by Alyssa Drake
“Compared to yours,” Samantha laughed, “mine is hardly fodder for gossip.”
Benjamin slid off the bed, dropping onto his knees. He took her hand, clasping it between both of his. “Miss Hastings, will you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes, I will, Lord Westwood.”
“There will be no more of that,” he said, rising.
“What?”
“Lord.” He leaned over her, his mouth capturing hers, his tongue sliding past her lips, teasing her tongue. Her hands skated up his shirt, wrapping around the back of his head. Drawing him closer, her body warmed under his touch. He grinned against her lips, pulling away.
“We are going to be late, Samantha.”
“Then, I suggest you do not tarry removing my clothing.”
“Miss Hastings!” he exclaimed. “I am shocked by your request.”
She smiled, her face lighting with delight.
It had been a while since he’d seen true joy on her face. Morris would never take that from her again.
Depositing her gently on the bed, he kissed her chastely and rose, folding the missive and placing it on a small desk. “As I said, we have an appointment.”
“I had hoped to distract you.” Samantha stood, crossing the floor and wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face in his back.
“I find you extremely distracting.” He spun around, pressing his lips to her mouth, desire coursing through his veins, is body hardening, responding to her proximity. She really would be the death of him. His hands closed around her wrists, lifting them from his waist. He glared at her sternly, trying to recall the expression Edward used whenever he was dealing with his sister.
She burst into giggles. “You look like Edward.”
“That was my intention.”
The humor draining from her face, she chewed on her lower lip. “Benjamin, what it something happens to Edward while we are away?”
“I have instructed Mr. Davis to contact us with any important correspondence.”
“Do you trust him?” Samantha tilted her head.
“Mr. Davis has been in my employ for a long time. He has never done anything to jeopardize his post.”
“I heard he used to work for the Shirelys.” Samantha leaned away from Benjamin, lifting the letter from the desk.
“Yes, he confirmed that fact with me.” Benjamin nodded.
“Did he mention the reason he no longer worked with them?” Samantha turned.
“No, merely that he was grateful for his current position.” Benjamin’s forehead creased. Had he underestimated Mr. Davis? The man had been nothing but loyal in his service. Was it all a façade? His eyes flicked over Samantha, fear pooling into his stomach.
“Mr. Davis worked for the Shirely family at the time young Jeremiah died. He left shortly after the boy’s passing.” Samantha twisted her fingers together as she revealed the secret.
Crossing the room, Benjamin drew Samantha into his arms. “The only thing your story proves is Mr. Davis is loyal even after his service has completed. That one fact should put your mind at east.”
She nodded.
“Besides, someone has to witness our union.” He winked. A rap echoed in the room. Samantha twisted in Benjamin’s arms, trembling. Releasing Samantha, Benjamin strode to the door, placing his hands flat against the surface.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Davis. I have come to collect you and your guest.” Smart man. Without instruction, Mr. Davis did not acknowledge Benjamin’s title or name.
Benjamin unlatched the door and pulled it open to reveal Mr. Davis. He smiled and bowed, entering the room. Once Benjamin closed the door, Mr. Davis moved in front of Samantha and bowed lowed. “My Lady.”
“That is not my title, Mr. Davis.”
“Ah”—he tapped the side of his nose—“it will be soon.”
“Is everything prepared?” asked Benjamin. After locking the door, he joined Samantha, his arm sliding around her waist.
“Yes, my Lord.” Mr. Davis smiled, taking Samantha’s hand. “Miss Hastings, may I say how delighted I am you will become the mistress of the house. If there is ever anything you need, do not hesitate to ask me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis.” Samantha nodded her head.
“It would be my honor to witness your marriage.” Mr. Davis glanced at Benjamin. “The carriage is ready, my Lord.”
“We will meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes, Mr. Davis.”
He bowed and exited. Benjamin followed him to the door and twisted the key once again.
“Do you intend to lock me in every room we visit?” Samantha arched an eyebrow.
“Only the ones in which I seduce you,” he rumbled, returning to her side. “And since we now have fifteen minutes, I believe you requested I disrobe you, Miss Hastings.”
