Rutherford had laid his trap well, silently waiting for its jaws to spring closed around Clara as if she were some unfortunate animal.
The baron’s gravelly voice grew louder, disrupting her melancholy train of thought.
“You look lovely today, Miss Mayfield.”
Before thinking better of it, she glanced up to see his mouth curved upwards in what could only be described as a leer. It did not surprise her that he was enjoying her discomfort. Clara merely disregarded his compliment with a dismissive raise of her brows. His steely gray gaze sharpened.
“So, my lord, the arrangements are all in place for the wedding,” said her mother abruptly in an awkward attempt at conversation. “We’ve hired an orchestra, and the weather should be fine, so we will have tables and chairs on the back lawn—”
“That sounds delightful, Mrs. Mayfield,” interrupted the baron without taking his eyes off his betrothed.
Clara’s mother could certainly detect the simmering hostility, but persevered anyway. “Clara’s dress is beautiful and just arrived yesterday. I had it made in Paris at this wonderful little shop . . . they even rushed to finish it in time. No expense spared,” she said proudly. “White satin and lace, with tiny pearls . . .”
Mrs. Mayfield trailed off as she observed her daughter’s increased pallor. Clara squirmed uncomfortably, aware that she had begun to sweat. She tried to discreetly wipe her palms on the couch. What would happen if she jumped up and started yelling gibberish while waving her hands about? Would they care that she had been driven to such madness? Even better, would it end this farce of an engagement?
“And what of you, Miss Mayfield? Are you prepared?” He was no longer even trying to sound friendly. Clara knew he wanted to intimidate her, but it was shocking that he was doing it openly in front of her parents.
“I prefer not to think about it,” she snapped, and was rewarded with her father’s sharp intake of breath, but she refused to feel badly for being impolite. Her only regret in all this was that her behavior vexed her parents, although they would be more than vexed by tomorrow morning for sure . . .
Suddenly Clara felt ill. She stood abruptly.
“May I be excused?” she asked, hoping not to cast her crumpets in front of the baron. He’d be certain to take that a sign that he’d won.
Her mother’s brow wrinkled in a flash of concern before arching once more with a forced smile. “No, my darling,” she replied in a soothing tone. “You must stay until we are finished speaking with Lord Rutherford.”
Slowly, Clara sat back down on the couch and smoothed her skirts, trying to hide her trembling hands. She looked up and caught the baron watching her every movement. It made her shudder.
“Forgive her, my lord. Clara has always been an unconventional girl,” her father excused. “She takes great interest in matters of the estate. Why, I’ve often discovered her making rounds with my land steward, much to my dismay,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But she does enjoy getting her hands dirty every now and then.”
Rutherford scoffed. “She is a girl no longer, and will certainly not be getting her hands dirty on my estate. I expect her to behave as a baroness should.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed to slits. He would seek to control everything about her, she was sure.
Mr. Mayfield blinked, then continued. “Certainly, my lord. You will find Clara to be a cheerful and complacent bride despite the quirks of her personality. It may take time, but love so often does.”
The thought of love with such a man made her skin crawl.
“She can be willful, but indeed wouldn’t you say that is part of her charm, my lord?” added her mother.
Clara glanced at the baron, who trapped her gaze.
“Indeed,” he said with a mirthless smile that shook her to her core. He rose abruptly, and Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield struggled to stand quickly as well. Clara stood hopefully, ready to dash out the door, but her fiancé stayed her with a look. “I’d like to have a word alone with my bride now, if you please.”
Her father nodded and bowed, quickly escorting Mrs. Mayfield towards the door. “Certainly, my lord.”
Clara shot a pleading look at her mother, whose brow furrowed slightly just as the door closed between them. She didn’t think her mother fully grasped her abhorrence of this man. Attempting a brave countenance, she cleared her throat and faced Rutherford, who stared at her in barely concealed rancor. A jolt of alarm shook her already unsteady frame.
Perhaps a little politeness might hasten this meeting along. She attempted to switch tactics.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked lightly, approaching the sideboard.
His expression remained unchanged. “No. I would not.” She did not hear him step across the carpet, but suddenly his voice was right near her ear. “I want my wits about me when you finally submit.”
Immediately, all thoughts of politeness vanished. She whirled around. “Well then, I suppose you’re giving up drinking altogether?”
His teeth clenched noticeably, but he only smiled. “It will take far less time than you think, pet. And I will enjoy every second.” He regarded her. “Tell me, how does it feel to know you are already mine? Is it upsetting to see how eagerly your father accepted my proposal, as I’d told you he would?”
“I am not yours,” Clara seethed, her fingers curling into fists. “And as for my father, I think he ended up having very little choice in the matter.”
