“I suspect I understand your meaning,” Jasper said, his expression one of solemn long-suffering. “What did I ever do to deserve such a wild family?”
Rafe grinned now. “You were born a Sutton. It’s in our blood.”
“Yes it is. The apple and the tree and whatnot.”
“At least we aren’t tosspots like our pa was,” Rafe pointed out.
Their father had been a scoundrel, through and through. But he and his siblings had banded together with Jasper as their leader. He had saved them all, and every one of them was here to tell the tale.
Except their brother Loge.
Rafe felt a twinge of sadness, mingling with hope the Sutton who had disappeared was not dead but rather alive somewhere in London. But that was a worry for another time.
“At least we aren’t that,” Jasper allowed before canting his head, studying Rafe with a thorough stare. “Are you in love with her, Rafe?”
Admitting to his feelings felt damned odd. Before, he’d reserved his love for his family only. But there was room in his heart for one more.
“I am,” he said simply.
For the first time since reaching his conclusion, he wondered what would happen if she were to deny him. They had shared passion, but that did not mean she wanted to marry an East End rogue like himself, bind herself to him forever. Hell, what would he do if she told him no?
“Then we will have to go and find Miss Wren so the two of you can have an audience,” Jasper said.
“You approve?”
His brother grinned. “You hardly need my approval, Rafe. But if that’s what you came looking for this morning, it’s yours. Even if you are poaching my governess.”
Rafe smiled back at him, relief swelling like a balloon about to take flight. “She’s mine, Jasper. She ain’t yours.”
Just then, the door to Jasper’s study opened and his wife, Lady Octavia, bustled over the threshold with his nieces, Anne and Elizabeth, at her side. A lovely woman with hair dark enough to match Jasper’s, Lady Octavia was the perfect wife for his brother. She was intelligent and caring, and she loved the twins fiercely. She brought a softer side to Jasper that Rafe had never known existed until her presence in his brother’s life.
Rafe found himself thinking he had a similar, goodhearted woman in Persephone. How amazing it was that he should have found her, and here beneath his own brother’s roof. Surely their meeting had been preordained. A story to tell their children one day.
Ah, Christ. Listen to yourself, Rafe Sutton! You’re dicked in the nob, you are. You’re growing weak.
He could not argue with the voice in his mind. He had grown weak. But he was in love, and he could not be sorry for it. His life with Persephone would be far more complete than his life without her ever could be. He knew that the same way he knew his face in the looking glass. It was familiar, accepted, understood.
“Uncle Rafe,” Lady Octavia declared, sending him a strained smile as she clearly attempted cheer for the benefit of the twins. “We have been looking for you.”
His instincts told him something was amiss.
He rose to his feet, tension coiling within him.
“Oh? And why is that?” he asked.
Likely, his instincts were all wrong. When was the last time he had stayed up nearly all night just to gaze at the woman in his bed?
Never.
But he had last night, watching Persephone sleep until at last he had forced himself to leave her room, lest he had fallen asleep there and been seen slipping from the chamber by the early morning hours.
“We supposed we would find Miss Wren with you,” Lady Octavia said to him. “Have you seen her this morning?”
Of course he had seen her, sleeping and sated with the glow of the moon in her sunset hair and one rosy nipple peeping from beneath the counterpane.
Do not say that aloud, you bleeding noddy.
He cleared his throat. “No, I have not seen Miss Wren this morning. Why do you ask?”
“She was to begin the girls’ lessons half an hour ago, but she is nowhere to be found.”
Something shifted in Rafe’s gut, twisting. Needling him. Persephone’s absence was troubling and quite unlike her, but then, he had taken her innocence the night before. Perhaps she had overslept.
“Have you checked in her chamber?” he asked, trying to combat the rising sense of worry gnawing at him.
“One of the maids did,” his sister-in-law said, frowning. “She said it was empty, the bed made and not a trace of Miss Wren to be seen.”
Those words made his heart freeze in his chest.
Not a trace of Miss Wren to be seen.
“I want Miss Wren,” Elizabeth said with a pout.
Or was it Anne?
Rafe could not be certain. The twins were dressed in identical gowns this morning, and his mind felt as if it had been inhabited by an impenetrable fog.
“She was going to finish telling us about Daisy the Duck,” the other twin announced. “I want to know if the boat she made leaked, or if it carried her across the lake to the opposite shore.”
“Why the devil would a duck need a boat?” Jasper asked, sounding perplexed.
“You mustn’t use oaths, Papa,” the girls chastised him in unison.
“The duck was afraid to swim,” said the twin on the right, who he was reasonably certain was Anne.
“Miss Wren made the story up herself,” added Elizabeth.
Or at least, he thought it was Elizabeth.
“If she ain’t here, we’ll never know the ending!” Anne’s lower lip trembled, her hazel Sutton eyes welling with tears.
Christ, he hated the sight of a weeping female. He plucked a handkerchief from his waistcoat and offered it to his niece, bending down until he was on her level. “Here now, dry your tears, lass. What makes you think Miss Wren isn’t here?”
