eye to eye, he looked at her. Simply looked, and she wondered what he sought in her eyes.
“Fight me,” he whispered. “Kick me, scream at me, claw the flesh from my bones.”
“So you can overpower me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“No.” Then she said the boldest words she’d ever imagined. “Rape me if you must, but I will not give you what you want.”
“I can take it.”
“You can force it. But what you want is not here, Damon. I have no love for you.”
She felt the words hit him. He had cut her, but she had eviscerated him. His cock shrank against her belly, though his hips pounded against her as if he tried to keep it thick. It was a losing battle as he mauled her. He pressed forward, bracing himself on his elbows, as he trapped her head. He kissed her hard, the grind of his mouth against hers brutal and bloody. She felt her lip tear against her teeth, but she kept her mouth closed.
And then, he stopped. One moment he had been thrusting with frenzy, the next he was frozen into stillness. Not quiet, but absolute restriction, as if he were locked in ice.
Then she felt him shift. His hand pressed against her forehead, shoving her face sideways. She didn’t mind at first. Anything to get away from his mouth, but he locked her down with her right ear flat against the wall and her neck twisted.
“You are mine,” he rasped.
She didn’t bother speaking her denial. They both knew it wasn’t true.
“If you move,” he said, “you will die.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact, and she stilled in terror.
His forearm held her flat against the wall, her head twisted. His other arm came up slowly, and he took his time to flash the stiletto in the sunlight.
She swallowed, knowing what was coming, but unable to stop him. The Demon would make his mark.
Pain flashed in her earlobe. A pierce that went straight through without mercy. She bit her lip rather than cry out. Then he turned her head. Same position, same warning, as he pierced her other ear.
Then he drew back. He showed her the stiletto, now darkened with her blood. Then he took a step back, finally pulling his body off hers.
She took a breath, almost dizzy with the rush of air into her lungs.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
She knew better than to argue. Whatever he intended was nearly over. To fight him now would be to risk inciting him to greater depths of horror, and there was a great deal worse that she could suffer beyond two bloodied ears.
She lifted her right hand, palm up. He pulled something out of his jacket and placed it deliberately into her hand. She looked down, dreading the sight. It was worse than she’d feared.
The two emeralds lay in her palm. The emeralds from the stolen hairpin refashioned into earrings. Though pierced ears were not uncommon among the ton, they were rare among her class. Now, apparently, she was one of the rarified few who had holes made for jewelry.
“Put them on,” he said.
She looked into his eyes. “And if I don’t?”
He shrugged. “I will kill your brothers.”
She nearly choked. He’d said brothers—plural. Both. Not just Bernard, who carried some responsibility for this disaster, but Henry too.
She blanched because she believed him. And so she lifted the earrings and managed to shove them—one by one—into her bloody lobes.
He waited, watching without helping. It was a long wait because her hands were shaking, and she had never done this before. It was painful too. By the time she was done, she was nearly sobbing in shame. Then her hands dropped away, and she looked at him, silently praying that he was done.
“If you take even one of those bobs out, I will kill a brother.”
A brother. And she wouldn’t even know which one it would be.
She nodded her understanding.
He didn’t wait to see her acknowledgment but sauntered to the door. He opened it casually, stepped through, then stopped, turning to look over his shoulder. She had a flash of white teeth and saw the furious glint in his eyes.
“Radley is dead either way.”
And then he was gone.
Sixteen
Radley was whistling as he mounted the steps to his new home. The day was sunny, last night had been wonderful, and there was no reason that tomorrow couldn’t be equally delightful. Certainly, being aboard a ship—even a docked one—had been bittersweet. But after perusing Mr. Knopp’s proposal, he began to think that life as a duke still had joys.
And so he was smiling as Seelye opened the door, only to have the expression slide away as he met the irritated gazes of his mother, his cousin, and his sister. They were dressed to go out, and all three glared with some level of irritation.
“Um, good morning?” he tried.
“It is customary to inform the house when you shall be out for the night,” his mother said, acid in every word.
It was? Whatever for?
His mother must have read the question right off his face because she huffed in disgust. “Meals, Radley, and your servants had to prepare your bed, and your valet stayed awake, awaiting your return to help you disrobe.”
