Cocky Duke
Page 24
Closing her eyes, Louella inhaled deeply before opening them again and unraveling the ribbon from around her wrist. She’d tied the silk loosely, but it managed to leave an imprint on the tender flesh, nonetheless.
She opened the basket and withdrew what she sought. Eyeing it critically, she frowned. The needle was becoming dull from too much use.
She could not access her abdomen during the daytime. Her stays prevented that.
Examining her arm, she located an unscarred section. With practiced precision, she compelled the needle downward. As the sharp point drew a short crimson line, she felt nothing.
She pressed harder the second time, and a thicker line of blood oozed onto her pale, almost translucent skin. A sting. And tingling. Ah, yes. I’m real.
And the berating voices swirling in her mind began to subside.
Blood is real.
The blood is mine.
I am real.
She drew another line, this one longer and just the tiniest bit deeper than the first two. The needle stung. It hurt even.
Her racing heart slowed.
It would be okay. Olivia would understand.
She could now feel the floor beneath her and the frame of the bed digging into her back.
The last cut was shallow, barely a scratch, really.
Her vision cleared.
As she watched blood flow and begin to congeal, her breathing slowed as her muscles relaxed. Sleep called to her, the sensation of melting into the floor overcoming all her senses. Still caressing the needle between her fingers, she dropped her hand to the carpet and tilted her head back, resting it on the side of the bed.
She could do this. She didn’t want to, but she could. Papa would insist.
After what may have been a few seconds, or several moments, Louella roused herself from the blessed lethargy enough to clean the needle and replace it in the sewing basket.
She then washed her wrist in the wash basin, dried it, rewrapped the silk ribbon, and tied it snugly.
Using her teeth, she managed a fairly decent bow.
Louella had done this before.
The devil didn’t dwell inside her.
It was just… her.
* * *
“You wish me to marry little Louella Rose?”
Captain Cameron Samuel Benjamin Denning, Marquess of Stanton, barely remembered the girl.
She’d been a child when he left, gallivanting about her father’s estate and often his father’s property as well.
He vaguely remembered the older sister… blonde, she’d been on the verge of womanhood, sweet and pretty. But he’d been an arrogant bastard at the time. All he’d noticed was that the gel had been cockeyed.
And the younger girl? Louella Rose? She had been all skin and bones, brilliant blue eyes too large for her face, dirt on her dresses, and ah, yes, stringy brown hair. She would have been most unmemorable but for her flashing eyes and violent temper. She’d lobbed an apple at his head on one occasion.
He scratched his chin. If memory served him correctly, he’d done something to provoke the attack. He’d been an ass that summer. Hating his father. Hating his father’s new family. Hating pretty much everybody, including himself.
“She’s not a child anymore,” his father said without glancing up from the papers on his desk.
What had the sister’s name been? Olive? No, Olivia, Miss Olivia Redfield, oldest daughter of the Viscount Hallewell. She’d been closer to him in age.
“Truth be told,” his stepmother, the duchess, piped in, “Miss Louella Rose is one of the comeliest debutantes in all of England.”
Cameron wasn’t certain he could believe that. The hoyden had been something of a tomboy, trespassing with her sister almost daily. They’d met with better luck fishing on the ducal lands than their own.
And Cameron had not treated them kindly. Ah, yes, he’d teased the older girl mercilessly for her eye. He winced at the memory.
At the time, he’d barely reached his majority; he’d been an irresponsible youth, willing to do anything to escape his father and all of his ducal expectations.
“What of the older daughter?” Cameron stared out the window, contemplating his past wrongs.
Again, his stepmother supplied the answer. “Something of a spinster. Doesn’t move in Society, as I understand. Hallewell keeps her well under wraps. I doubt they’ve brought her with them to London for the Season. If I were to take a guess, I’d say she’s probably simple.”
His father grunted.
Cameron knew neither of the girls were what attracted his father to such an alliance. The Hallewell estate sat just south of Ashton Acres. Nestled in the low lands, unkempt and overrun with brush, it was aptly named Thistle Park.
But just inside of its borders sat the true prize.
An abandoned mine.
Abandoned, and branded as cursed by the current viscount’s father following a disastrous cave-in decades ago. But that wasn’t the end of it. No, the damn thing was rumored to be loaded with gold. A few of the men who’d managed to survive the collapse, but not their injuries, had spoken of a thick vein discovered just before the tragedy. Ancient tales warned that the cave-in had occurred because the treasure had been exposed.