She had to be here somewhere. She’d said nothing of leaving the night before. And he refused to believe she would simply disappear on him.
She wouldn’t.
Would she?
“Anne said she dreamt Miss Wren came to the nursery to say farewell,” Elizabeth added. “And that she would miss us so. Maybe it weren’t a dream.”
“Maybe it was not a dream, dearest,” Lady Octavia corrected gently.
Realization thundered into him.
Fucking hell.
His feet were moving, his legs striding, taking him from Jasper’s study. Ignoring the confused calls that followed him, he took the stairs three at a time, practically leaping up them in his driving need to get to Persephone’s chamber.
She cannot be gone.
She cannot be gone.
She cannot be gone.
With each frantic step he took, the words repeated themselves in his mind, a litany the rational part of him was beginning to suspect was a lie. He was dimly aware of one of Jasper’s dogs chasing at his heels in nervous excitement. It was Motley, the young pup, panting and dogging his every footfall.
By the time Rafe reached Persephone’s room, desperation led him to throw open the door and race inside, not giving a damn about propriety or privacy. Motley followed him with a loud bark and then an accompanying whine.
The chamber was empty.
The maid had been right.
Not a hint of Persephone remained. The bed he had made love to her in the night before was sternly made, nary a wrinkle on the coverlet. The bedside table was empty. The small wardrobe was barren when he threw open the doors. Nothing remained, save the slightest hint of Winter’s soap.
Persephone was gone.
A howl emerged from him, scarcely human, bubbling up. She had left him. Fled in the night at some point after he had gone. Had it been because of what had happened between them? Had she believed he would not offer for her after he had taken her maidenhead?
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Motley shadowed him as he paced around the small room, nearly tripping him. With a growl of pure rage and frustration, Rafe swiped at a c
hair, toppling it over. The action did nothing to diminish the rising anger he felt for himself.
He should have asked her to marry him last bleeding night. If he had, maybe she would have stayed. Motley whined again, then made a low sound of complaint and lay on the floor, resting his head on his paws. Utterly defeated, Rafe sank to his knees beside the dog.
She had disappeared.
As if she might have never been, aside from the ache in his heart to show she had found her way there.
One way or another, he was going to find her. This was all his buffle-headed fault.
Motley licked his coat sleeve and then began chewing on it. Rafe didn’t even have the heart to stop him.
CHAPTER 12
Leaving the Sutton town house without notice had proven easier than Persephone had anticipated. She had even chanced a hasty visit to the girls’ nursery to whisper a farewell one last time.
By noon of the following day, she was ensconced in a small room she had paid far too dear a price for, considering its slovenly state. But never mind that; it was to be expected. Her years navigating London as an unwed lady left her feeling fortunate indeed to have found a room that was at least suitable to live in.
And though her heart was aching and broken, she had resorted to finding her next situation, just as she had half a dozen times before. She had already answered three requests for a governess. However, given her urgent need of a new placement and the current available posts, her choices were lackluster at best and dreadful at worst.
She had been here before. Had done this before. Starting over was no different today than it had been the last time she had done so. She looked at her portmanteau resting beside the tiny bed and tried in vain to conquer a fresh rush of tears. Rafe’s cravat was still tucked neatly within it, placed there with loving care the last time she had extracted it to bring it to her nose for the faintest hint of him.
You did the right thing, Persephone.
Why did doing the right thing feel so terribly wrong, as if it would break her heart in two?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. For a wild moment, her heart leapt as she imagined it was Rafe, coming to collect her. But no, how foolish. He would have no notion of where she had gone. More than likely, it was Mrs. Bridges, from whom she had rented her room.
She went to the door and opened it without thought. And just like that, her world changed.
Her entire body went cold at the familiar form towering over her. Not many men were taller than she. But one man in particular had always been a full head taller, in true Calcot fashion.
“My dear Persephone,” Cousin Bartholomew drawled pleasantly, as if she would welcome the sight of him, as if he had been invited or expected. “It feels as if it has been an age since I have last beheld you.”
She moved to slam the door on him, but he was too quick, his booted foot keeping her from closing it. “What are you doing here?”
Throwing all her weight against the door, she tried desperately to keep it closed so he could not enter. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry, desperation seizing her in a relentless grip. Surely this was a dream from which she would soon wake, realizing it had all been a terrible illusion.
“Coming to collect my bride,” he answered, using his superior strength to push the door inward.
She attempted to hold fast to the battered plank floors but her slippers were sliding. “If you do not go, I’ll scream and Mrs. Bridges will come to see what is amiss.”
“Mrs. Bridges is a woman of practicality and good breeding.” He wedged his shoulder into the doorway, gaining on her. “She knows I am a peer of the realm and that you are my mad, runaway ward. She will not save you, my dear.”
“I am not mad!” she cried out, still pushing with all her might, though it was fast becoming apparent doing so was a losing battle.
“Your denial will not aid your cause,” he gritted, giving one more, sudden shove.
Persephone was caught off-balance, and she toppled backward, landing hard on her rump as Cousin Bartholomew gained entrance, closing the door at his back. His countenance was smug.
Victorious.
