This time, when George looked to Lily there was a bored curiosity. “Ah.”
Ah. That was what he would say? Nothing more than a single, affirmative utterance that was not even a word?
“She is your vicar’s daughter,” his mother snapped, impatience adding a frosty bite to the revelation.
Hope stirred in her breast. Hope he would remember. That he would see past her downtrodden appearance and his mother’s disapproval to the woman who had given her virtue on the pledge of his love.
He flicked a detached gaze over her and brushed an imagined speck off his sleeve. “I thought you said you would deal with her.” I am that dust. I am that insignificant to him. She struggled to hear past the blood rushing in her ears. His mother’s words came as if down a long, empty hall.
“...do you see why you do not make village girls your whores? They get ideas beyond their station...”
Her heart cracked and with her throat working, she looked from mother to son. “George,” she pleaded again, taking a step closer.
He looked to her again with disdain seeping from his eyes. “What in blazes are you doing here?”
Her breath caught. Her lower lip trembled and she hated it. Hated it because it was a telltale sign of her weakness and despair. But more, she hated herself for having been so foolishly naïve. Regardless of his lofty title as duke, he’d taken her virginity and she expected, nay demanded, more.
Lily searched for words. His face remained a smooth, unaffected mask. She searched for a hint of warmth. How could she have been so deceived? How? “I gave myself to you.” Her voice cracked and she buried that sound in her trembling fingertips. But once, in a moment of madness, she was swayed by the skillful words on his lips.
The duchess’ shocked gasp split the quiet.
Ignoring the exclamation, Lily continued. “I love...loved you, and you promised me...” Her voice broke and a dratted sheen of tears filled her eyes. For her reservations that day in the Carlisle countryside, he’d promised to give her his name in love.
“This is your lesson on what happens when you bed the village girls,” his mother snapped. “After you are wed, then you may bed whomever you wish, but by God behave with some discretion until then.” She spared a lethal glance for the two stone-faced servants. “If a word is said about any of this, I’ll turn you out without a reference and ruin you so that employment will not even exist for you within Newgate itself.”
Feeling a player in a farcical drama, Lily looked blankly to the white-faced footman. He gulped and hastily dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Surely you did not believe I would marry you?” At the ugly laugh that spilled past George’s lips, nausea churned in her belly.
She stared, stricken, his words blasting through the foolish love she’d carried. “Yes,” she whispered. “I did.” I am going to be vomit.
Lily gagged and the duke stumbled away from her. “Egads, do not go casting your evening meal at my feet.”
If she could muster the proper ability to formulate a sentence she’d point out that she’d not eaten a meal in more than a day. With the precious coin handed her by her father, she’d preserved those coins with greater care than she’d guarded her own virginity. “You cannot simply turn me away.” A denial screamed around her mind, even as panic threatened to cut off her airflow.
His mother threw her hands up. “By God, give her coins and be done with her. You have your meeting with Holdsworth and then the betrothal ball. Imagine the scandal if a single guest arrives to find your whore here?” She seethed and the sneer on her lips transformed the regal woman into a harsh, ugly figure that matched her soul. “Lady Barbara’s father will never allow the match under such dubious beginnings.”
Lady Barbara? Through the peculiar humming in her ears, Lily struggled to make sense of the odd jumble of words and names.
The betrothal ball?
Dutifully, the duke fished a small purse from his pocket and held it out.
Lily stared blankly at mother and son. Money. He would pay her like a whore in a tavern who’d served but one purpose. Cold iced over her heart.
He shook his hand and the coins within jangled.
She cocked her head.
He gave his fingers another shake. “Off you go.”
As her hand curled tightly, reflexively over the pouch, she went hot and then cold, sick with a dangerous blend of shame, agony, and fury. He was to be married. To a proper lady...and you are nothing but a whore. After all, whores took payment for the gift of their virtue.
She choked. How could she have ever believed herself in love with one such as him?
“See her out, Sutton,” the duke instructed. Without a backward glance, he wheeled around—and left.
