Lord Deverill's Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  Still the earl did not move toward her nor did he answer her question.

  Arabella, with a light, dancing step, skipped to him, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet. She laid her hands on his shoulders, felt the smooth flesh beneath her fingers, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed him.

  His hands moved to her arms, and suddenly, with no warning, he shoved her away from him. She staggered back, clutched the back of a chair, and stared at him, mouth agape, stunned with confusion. “Justin? What is wrong? What happened? Didn’t you want me to kiss you?” He wanted to kill her. No, he couldn’t do that. But he would make her suffer. He would hurt her as she had hurt him. He said in a very precise voice that was colder than the winter frost of the previous winter, “You will take off your nightgown. You will do it now and you will do it quickly.”

  Now she understood. Men were men, her father had told her that men got foxed at the oddest times. “Justin, if you have been drinking, I would just as soon that we did not—” Her voice fell like a stone from a cliff as he strode toward her. She saw the taut, angry cords standing out in his neck. She saw the fury in his gray eyes.

  Fury?

  At her? What was going on here? He should be as excited as she was. He had loved kissing her, pressing her close. He had told her that he wanted her breasts against his chest. Now was his chance. It was his wedding night as well as hers. Why was he angry?

  “Do as I tell you, you damned slut, or I will rip it off you.” Slut? He had just called her a slut. She could but stare at him. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly, eyeing him as she backed away from him, and stood behind a very large winged chair. “Please, what is the matter? Why did you call me that? How could I be a slut? I’m eighteen and married for only five hours. I’m a virgin. More than that, I’m your wife.” There was no mistaking the raw fury in his eyes, in the way he held himself. He said nothing. He stalked her. She didn’t understand what was wrong, but she wasn’t stupid. She ran to the other side of the chair.

  Soon he had cornered her behind a dressing table set close to the wall.

  She held out her hands in front of her. “Justin, stop this, please. If this is a game, I do not understand the rules. I don’t like this game. My father never told me that it could be like this.” He laughed, a raw harsh laugh that brought fear hard and deep into her.

  Something was very wrong. He was furious with her and she had no idea why.

  He grabbed her suddenly, but she jerked her arm free, whirled about and raced to the door. She was very fast. Fear did that. Oh God, the door wouldn’t open. She turned it wildly first one way, then the other, but it wouldn’t move. Damn, what was wrong? The key. He’d locked the door. Her palms were sweaty. She grabbed that key and wrenched at it. She felt him standing behind her, watching her. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of hair and began to wind it about his hand, pulling slowly, inexorably, until she cried out in pain and stumbled back against his chest. He jerked her about with his other hand to face him.

  For a very long time, he simply stared down at her. Then, very quietly, he said, “You will do what I told you to do and you will do it this instant. You really don’t want to know what I will do if you refuse me.” Instinctively she realized that she could not reason with him, that he was beyond reason, he was beyond her and who and what she was to him. She could only try to save herself. She gritted her teeth against the stabbing pain in her scalp and brought her knee up and forward with all her strength. She connected with his hard thigh. He’d been too fast for her.

  His eyes were nearly black with fury. He would strike her now. She tensed, awaiting the blow. Instead, he drew a deep breath and jerked at her hair, bringing her face to within inches of his own. He looked down at her, looked directly into her eyes, eyes so much like his, and said quietly, “I presume your esteemed father taught you that trick to bring a man low. It would have been the worse for you had you succeeded, you know. You would have made me very angry then. You would have invited me to wring your treacherous neck.”

  “Justin.” She felt numb, her mind empty and blank of other words.

  In a swift, violent motion he released her hair, dug his fingers into the ruffled lace about her throat, and ripped downward with a force that doubled her forward. The sharp rending of satin filled the silence of the room, and Arabella looked down stupidly at her gown, torn from her throat to her ankles. Before she could react, he jerked the gown from her shoulders, tearing apart the small buttons from her wrists. She saw the satin-covered buttons bounce and roll about the carpet near the remnants of her nightgown. She felt his eyes sweep over her, staring first at her breasts, then lower, at her belly. She was finally shocked into action at the awareness of her impotence. Without thought, she balled her hand into a fist and with all her might struck at his face.