“Lord Westwood!” Samantha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in mock outrage. “How scandalous!”
He laughed, wrapping her in his arms. “I am the World’s Most Wicked Rake.”
“Prove it to me,” dared Samantha, sliding her hands underneath his shirt.
“I shall, Miss Hastings,” he replied, passion raging through his body. “I shall.”
Epilogue
Franklin,
As of late last evening or early this morning, I am not sure which, Miss Hastings vanished without a trace. Lord Westwood has also disappeared. I am inclined to believe they are together but can give you no direction as to which way they headed. Mr. Hastings is extremely aggravated by their sudden departure. However, there seems to be no urgency to recover Miss Hastings from her present hidden location. I will advise you upon her return; have patience. In the meantime, please do not have all the fun without me. I plan to visit within in the next few days, and I would prefer you keep your guest alive.
* * *
Franklin crumbled the note in his hand. He growled at the fireplace, hurling the crumpled ball into its hungry flames. They flared, happily lapping the edges of the parchment. Samantha’s disappearance irked him, a move outside of his control. He ground his teeth in frustration. How long could she stay away? A lengthy absence from society would give the gleeful gossips much to whisper about. She could be gone no longer than a month. Anything beyond that time period would be difficult to explain. He would wait and use the time to heal. Absently he rubbed his right shoulder. The wound ached. Samantha would suffer for her impudence. Snarling, he roughly grasped a poker and stabbed the charred letter violently until it crumbled to ash.
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. At least he still had a guest to occupy his days; she would wake any moment. Humming, Franklin rubbed his hands together, warming them in front of the crackling fire before he shrugged on a heavy coat. He had waited a long time to punish Hattie. With a smile, he left the cottage and headed toward the stables.
Unlatching to door, Franklin slipped into the stables, his gaze immediately finding a horseless carriage. Its two occupants remained immobile—one drugged, one dead.
Hattie moaned twice, groggy and incoherent. It was not the first time she had been witnessed in this catatonic state; however, this was the first time her unconsciousness was caused without her consent. Her eyelids fluttered, and she groaned again. Gradually, she opened her eyes and blearily gazed around at her surroundings. She blinked several times, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. Still seated in her gilded carriage—two empty goblets at her feet—she tried to puzzle out the night’s events, a worried crease in her brow. Her mouth worked furiously as her gaze rested on a supine wine bottle, teetering precariously on the edge of the bench across from her.
Intelligence was not one of Hattie’s charming attributes—although one could argue Hattie possessed no positive qualities whatsoever. Indeed, even without the mental challenges she faced, the amount of opium Hattie had ingested in her glass of wine would ensure her memory remained a hazy outline of events.
A spark in her eyes indicated the moment her mind processed a
recollection. She gasped and twisted to her left, checking on her husband, who she remembered began the evening with her. At first, she assumed he was merely intoxicated—passed out with his limbs sprawled in an ungentlemanly position. She shook him once, then a second time, less gently than the first, fury crossing her face. Reaching her hand back to slap his swollen face, she realized her wrists were bound. Pale terror washed through her cheeks, visible in the carriage shadows. A loud cry, wounded and fearful, echoed through the tiny barn.
She struggled to stand and bumped the top of her head against the carriage roof. Finding her feet immovable, Hattie bent over with a grunt. In the dimness, she squinted at her shoes, running her fingers lightly over the rope which bound her ankles to the carriage floor. A shriek of anguish escaped her colorless lips. Wobbling, Hattie lost her balance and toppled backward, landing inelegantly on the bench cushion, a cloud of hay dust puffing into the air.
Hattie sneezed once, her lashed hands flying to her face in an effort to stop the barrage of sneezing which followed. Twisting in her seat, her gaze fell on a pile of hay bales, stacked neatly in the corner. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, and she sneezed again, rubbing her nose on the back of her hand.
“Hattie.” Franklin, acknowledged her with a grotesque grin as he stepped into a pool of light. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Are you enjoying your evening?”