Before Lily could move, the footman wrapped powerful hands about her forearms hard enough to raise bruises. She cried out, as he hauled her physically through the hall and to the foyer. Pulling against his punishing grip, the man only tightened his hold.
With Lily kicking her legs and flailing, the butler rushed forward and pulled the door open. Biting rain stung her face and sucked the breath from her lungs.
“Miss Bennett?” the duchess called out, staying the butler.
For a moment, hope kindled that there was a sliver of good in this woman and she would insist George do right by her. She glanced back. “Do not return to this household or I will see your family ruined.” The duchess peered past Lily. “Get her out, now.”
A gasp exploded from her, as the footman hurled her down the steps and into the street. Lily crashed hard on her hip, landing in a deep puddle. Tears smarted behind her eyes as the autumn rain soaked her modest cloak and her dress all the more.
Her valise followed behind her. It sailed through the air and fell open. The meager contents of her existence spilled into a thick puddle at her feet. She stared at the small wooden box made by her brother, Sheldon, two years earlier. It would be ruined. It would be spoiled by the rain if she did not have a care.
The door rattled from the force of Sutton slamming it and Lily continued to stare, dazed. An empty numbness dulled the agony of betrayal, leaving in its place the renewed terror.
Lightning lit the skies.
What will I do? Her breath came hard and fast. Her father’s warnings came rushing back, slapping her with the truth of her own naiveté and foolishness.
“Hello, miss.” She blinked. “Miss? Are you all right?”
All right? Her world had been ripped asunder. She’d been cast out of her family, betrayed by the man she’d given her virtue to and now had nothing but a handful of coins given her by her father and the duke. She would never be all right again.
“Miss?” he repeated.
Lily looked up at the kindly gentleman with thick, white whiskers and concern in his eyes. She shook her head, dazed. What did he want? And more, why was this stranger outside George’s home speaking to her even now?
“My name is Sir Henry.” He knelt beside her and made quick work of stuffing her entire life’s possessions into her satchel. With the valise in one hand, he held his other out. “Let me show you to my carriage.” He gestured behind him and she followed the slight movement to an elegant, black carriage. “It is too cold for you to remain in the street.”
By the cut of his elegant, black cloak and hat and by his very presence here alone, he was a member of the lofty ranks the Duke of Blackthorne kept. It marked his soul as black and evil, and yet...
“Come,” the older gentleman urged. “Let me help you.”
Help her? He wanted to help her? She peeled back her lip in a sneer. What did any of these powerful peers know of kindness? “I do not want your help.” Lightning cracked overhead, aching to make a liar of her.
Still, he remained, staring with gentle concern. “What other choice do you have, miss?”
She stilled and her gaze crept back to the front door through which she’d been summarily tossed. Fear curled inside her belly, once more.
“Mi
ss?” the man repeated, as rain fell about them.
With nearly frozen fingers, she took his hand, and allowed him to help her upright. Wordlessly, she let him guide her to his carriage, help her inside, and climb in behind her. The man doffed his hat and beat it against his leg. “What is your name?”
Her words emerged faint and breathless. “L-Lillia—Lily,” she quickly substituted. She’d not give him more of her identity than that. After all, it was as much folly being in this stranger’s carriage than in giving herself to George. Then, desperation made people do desperate things. “I-I must go,” she said, forcing a thread of strength into her words. “It is not p-proper to be here.” Thunder rumbled and shook the carriage, as though mocking those words from a woman who’d shown up on a duke’s doorstep expecting marriage.
The old gentleman continued to smile at her in that benevolent manner. “I’ve a brief meeting inside with the duke. I’ve no intention of hurting you, but given your exit from Blackthorne’s home, you are just another one subject to his ruthlessness.” The frown on the man’s lips met his eyes and hinted at a person who’d also been somehow victim to that powerful peer. “If you choose to remain, I’ll help you.”
She eyed him through narrowed eyes. Hadn’t George proven gentlemen were only driven by their own motives? “Why would you do that?”