Locals scoffed at the notion of the mine having anything of value. Never, in the history of the area, the entire region, really, had any precious metals been mined profitably.
Viscount Hallewell, like his father before him, believed the mine to be cursed. He’d adamantly refused to reopen it. Until now, apparently.
With pockets to let, and a comely daughter at that… Cameron guessed that Crawford, his own father, had finally discovered the bargaining chip to change Hallewell’s mind.
His son.
And, fiend seize it, upon departing a decade ago, Cameron had promised to marry upon his return. He’d not hated his birthright; he’d simply needed to sow his oats. Such a stupid promise to have made.
“Isn’t there a boy in the family as well?” Surely, the son would have something to say about all of this. It was his inheritance, after all.
“Not anymore. Died shortly after your departure.” Cameron’s father had no sympathy when it came to others’ misfortunes.
Raising his brows, Cam glanced toward the duchess. She would know more about the family.
“William, I believe they called him, was only five years old,” she replied helpfully. “His mother, the viscountess, was inconsolable for months. But the boy was always sickly. Nearly drowned but then took ill. I imagine he’d have died of some other malady if not for the accident.”
Cam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. All of this seemed rather sudden, and yet, he’d known before returning that his father would expect him to marry and set up a nursery. And Cam had promised he’d do just that.
Despite the enmity he’d forever carry for the man purported to have sired him, Cam intended to keep his promise. Because, as backward as it seemed, the one thing he’d carried with him all those years serving his country had been the burden of guilt.
He’d known his stepmother and stepsisters worried endlessly about him.
Well, not him, per se. The male son. The heir.
For the Duke of Crawford had failed to produce a spare with his second wife. She’d given birth to three girls with her first husband but failed to conceive with Crawford.
Cameron was destined to forever be the older brother to three silly stepsisters.
His conscience had berated him to do his best to avoid being killed. He’d not wished to make their circumstances precarious.
But even more compelling had been the desire to thwart the duke by living.
Cameron shook his head, dismissing the passing thought.
Hell.
And as he had lived, and he had returned, he would marry the Redfield girl.
He could only hope the girl and her sister had little memory of him and his behavior.
Upon reaching his majority, Cam had been filled with angst. He’d re
turned from school to discover his father remarried. The new duchess had brought with her three small daughters.
Cam had countered by drinking, carousing, swiving whatever he was offered, and then ultimately threatening to enlist himself into the British Army.
Which would have been unheard of.
An unmitigated embarrassment to the duke.
Crawford had taken the threat literally, and to avoid the disgrace, he’d negotiated a bargain with him. With the understanding that when Cam reached the age of thirty, he would return home and marry the bride of his father’s choosing, the Duke of Crawford had purchased Cam an officer’s commission in the British Navy,
Thirty had seemed a lifetime away.
Cam brushed a hand through his hair.
Damn his twenty-one-year-old self.
“I’m to visit the youngest daughter tomorrow?” he asked. “And she is agreeable? How old is she now?”
He certainly wouldn’t force the poor girl to marry him if she was unwilling. He would make his offer, formally, dispassionately, but… pleasantly. He would not insist, however, and by God, he wouldn’t beg.
“She’s ten and nine. A most suitable age. We’ll visit their townhouse together. For tea,” his stepmother responded.
“Of course, she’s agreeable. Damned fool girl she’d be if she wasn’t,” Crawford barked.
The girl must be a social climber then.
Hell, perhaps she’d forgotten him completely!
“Tomorrow, then? At tea.” Speaking the words, he could almost hear the chains winding around his ankle.
“She’s a lovely girl.” The duchess patted the duke on the shoulder. “We’ll allow the two of you a few moments alone, so that you can be certain you’ll get on well together.”
Well, then.
Damn.
“Better yet, you may renew your acquaintance this afternoon at the Snodgrass Garden Party. I wouldn’t think the Redfields would miss it.”
Perhaps that would make tomorrow easier. Perhaps he could charm her into forgetting his actions before he’d gone off to war. His stupid and churlish behavior.
Might make for a less awkward proposal, anyhow.
Read ALL of the The Perfect Debutante And the rest of the series by clicking here:
Not So Saintly Sisters Series
The Perfect Debutante
The Perfect Spinster
The Perfect Christmas
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Also by Annabelle Anders
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To Hell And Back
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Lady Saves the Duke
Lady at Last
Lady Be Good
Lady and the Rake
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