  He blocked her arm before it reached his jaw. He said in a very calm, low voice, “You wish to fight me, do you, madam?” Yesterday, he had spoken to her with barely banked excitement, his voice tender and yet wonderfully demanding. She’d responded fully to him, yesterday. But not now. His voice sounded calm, yes, but dead as well. So dead it made her die inside. He grasped her about the waist and flung her hard over his shoulder.

  Arabella pounded at his back, knowing it did little good. He was a man, strong and fit and she had no chance against him. He hurled her away from him, and she fell sprawled on her back on the bed, her breath knocked out of her. Even as she gasped painfully, she thought only to escape him, and clutched at the covers to scramble to the far side of the bed. She cried out as his hand grasped her ankle and gave it a wrench, flipping her again upon her back.

  “Damn you, lie still. Yes, that is much better. Now, I think it only fair that I examine my purchase.”

  Dear God, he was mad, quite mad. There was no other reason for him to do this. Surely her father would have known if the man he’d chosen for her was perverted, crazed, a man who enjoyed a woman’s pain. No, surely not.

  She yelled up at him, “Stop this, Justin. It’s madness, do you hear me?

  Why are you doing this? I won’t allow it. Let me go, damn you!” He said nothing, merely stared down at her breasts. She knew he was studying her, and he looked bored, only the rage was still burning deep and constant in his eyes. She was afraid, suddenly, very afraid.

  “Damn you, stop it!”

  “You have the language of a tavern wench. I should have guessed that it meant something more vile in you that anyone could see. Something vile and deep.”

  “Vile? What the devil is vile about me? I know I have a temper. So do you. There is nothing vile about a temper. Are you mad?”

  “Shut up,” he roared at her, not even looking at her face.

  Appalled, she again tried to jerk away from him, but quickly, he clamped his hands around her ankles.

  “Move again and I shall tie you down,” he said in a cold voice that froze her to her soul. “I have paid dearly for my inheritance and that includes having you in my bed, though I doubt there will be much pleasure for me.

  There will certainly be none for you.”

  She had to try again, she had to. She reached her hand up to touch him, but he slapped it away. “Why are you doing this, Justin? What have I done to you? Why did you call me vile? Why did you call me a slut? Please, tell me what is wrong. Surely you must know that it must be a mistake.” He was looking at her breasts, saying quietly, more to himself than to her, “I knew you would be beautiful. I knew your flesh would be as white as virgin snow. I pictured you so many times lying on your back like this with all that white flesh and your incredible black hair falling in tangles over your shoulders. I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed in your body and I’m not. I don’t want to desire you, indeed my own lust sickens me, but I will take you. God forgive me, I want to take you, now. I must do it. This damnable marriage must be consummated.” He was looking at her breasts again. She couldn’t stop their deep up and down motion. Dear God, this could not be happening to her.

 
“You asked me why I call you a slut, why I am treating you like this? You want to know why I’m not treating you like my sweet little virgin bride?

  I detest your damned lies, your protestations of innocence. Damn you, Arabella, you betrayed me. You took that damnable little French bastard as your lover, and for that, you bitch, you will pay dearly.” His hand touched her breast. She bowed off the bed, screaming. He slammed his palm over her mouth. “Surely that does not surprise you or shock you.” He lifted his hand off her. “No, I don’t believe I could bear seeing you play the whore. If I continued touching you, caressing you, you would begin to moan and cry out, would you not? No, I will get it done. As I said, there will be little enough pleasure for me and none at all for you. At least with me there will be no pleasure for you, damn you.” Abruptly he stood back from the bed and untied his dressing gown. He shrugged it from his shoulders. He stood naked before her, carefully watching her face. There was an ugly sneer on his mouth.