“Because you need help,” he said simply. The stranger motioned to the door. “You are free to go. I will not stop you.” He paused. “But neither is it safe for you to be out on these streets, alone. The decision is yours.”
Lily remained silent, glaring at him through mistrustful eyes until he opened the door and strode back across the street and, eventually, disappeared inside George’s home.
She reached for the handle and froze. Where will I go? Home was no longer an option. Shivering from cold and fear, Lily pulled her fingers back and balled them on her lap. She huddled deeper into the thick squabs of the comfortable carriage.
After all, as he’d said—what other choice did she have?
Chapter 1
London, England
Late Winter 1821
Derek Winters, the 8th Duke of Blackthorne, sat cloaked in the darkness of his office. Curtains drawn, the room silent and empty but for the eerie shadows that played off the walls, he’d come to crave the deathly still of the room like a demon craved the fires of hell. From the corner of his sole eye he glared at the crumpled copy of The Times that lay on the table beside him...as it had for months. A growl worked its way up his throat and he swiped the damned sheet up. He squinted and re-read those familiar words, once more.
...The Marquess of St. Cyr nearly killed underneath the deadened branches of a Hyde Park elm...
At one time, that piece would have devastated him. He fisted the page, further wrinkling the old copy. Now, this new man he’d become found an unholy glee in the other man’s misery. He gripped the arms of his chair. With his back presented to the room, he stared into the dancing flames of the blazing hearth. Only, he’d ceased to be human long ago—because of that very happy man, nearly killed by a blasted branch. Then, wasn’t that life? Some men had families and love and good-fortune...and then others? A muscle ticked at the corner of his eye. “And others have nothing,” he whispered. Yes, others were cursed, like the other Winters family members who’d only known death and despair. Such a truth had once ripped him apart with a vicious pain. Somewhere along the way, he’d built himself into a man who didn’t feel or care. And he was all the stronger for it.
Derek hurled the paper into the hearth and the scorching flames quickly devoured them. The hungry fire’s glow burned all the brighter. A hard, mirthless grin turned his lips. How singularly interesting the fire should provide warmth for some and, yet, for him it held nothing but the frigid cold of his past. He absently fingered the head of his serpent-headed cane, the gold metal cool against his right palm.
“If you play with fire, you get burned.
If you play with flames, you’ll be smote.
If you avoid the heat, the better off you be.
So do not ever play with fire, or gone forever more, for all eternity.”
The children’s proverb echoed around the chambers of his mind; words given him by a stern tutor, who’d tired of Derek’s dangerous pursuits.
A log snapped in the hearth in an explosion of crimson embers. He leaned his cane against the edge of his chair and tugged the glove off of his left hand. Turning his hand over, he examined the ragged, puckered, white flesh. How very wrong Mr. Johnson had been. Fire did not kill, it merely destroyed. Death would often be preferable.
A knock sounded at the door. Derek whipped his head to the right and glowered at the wood panel. With a growl of annoyance, he yanked his glove back on. His servants did not disturb him. And the lords he’d once called friends assuredly did not disturb him. No one did. People knew better.
He returned his attention to the fiery blaze once more. The infernal rapping continued. He winced. Alas, this bloody fool still had yet to realize he was a different duke than the one who’d preceded him to the grave. Then the knocking ceased. He eased back into the folds of the worn leather chair. Perhaps the man wasn’t a total lackwit.
The press of a handle sounded like a shot as the creak of the door filled the room. Derek stiffened. Surely the man had gleaned, in the time he’d served his master, one, essential fact—one did not enter the devil’s lair. “Y-your Grace.” The butler cleared his throat. Apparently, he’d not gleaned that essential fact. “I...” He cleared his throat once more. “I—” Derek angled his head at the very slightest angle. Harris bore another damned silver tray with another damned folded note bearing the Earl of Maxwell’s seal. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man jump.
“Have I not told you, I’m not to be disturbed?” Especially not with notes from boyhood friends.
