by Sofia Daniel
Rolling back to my nest of pillows, I turned my gaze to Blake, not wanting to continue gaping at his mother.
Blake sat up and scowled. “You could have called.”
“And missed another one of your antics? Does Henry know of your new proclivity for battering women, or will he read about it in another article of the Sunday Correspondent?”
I bit down on my lip. Did she really think Blake was in a relationship with Henry just because she saw the pictures of them together?
Blake’s nostrils flared. “Saturday.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What did you say?”
“It’s the Saturday Correspondent, Mother,” he spat the last word like an insult.
I pushed myself up. “Ummmm…”
Mrs. Simpson-West’s eyes softened. “Yes, dear?”
“I don’t know how to address you.”
“Lucia.” She gave me a tight smile.
“The Duchess of Surrey,” said a middle-aged man in a black uniform who I suspected was the servant who had tried twice to enter the room. “Or Ma’am.”
My insides cringed. The English said the word a little differently to Americans, and I didn’t want to offend her by pronouncing it wrong. And I didn’t want to ask if I needed to call her Lady Lucia in front of the servants and detectives. Blake’s silk pajamas covered my body, but everyone could see what had become of my face.
I gave myself a mental slap. None of this mattered. If I didn’t speak up for Blake, he’d probably get sent to rehab or have to suffer some other unnecessary penance. “I got abducted by two men last night, and Blake risked his life to save me.”
Confusion twisted her elegant features, and she turned to Blake and crossed her arms. I caught sight of her white knuckles, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes and guessed that she was about to ask why he had risked his life for someone he didn’t know.
Actually, Mrs. Simpson-West looked the type to object to Blake bringing a stray to the palace, so I blurted out, “I’m not a stranger. My name’s Emilia Hobson. I’m—”
“Rudolph Trommel’s new stepdaughter,” she said.
“Yes.” My brows drew together. Did she know Rudolph, or had Blake spoken to his mother about me? “And I’m Blake’s classmate.”
“And the girl who accompanies me to Narcotics Anonymous meetings,” added Blake.
All traces of irritation melted away from Mrs. Simpson-West’s face. “Who did this to you?”
“Peter Underwood, the son of the recently resigned Secretary of State for the Supreme Court, and Ernest Carbuncle, the school janitor.”
“Are they in custody yet?”
“Only Mr. Underwood the younger,” replied Blake. “Carbuncle’s still at large.”
Mrs. Simpson-West twisted around and addressed a female servant who had held a jug of water on a tray as a pretext to enter Blake’s room to eavesdrop. The woman nodded and scurried away.
I glanced at Blake, who shrugged. It looked like he didn’t know what his mother was planning, either. She strode up to a young detective, who was built a little like Henry, and spoke to him in soft, flirtatious tones. This time, when I turned to Blake, he scowled. Hadn’t Henry told me that the prince had found Mrs. Simpson-West in bed with the chauffeur?
A moment later, the female servant entered and gave Blake’s mother a jar. She sashayed around to the bed, dropped it on the bedside table, and examined the labels of my painkillers and sleeping pills. “This is a fast-acting bruise salve, mixed by one of the foremost herbal scientists in the country. I can vouch for its efficacy.”
My stomach churned with a mixture of apprehension and revulsion. Why would she still need bruise salve if Blake’s father had died four years ago? Blake’s body stiffened at my side, and I couldn’t meet his gaze. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he had made the same speculations about his mother’s relationship with the prince.
I gazed into Mrs. Simpson-West’s face but couldn’t find a single bruise. “Th-thank you.”
She swept out of the room in a cloud of Coco Chanel, taking away her entourage of detectives and nosy servants. As she stepped out of the door, she cast Blake a withering look. “And for God’s sake, don’t let Henry know about your little indiscretion unless you want to end up with a face like Emilia’s!”
My mouth dropped open, and I exchanged a shocked glance with Blake, who rolled his eyes. Did she really think Henry would strike a friend?
The door clicked shut, and my tongue darted out to moisten the undamaged side of my lips. “Blake, do you—”
“Are you thirsty?” He shot out of bed and raced around to the side table, where the female servant had left a jug of water and two glasses. His gaze flickered to the clock. “It’s noon. Time for your painkiller.”
My shoulders drooped, and I settled into the nest of pillows. If he didn’t want to talk about his mother’s need for bruise salve, I wouldn’t bring up the subject.
The door slammed open, and Henry and Edward burst into the room. As soon as their gazes caught mine, their bodies, and expressions, froze.
My heart sank, and I pulled the silk sheet up around my neck. “Is it that bad?”