  Arabella stared at him. She had never before seen a naked man. By God, he was beautiful, all hard planes and hollows and corded muscles. There was no fat on him, just lean hardness. She realized she was staring, and sucked in her breath. He’d called her a whore, he’d accused her of taking the comte for her lover? That was mad, simply mad. He had talked about not touching her and had told her that he wouldn’t. She looked at the thick black hair at his groin, at his sex, hard and ready. Oh yes, she’d seen horses mate and knew very well what that meant. Surely he was too big for her. Surely he wouldn’t force her. Oh God, she hated herself, her own weakness, her fear, but still, she said, “Justin, please, what do you intend to do? You are very big. I don’t think this will work.” He looked like he would spit on her. Her rage became whole and full. “Damn you, I am a virgin! I took no lover, not even that miserable little French bastard! Who lied to you? Did Gervaise? Tell me, damn you, who told you this?” She frantically pressed her legs tightly together and brought her hands up to cover her breasts.

  “Dear God, what an actress you would have made.” He stretched, and again, she stared at him. He laughed, an ugly hoarse laugh that scared her to her toes. “You may believe me that your body will easily take my sex. Oh yes, I would wish that you cease your fiction, your damnable lies. You want to know who lied about you? I will tell you. No one told me lies about you. I saw him, I saw you, the both of you coming out of the barn, just moments apart. It was obvious what you had done.” His breathing was so harsh now she could barely make out his words.

  “Perhaps I should give you pleasure. The only thing is that you might not shout out my name when you take your release. That would be a blow to me, wouldn’t it? No, I will simply get it over with. Yell and scream and curse as you like. It will make no difference.” She could only stare at him and mutely shake her head back and forth.

  He’d seen her with the comte? Coming out of the barn? But it was impossible.

  He leaned over her, wrenched her legs apart, and straddled her. She began a silent struggle, scratching at his face, kicking up at his groin with her knees. He simply flattened her hands over her belly and held down her legs under his own. She felt his hand move between her thighs, and froze.

  He realized at that moment that he couldn’t force her—no, he couldn’t rape her and that’s what it would be—rape. He strode over to his dressing table, dipped his fingers into a pot of cream and returned to her. She was lying there on her back, her eyes disbelieving and shocked.

  “Don’t move.” To make sure, he held his palm flat on her belly. She struggled a moment, then stilled.

  She watched his finger, coated with cream, come down toward her. Then she felt that finger, coated with that cream pushing against her. Even as she struggled, trying to break his hold on her hands, she felt his finger shove inside her, moving deeper and deeper still. God, she hated it. He was alien to her, his finger a punishment. The barn? What was this about the barn?

  “Justin, please, stop this, please. Don’t hurt me. None of what you believe is true. There was no barn. I barely tolerate the comte. Why—” She screamed, a pitiful sound really, high and thin. His finger was gone.

  Now, his sex was inside her, shoving deeper and deeper. He paused an instant, grasped her hands, and jerked them over her head. With an almost tender motion he pulled the tangled strands of hair from her eyes.

  “God, I cannot believe that you have done this to me.” He pushed deep, the cream easing his way, but it wasn’t enough. The pain ripped through her. She was sobbing, feeling herself choke on her own tears, and when he paused just a moment in his mad thrusting, arrested by her maidenhead, he stared at her, sudden shock and uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Justin,” she whispered, “no.” Her body bowed with pain, her soul empty of anything she knew or understood.

  He growled deep in his throat, released her hands and dug his fingers into her hips, jerking her upward. He tore through her maidenhead and drove hard to her womb.

  It was over quickly. He was panting hard over her until suddenly he froze and she felt his seed deep inside her. A man’s release. He was over her, his head bowed, his strong arms trembling as he held himself above her. A man was inside her. Justin was inside her. Her husband had forced her, had hurt her, because he believed she and the comte were lovers.

  Arabella was drained of fight, of courage. She’d told him it wasn’t true, but he hadn’t believed her. The pain lessened a bit as he pulled slowly out of her, for his seed eased his way. Still, it hurt and she moaned, hating herself for it, but unable to hold it close in her throat.