“Yes, Y-your Grace.” The silver tray trembled in his hands. “I would not disturb you unless—”
“Have I not instructed you to direct all matters of business to my man-of-affairs?” He jerked his chin at the tray. “And not to bother me with those damned notes?”
The butler looked down at the ivory velum in his care and blinked several times. “Uh, y-yes, Your Grace.” He hastily set the note on a veneered wood side table, as he always did, and pulled the tray against his chest. As he also always did. “But you see—” Drawing a deep breath, the man let his words out on a swift exhale. “Mr. Davies has arrived,” he finished on a rush.
His man-of-affairs. Rather, his dead brother’s man-of-affairs. “He can go to the devil and you can join him, Harrison,” he hissed. “Now, get out.”
Harris’ cheeks went ashen. He hesitated and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. The servant looked over his shoulder and then back to Derek.
He narrowed his eye. “You showed him here anyway, did you, Harrison?”
The remaining color fled his butler’s cheeks. “I-I—”
“I should sack you,” he seethed, climbing slowly to his feet. And he would toss the insolent servant on his bloody arse if he were in a mind to have Davies search out another who’d brave The Beast of Blackthorne’s lair.
“Y-yes.” Then with a remarkable show of courage the young servant asked, “So I may show him in, then?”
And if Derek hadn’t ceased laughing a lifetime ago, he’d have at least managed a smile born of mirth at the man’s temerity. Then, he didn’t think the muscles of his scarred and burned face could manage the appropriate movement anymore. “Show him in,” he said on a steely whisper.
Mr. Davies, a white-haired man of indiscriminate years stepped around Harris, his arms laden with folios. “Your G-Grace.” He dropped a bow, but not before revulsion flashed in his eyes.
Derek peeled his lip back in a sneer. When he’d returned to England from the Battle of Toulouse, the left side of his face ravaged by burns, those appalled looks and horrified whispers had gutted him. Somewhere along the way, he’d become mercifully deadened
to that revulsion.
Harris took his leave and pulled the door closed with a soft click. Derek grabbed his serpent-headed cane and, with the aid of that mortifying crutch, he awkwardly lurched across the room. “What the hell do you want?” He infused a deathly edge to that whisper. He cast a glance at Davies.
The books tumbled from his arms and hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “It is about your sister, Lady Stonehaven, Y-Your Grace.”
Derek’s useless left leg dragged and he stumbled. He righted himself with the use of his cane. “My sister?” His words came as though down a long corridor.
“Y-yes, Your Grace.” The sounds of rustling papers filled the room while Davies tidied his documents.
Derek stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the garish, crimson wallpaper—the color of blood. His heart thundered loudly and he longed to spin on his heel and shake some bloody urgency from the other man. As he, who’d given up on hope long ago, felt it flicker to life from a place deep inside he’d believed long dead. His sister, Edeline. “And has she been located?” At the stretch of silence, he shot a look over his shoulder.
The floorboards creaked as Davies climbed to his feet. “Found?” Thick befuddlement coated that word. “Uh, no, Your G-Grace.”
That matter-of-fact deliverance spoke volumes, quashed all fledgling hope, and promptly restored Derek to the coolly logical beast who didn’t believe in fairytales of hope and happiness. “Then what the hell do you want?” They met precisely the same time each week. There were no additional meetings. “I’d specifically told you I wouldn’t give a bloody damn if the world was ending on Sunday; I don’t expect your presence here that day.”
“Y-yes. Very well, Your Grace. Indeed, I know that.” Davies shifted back and forth on his feet with an ease and grace Derek despised.
What sorry days, indeed, when he should envy a man that slight pathetic movement with unbroken legs. With a growl, he lurched the remainder of the way to his sideboard and slammed down his cane.
“It is Lady Flora.”
He paused, his hand poised over the crystal decanters. Flora? Derek furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of the name and, more importantly, why it should mean something. People didn’t matter to him. They saw him as the scarred, horrific beast he was and he preferred life that way. Though, not everyone saw you as only a beast. An unexpected pain ripped through him.
Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) Page 2