“I can undress myself.” He wasn’t trying to challenge her dictate. After all, she knew a great deal more about being a duke than he did. But really, what sense was there in having servants that made one’s life more difficult?
“That is not the point!” snapped his mother. Then she grimaced. “Well, go on. Hurry up and dress, so that we can be off.”
He frowned. Whatever was she talking about? He was looking forward to taking off these high shirt points and damnable shoes for a bit. There were any number of books in the library. He thought he might read one if it was appealing. Books were a rarity on board, and he’d looked forward to discovering what his library contained.
His sister intervened before his mother could vent more ire. “We had time to discuss things last night, and we’ve made some plans. We know it’s fast for you, but this really is important.” Her voice was soothing—almost coaxing—but it quickly became clear that he wasn’t going to be reading in his library today.
His cousin took up the tale. “The Season has already started, so we’re late for these things. It all rolls backwards from the ball. You need clothing before that, a few forays into society—”
Caroline made a minimizing gesture. “Nothing too difficult. Just a musicale and a few visits to the theater. Very easy.”
“And then, there are those invitations you’ve already accepted,” his mother huffed. “Really, Radley, you shouldn’t have said yes to anything before talking with me.”
All three ladies nodded, and he gaped. He didn’t recall accepting anything from anybody.
Eleanor smiled warmly at him. “I believe you met some of the ladies at Hyde Park.” She rattled off names that he didn’t recognize. But he did remember taking Wendy to Hyde Park and not being able to enter for all the…
All the women inviting him to events. Had he told them he’d attend their parties? Just to brush them off? He couldn’t remember.
“You’re an important duke now,” his mother said. “You can’t say yes to any ninny who asks. You have a reputation to maintain.”
“I don’t have a reputation, Mother. I’ve only been in London a few days. No one knows me.”
“Exactly!” the woman huffed.
Eleanor stepped forward, touching him lightly on the arm. “What your mother means is that first impressions are extremely important. You want to begin as you mean to go on.”
Silence reigned as he tried to ferret out her meaning. A minute later, he still had no idea. So his sister tried to explain.
“You are the newest cause célèbre. Everyone wants to meet you. People wander the streets outside just to get a glimpse of you.”
Was that what all those women were about? He’d wondered at all the souls knocking him about on the street
, angling for a reason to talk. He’d sidestepped them and murmured an apology because that’s what men did when a girl stumbles and all but lands in his arms. Then he moved on. Nearly dimmed his mood, but nothing could dent the joy of the last twelve hours.
Well, nothing but his cousin, sister, and mother as they looked at him expectantly. In the end, it was his mother who delivered the marching orders.
“Here is what you need to know, Radley. Your ball is in two weeks, and there is a damnable amount of preparation.”
His mother had sworn. Clearly, this was something of importance. He took the cue to stand taller and not argue.
“But before your introduction, you need to have new clothes, new hair, new…” She flicked her fingers at him. “New everything.”
He looked at himself and admitted, perhaps, she was right. It would be nice to have shoes that fit. “I shall do that straight away. Tomorrow.”
“Now, Radley. For tonight’s ball.”
Now, he was getting annoyed. Truly, how could he understand things when they got their details fouled up? “You said my ball was in two weeks.”
“It is,” Caroline said with a smile. “But we feel you should get a little experience. Lady Eleanor’s dearest friend is having a small party tonight, and we thought to attend.”
“It would mean a great deal to her,” his cousin said. Then she added in an almost shy voice, “And to me.”
“Oh,” he said because it was obvious that they expected an answer. “Of course, we can attend.”
“But,” Caroline inserted with an apologetic shrug, “when was the last time you danced?”
Danced? When was the last time he’d partnered Caroline in the parlor while his mother hummed? He’d been seventeen. “Um…”
“No matter,” Eleanor soothed. “You can make a quick appearance tonight. A courtesy dance with me and your sister—”
“And me!” his mother cried. “I should… I mean I would very much like to dance at least once.”
He heard the yearning note in his voice and knew that his mother had likely wanted to dance at a true society ball since she was a little girl. “Of course I shall partner you, mother.” Though, damnation, did he remember the steps?