“Franklin.” She gasped, startled by his voice, her eyes flying around the barn, seeking him. “Help me.”
“What of your dear husband?”
She glanced sideways at Horace, peaceful in his deadly repose, and returned her gaze with a snarl. “What did you do?”
Franklin slowly shook his head, clucking in response. “My question first Hattie. Where are your manners?”
“No.” She accompanied the word with a withering scowl. “I am not having a pleasant evening. I woke to find myself tied up in my carriage and abandoned in a filthy barn, filled with bales of hay.” She growled the final word, fighting a sneeze which tickled her nose.
Cocking his head to the side, Franklin studied Hattie with morbid curiosity, his mouth stretched wide, black eyes glittering with malice. She deflated under his hard scrutiny, shrinking back against the bench carefully, so as not to brush against her deceased husband.
“The most egregious act I have committed this evening was hiding your body in a barn,” he said, tapping the tips of his fingers together. He rocked on the balls of his feet, hovering between light and shadow. “Extraordinary. Have you no feeling for your husband? Do you not wish to know how his demise came to be? What of your poor, orphaned niece? Do you not care about her fate either?”
“Wretched girl,” Hattie burst out, stomping her foot on the carriage floor. “If this whole predicament is due to a grievance you have with Charlotte, I suggest you kidnap her. Carry out whatever disgusting atrocity you wish on her person. We will ignore this terrible travesty which has befallen my poor Horace.”
Franklin raised an eyebrow in surprise. Hattie did not know the family secret—the truth behind Charlotte’s lineage; Lillian held her promise and her tongue. Perhaps she earned a reprieve for her son—Mr. Robert Shirely and his friends were due a horrendous punishment for interfering with Franklin’s second attempt to take Samantha’s life. Even so, Lillian’s cooperation did not earn Mr. Shirely’s friends a reprieve.
How many more chances would he find to exact his revenge upon Samantha, especially with the return of her overzealous fiancé, Lord Westwood?
The recovery of the Hastings jewelry was truly becoming a chore. He should have smothered Samantha the night of her parents’ final party when he had the opportunity. Little imp. Franklin knew she was trouble from the moment he discovered her crouched behind a pot on the stairwell.
After the party concluded, he crept back into the townhouse, a silent silhouette of rage. But he could not press the pillow over Samantha’s sweet face, so much was her resemblance to her mother, Rebecca. Franklin remembered gazing down at the mass of auburn curls spread behind Samantha’s head like a halo and found himself imagining Rebecca descending the stairs on his arm, instead of Matthew’s. He watched Samantha sleep a few minutes, wondering how different she would appear were she his child. Hopefully, Samantha would retain all the wonderful qualities of her mother’s beauty and grace. His chest throbbed unexpectedly.
Rebecca’s abrupt demise unnerved him. Why did she relinquish her life? He asked the question repeatedly over the past ten years, and each time he arrived at the same conclusion. There was no answer—until Samantha’s callous remark. Was it possible Rebecca truly loved Matthew? Could one die of a broken heart? He certainly did not. He survived Rebecca’s rejection, transforming into something more powerful, something greater.
Rebecca. After all this time, her name still drew a sigh from his lips. All the other ladies were simply distractions, dalliances to fill the emptiness. Not one of them compared to Rebecca—including the woman currently seated in front of him, knotting her fingers nervously in her lap.
“It is very kind of you to offer someone else to suffer in your stead. However, I believe Miss Randall would much rather remain in her new living arrangements.” Franklin smirked, flashing his teeth.
“What living arrangements?” Hattie asked in confusion.
“Miss Randall is currently residing at the Westwood Estate. Given the distraught nature of her highly excitable maid, Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid whisked Miss Randall away from her cottage as soon as they learned of your disappearance.”
“I do not understand.” The furrow in Hattie’s forehead increased. “Why have you abducted me?”
Grinning, Franklin sauntered closer to the carriage, resting his arm on the window frame. He leaned forward, conspiracy on his lips. “Lillian knows our secret,” he whispered, watching the color drain from Hattie’s face a second time.