“By design. While you waited on the edges, hoping for someone, anyone, to court you during the season, I was watching in anticipation. Reveling in your every rejection.” He closed the final distance between them and seized her shoulders in a punishing grip. “You will learn to yield. You will learn to be grateful. Especially in my bed—”
Before she could even flinch, he crushed his mouth against hers. Clara cried in revulsion and raised her fists against his chest, and once again she was surprised at the strength a man of his age could possess. She struggled to twist her face away, but he followed each way she turned. At last, he released her, and she took a step backwards to slap him soundly across the face. He instantly countered by grabbing her throat and squeezing tightly.
“You will learn to yield,” he repeated slowly.
She clawed at his hand, struggling to breathe and eyes blown wide with panic.
“Stop,” she rasped. “Please—”
The vice-like pressure around her neck was removed, and she fell against the wall, gulping in huge breaths of air.
“See?” he spat, tugging on his jacket. “You’re learning already.”
He proceeded across the room to throw open the door without giving her another glance. Clara massaged her neck, her thoughts hurtling wildly. She was supposed to be safe here. This was her family’s drawing room, her home, where she and Lucy had played as children, and had grown into womanhood.
Her gaze flitted across the familiar paintings, her favorite green settee, the heavy patterned draperies beside the windows. It all felt wrong now, somehow. As if his violation of her here had challenged her very notion of home.
It needed to be safe. She needed to be safe.
Clara’s resolve to flee grew stronger. Seeing what he was truly like, she couldn’t help but wonder if Rutherford’s previous wife had exited this world in an effort to escape his cruelty—or if he had sent her packing early.
She would not be lingering to discover the truth of it for herself.
Clara felt nearly blind in the darkness, but could see the soft rays of moonlight illuminate the gleaming satin of her wedding dress. It hung silently in the corner of her room like the hovering wraith of the bride she was to become.
She sat perched on the edge of her bed, had sat there for many hours, listening to the sound of crickets chirping outside. She had once thought the crickets’ song sweet, but after listening tonight it somehow sounded sad; like the end of summer, like a hundred tiny good-byes.
Clara was wearing one of Abigail’s dresses. Definite
ly not normal nighttime attire, but this was not a normal night. It was the end of a long struggle for her. The struggle of wanting to do right by her family, but incapable of sacrificing herself to the baron to do it.
She wished he’d been a different man. Maybe then she could have made peace with her fate. Remorse coursed through her. Standing, she went to her desk. She opened a drawer with unsteady hands and unfolded the letter inside.
I cannot do this. I’m sorry. I love you.
—Clara
The room became blurry with fresh tears as she refolded the note and pinned it to her wedding dress for her mother to find. She was careful not to damage the delicate fabric, for despite her complaints against the groom, the gown really was beautiful.
Clara loved her parents, and knew they had been devastated by Lucy’s marriage. What was more, she knew they missed her, and longed to see the daughter they had lost. Their world would shatter one more time tomorrow morning upon discovering Clara’s own flight from home, and while she wished to avoid causing them more pain and humiliation, she could not see how.
Leaning over, she retrieved a small satchel and her coin purse of saved funds. As she did, she caught sight of herself in her looking glass. Haunted eyes, her mother’s eyes, admonished her in the gloom. Surely she didn’t have the strength to break from the only family she’d known and loved. There was no guarantee that the strange world outside would have any more love for her, after all . . .
She touched the faint bruise the baron had left on her throat and turned abruptly.
She did not have the luxury, or the time, for second thoughts.
Shaking her head to clear it, she strode swiftly across her room and threw open the windows. The fragrant breeze of late summer engulfed her as she leaned out, one of her tears making the jump before she did to the carefully sculpted greenery below.
About the Author
MARIE TREMAYNE graduated from the University of Washington with a B.A. in English Language and Literature. While there, a copy of Pride and Prejudice ended up changing her life. She decided to study the great books of the Regency and Victorian eras, and now enjoys writing her own tales set in the historical period she loves. Marie lives with her family in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.
www.marietremayne.com
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By Marie Tremayne
The Reluctant Brides Series
Lady in Waiting
The Viscount Can Wait
Waiting for a Rogue
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Lady in Waiting copyright © 2018 by Marie Tremayne.
waiting for a rogue. Copyright © 2019 by Marie Tremayne. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition JULY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-274741-9
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-274742-6
Cover design by Patricia Barrow
Cover art by Christine Ruhnke
Cover photographs © Oleksandr Kavun/Shutterstock (woman); © Ververidis Vasilis/Shutterstock (steps)
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Avon and HarperCollins are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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