Hateful.
Her stomach clenched with terror. For so long, she had avoided him. And now, her greatest fear had come to fruition. He had returned, and he intended to take her with him. Just when freedom had finally been within her reach.
She scrambled to her feet, eying him warily.
She did not know if he would pounce or if he would, as he had so often enjoyed doing in the past, toy with her until striking at the moment she least expected it.
“Did you not think I would come for you, my dear?” He tilted his head, considering her, an ugly smile slowly spreading over his thin lips. “Ah, I can see from your countenance you did not believe I would. But then, all these years, and your birthday so near. You must have believed yourself incapable of being found.”
Not incapable, but she had begun to feel complacent in a way she had not been in the earlier years of her flight. She could admit as much to herself now. When she had first left Silwood Manor, she had guarded everything with the greatest of care—her identity, her person, her friendship. The Persephone of seven years before never would have allowed herself to so much as hold a conversation with a man like Rafe Sutton.
But she would not give Cousin Bartholomew the gratification of her acknowledgment. Instead, she kept her head held high and maintained her silence.
He laughed then, as if he found this moment, her at his mercy after fighting him for so long, amusing. But, knowing Cousin Bartholomew, he likely did.
“Ah, my sweet, innocent Persephone, clinging to your hopes like the stupid little romantic you are.” He laughed again, but there was no accompanying light of mirth in his light-blue eyes. They were dead, just as they had always been. “I would have thought I had disabused you of your mother’s nature when you were a child. But then, the most difficult of spirits to crush is the foolish, hopeful one. Fortunately for me, destroying them also proves the most enjoyable.”
She suppressed a shudder, refusing to show him fear, for she recalled all too well how he thrived upon the terror of others and the power he wielded over them.
He reached out with a gloved hand then, the butter-soft leather lightly connecting with her chin, tilting it upward. “You do not imagine I will be gentle with you after the merry chase you have led me on, dearest.”
How she hated his use of the endearment. On his lips, it was a weapon. A venomous snake, waiting to strike. Still, she said nothing, refusing to give him her words.
“You must, else you would not be showing such disobedience.” His nostrils flared. “Oh, my dear. I can assure you that you will not be treated as you once would have been. I tried to tell you, but you would not listen, how marriage to me would be a wondrous state. All you had to do was please me, and I would have been quite lenient. But a man does not want a soiled bride.”
She would have flinched at the condemnation in his voice, but she was doing her utmost to remain calm and unaffected.
“After what you have done with Gregson?” He shook his head slowly, and in an instant, his face changed, the lines of complacency growing harsh and violent, his eyes darkening. He caught her chin in a violent grip so painful she could not suppress her squeak of surprise. “My innocent virgin bride has returned to me a whore. I will be treating her as one.”
“I am not your bride,” she bit out.
He squeezed her jaw hard enough that she had no doubt there would be bruising there on the morrow. “Yes you are.”
“No,” she managed to choke out past the pain and the fear. “I am not. You cannot force me to marry you.”
His lip curled. “I will not have to force you, my dear. When you consider the choices before you, you will beg to be my wife.”
Finally, her rage and hatred for him overcame all else. A rebellious surge rushed through her. She was not the girl he had cowed. She was nearly five-and-twenty. She had l
ived on her own, in secret, for almost seven years. She had earned her living and worked desperately hard just to be free of him. She would not surrender to this madman now!
Persephone spit in his face.
His reaction was almost instant. He slapped her so viciously, her teeth clacked together, and she bit her tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears, but she refused to blink and allow a single one of them to fall.
Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, Cousin Bartholomew reached into his waistcoat and extracted an embroidered handkerchief. Like the rest of his clothing, it looked impossibly expensive, and she had no doubt she had paid for it.
Holding her gaze, he wiped the spittle from his lips and cheek. “That was badly done of you, my dear. In time, you will grow to learn that I am a fair man. If you obey me and seek to please me as a proper wife ought, I will be kind to you in return. If, however, you are disobedient, I will be left with no choice but to punish you.”
She remembered how much he liked punishment. Just how much it pleased him. Once, as a child, she had unintentionally spied him punishing a chambermaid with a riding crop while she had begged and pleaded with him to stop. Each denial had earned another slap. Sick to her stomach, Persephone had run, too terrified to ask the poor maid what had happened when later their paths had crossed. When she had grown older, she had come to understand there was something unnatural about him. That he enjoyed the pain of others.
Much as he was enjoying hers now.
His hand still gloved, he stroked her cheek in a feathery caress, his gaze on the tingling skin he had abused. “How ruddy your skin becomes after it has been struck. Such a pretty flush. I have a suspicion I shall be seeing more of it when you defy me.”
He meant to beat her. And he would find pleasure in every moment of it.
“I will not marry you,” she said. “You cannot force me into a marriage.”
But even as she issued the denial, she knew how weak it was. Cousin Bartholomew was a powerful man with powerful friends, capable of any depravity, willing to commit any sin to further his cause. That was why she had run seven years ago rather than remain at Silwood Manor. It was a miracle she had eluded him for this long.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 16