Hattie swallowed apprehensively and shook her head so violently, it looked as though she went into convulsions. “No, it is not possible. I never told anyone, not even Horace.” She muttered a few more words and turned toward Horace as if questioning his confidentiality.
“Hattie,” Franklin called softly, his satin voice seductively washed through the carriage. “I am not finished speaking with you. Look at me.”
Reluctantly Hattie twisted her body until she faced Franklin again, her eyes rising to his smoldering gaze. Humiliation beaded sweat across her forehead. “How does Lillian know?” asked Hattie, her lower lip trembling.
“Someone had to pay the doctor,” Franklin replied, his lip curled into a sneer.
Shock vibrated through Hattie’s chest. “I thought you did. You told me you would take care of everything.”
“And so I did.” The sneer stretched tightly over Franklin’s depraved mouth.
“I could not keep it,” Hattie whined, her body trembling, a mountain of shivering blubber. “It would have ruined my engagement to Horace. Look what happened to Lillian after Della returned in that delicate state. Lillian’s fiancé ended their engagement—‘a scandalous family’ he called us. We would have been destitute without Horace’s money.”
Franklin spat in disgust. He ripped opened the carriage door and leapt into the carriage, growling. Slamming the door closed behind him, he flung the wine bottle at the wall behind Hattie. It exploded, raining bits of glass and red drops of wine onto Hattie’s hair. She flinched but remained seated on her cushion.
“Always thinking about money,” he said. Reclining on the bench across from Hattie, his mouth crooked into a half-smile. “You were not always so concerned about finances. I can remember a time when you only thought of passion.”
“That was many years ago, Franklin.” Hattie flushed and glanced at her hands. “I am no longer that woman.”
“Such a pity.” Franklin clucked with a playful shake of his head.
“You would not have married me,” said Hattie, softly.
She was searching for reassurance, something to grasp onto to ease he
r fear. Franklin tilted his head and destroyed her hope, expelling the secret Lillian had withheld from her sister all these years. “Certainly not. If I refused to marry Della, why would I marry you?”
“D-D-Della?” said Hattie, her face paled. “Why would you need to marry Della?”
Franklin leaned closer until his breath caressed Hattie’s ghostly countenance. “Do not be so conceited to believe you are the only Randall sister I seduced.”
Hattie’s mouth popped open, like a fish gasping for air. “When?”
“Sometime before you informed me of your pregnancy,” Franklin mocked, threading his fingers through Hattie’s hands.
“And Charlotte?” Hattie swallowed.
“Miss Randall is the result of that union.”
Hattie gasped, yanking her bound hands from underneath Franklin’s grasp. “Please do not tell Charlotte, it would devastate her. She deserves a chance at happiness, not to be connected to someone as monstrous as you.”
“Lillian stated those exact words to me when I revealed to her that I was Miss Randall’s father. She refused my paternal claim, preferring to leave Miss Randall in your capable hands.” Franklin snorted. “She paid me handsomely for my silence.”
Stunned, Hattie remained motionless, unable to speak.
“I am surprised by your concern for Miss Randall, Hattie. The rumors regarding your maternal character are not gracious. I believe Miss Randall has suffered numerous injustices by your hand. I fail to see how I could damage her character any further. I met Miss Randall at the Shirely masque last evening—an extraordinary young woman. Do not worry, Hattie, I did not reveal her true lineage… yet.” He tilted his head again, his calculating eyes assessing Hattie. Callously he sneered, “Miss Randall is extremely beautiful, as was her mother. Thankfully, she did not receive your coloring.”
Hattie’s eyes exploded. “How dare you!” she snarled, her mouth barely able to form the words to express her indignation.
Franklin leaned forward, trailing one long, cold finger down Hattie’s burning cheek. She shivered, vibrating with anger. Retracting his hand thoughtfully, Franklin smiled, his face distorted by half-shadows. “We had some pleasurable occasions together, do you not remember?” He cooed softly, drawing on years of inbred genteel manners. Hattie returned his smile faintly, her tongue silenced by his mesmerizing stare.