  He wondered if he could stand, but he managed to. His fury was exhausted.

  She was staring up at him. She looked devastated. No, surely that wasn’t right. Had she expected to fool him? Well, she had, damn her. She’d been a virgin. He’d not expected that. He met her eyes, saw the pain in them, the awful awareness of what he’d done to her, and for an instant, he doubted.

  She had been a virgin. She’d told him she and the comte weren’t lovers.

  But then, clearly in his mind’s eye, he saw the comte coming out of the barn, his swaggering stride as meaningful as a man’s crow of victory. And then she had come out of the barn, disheveled, tumbled, yes, tumbled, the look of a woman who had been made love to, thoroughly and with great enjoyment. It hardened his soul against her. She was perfidious. She had betrayed him, then lied to him. He began to turn away from her, still not saying a word, but then looked down at her. Her legs were sprawled. Her virgin’s blood and his seed mixed with the white cream were on her thighs and on the bedcovers. He didn’t like himself at that moment. He had never hurt a woman in his life, never. He’d been an animal. But no, no. He’d been justified. He hadn’t hurt her overly, he’d merely taken her as a man had to take a woman to consummate the marriage. He’d been fast, gotten it over with quickly. He’d used cream. He hadn’t raped her. He would have been justified had he raped her, but he hadn’t, no, he’d merely gotten it done with.

  She’d lied to him.

  He grabbed a towel from the washbasin and tossed it to her. She made no move to catch it. It fell over her belly. “Clean yourself. You are a mess.”

  Arabella still didn’t move. She only stared at him, not really seeing him, not wanting to see him, for that would burn into her soul what he had done. He believed her capable of such deceit. It made no sense to her, but he believed it. It had made him cruel, brutal.

  He said to her with empty bitterness, “Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t any of my doing. I merely did what I had to do to secure my inheritance. I did not rape you. I used cream.” He plowed his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. “Damnation, so I was wrong about your virginity. That came as a big surprise. How very nobel of the damned comte to leave you intact for your wedding night, to grant me the honor of deflowering you. Did you convince him to leave you intact? Did you tell him that I wasn’t that big a fool? Or perhaps he was the one who didn’t want me to guess that I wasn’t your first man? He
was afraid I’d kill him outright?”

  His gray eyes narrowed. His voice continued bleak. “I want to kill the little bastard. I am thinking hard about what I shall to do him. Of course, there are certainly other ways. You have fooled me yet again, but now I understand. There are so many other ways, are there not? Did he sodomize you? Yes, very probably. And, of course you pleased him with your lovely mouth. A man—a Frenchman in particular—enjoys that as much as coming inside a woman.”

  What was he talking about? What did sodomize mean? What did he mean about her mouth? She was shaking her head. Words still seemed beyond her. She felt so very cold, so very empty.

  He laughed. A raw laugh that turned back on himself. “Well, now that your husband has claimed your maidenhead, you can take your lover in more conventional ways. My thanks, dear Arabella, for this mockery of a marriage.”

  She felt his deadly fury, winced at his damning words. Yet, they were meaningless sounds to her. How could he believe that she had a lover?

  She’d made her decision to wed him; with that decision, she’d given herself to him, only him. This made no sense. Nothing made sense, nothing except the pulling soreness inside her body. She felt curiously numb, blessedly detached from the pitiful woman who lay there, naked, legs sprawled, listening to this man who hated her.

  Her silence was a confession of guilt to him. Infuriated he grabbed up his dressing gown, flung it on. “That you betrayed me makes me want to kill both you and him. But I can’t kill you, can I? If I did, I would lose everything. You have made me pay dearly for my inheritance, an inheritance that you wanted for yourself. I only ask, dear wife, that in future you conduct your affairs with more discretion. I filled you with my seed this time. I will not do it in the future. You will have no child by me. If you do become pregnant, I will not claim the child. I will announce to the world that you carry another man’s babe—a Frenchman’s wretched get—that you are filled with another man’s seed. Believe me on this.”