“Surprising.” Edward enunciated each syllable as though careful not to say the wrong thing. “Blake told us this morning. We came as soon as we could but got delayed at security.” He stretched his lips into a bland smile, but it did nothing to hide the pain etched on his features.
I glanced at Henry, who gaped as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. After stepping further into the room, he shut the door but didn’t move any closer than the foot from the bed. His skin had turned white, and his chest rose and fell like bellows. It was much like the time in the dining room when Coates had twisted Blake in a wrist lock, except this time, there was no one to punch in the face.
Edward walked over to my side of the bed, gave me a peck on the unbruised side of my mouth, and stroked my temple as though I might crumble. His stormy, blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he leaned down and kissed me again.
“Thank heavens Blake found you in time.” His voice was breathy, like he was trying to hold his emotions down. “I don’t know what I would do if—” He shook his head and lowered himself into the bedside chair.
“The doctor prescribed an effective painkiller.” I reached out a hand and curled it around Edward’s. “As long as I take it every four hours, I’ll be comfortable.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded. “How are you cop—”
“You should have seen Blake last night.” I couldn’t face rehashing last night or facing my feelings. Talking about what Mr. Carbuncle had done and how helpless I had felt would only make me feel worse. It was far easier to recount Blake’s heroic rescue. “He climbed over all the balconies, searching through all the windows for me with his flashlight.”
Blake slipped into bed next to me and rubbed the back of his neck. “My smartphone flash.”
I curled my fingers around Blake’s. “Then he punched a hole through the window and pulled me out.”
He shook his head. “Emilia climbed out by herself. I only helped her land on her feet.”
“Then he carried me on piggyback and sprinted through the balconies with Mr. Carbuncle at our heels.”
Blake stared back at me with his brows furrowed. “You missed the part where I jumped over those barriers.”
I huffed a laugh. Lightning bolts of pain wrapped around my ribs, making me groan and clutch at my sides.
Henry punched his fist into his palm. “Those bastards. If I ever get my hands on Carbuncle, he’ll be eating his meals through a straw and shitting through a colostomy bag.”
“Language,” said Edward. He brought my hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to my knuckles. “How did you know where to find Emilia?”
I blinked several times and stared at Blake, who gazed at Henry with furrowed brows. That was something I had also wondered about before the painkillers had dulled my thoughts.
Blake explained
how he had arrived at Chelsea Heights to find a group of girls in party clothes wandering around the top floor and searching through the fire exits. I supposed those were the interns who had ridden in the back of Tom’s van. As soon as he discovered there was no number sixteen, he approached the girls, working out that the invitation had been a trap. While the reporters were liaising with the police, Blake knocked on doors until he found someone who recognized him from the papers and was willing to let him in to search the balconies.
All throughout the explanation, Henry stood at the foot of the bed, staring at me with anguish in his green eyes. I couldn’t tell if he would burst into tears, fall onto his knees, or smash the room up. He was clearly the most disturbed of the triumvirate and doing the worst job of holding back his feelings.
A soft knock reverberated on the door, and Henry broke away to see who wanted to come in. He opened it to reveal Nurse Priya, dressed in her navy blue uniform.
“Miss Hobson?” she said. “I’m here to check your dressings.”
“Right.” Blake rolled out of bed and stood in his silk pajama bottoms.
Nurse Priya turned her head and sucked in her cheeks while Blake padded to a mahogany closet and found a robe. He moved onto the dresser, where he pulled out another set of silk pajamas and placed them on the end of the bed before leaving with Henry and Edward.
I pushed my hands onto the mattress and swung out of bed, but a band of agony wrapped around my entire torso and made my muscles seize. Nurse Priya rushed forward and supported my body. When my feet hit the soft carpet, every single bruise screamed with protest, making me hiss through my teeth.
In Blake’s luxurious, marble bathroom, things became worse. An unfeasibly large, purple-black eye stretched across my entire left socket, the start of the bridge of my nose, and ended at my cheekbone. I was lucky he hadn’t broken my nose with the force of his punch. Most of the swelling concentrated in the area under the eye, but the rest of the left side of my face puffed and pulled the swollen part of my upper lip down into a permanent expression of melancholy. I looked as though I had developed an oversized jowl.
Dark fingermarks marred my neck from where Mr. Carbuncle had strangled me, and red streaks covered the rest of the skin. The bastard’s fingernails had also dug into my flesh, leaving crescent-shaped scabs. If he had held onto my neck for much longer, I would have—I turned from the mirror and let out several gasping breaths.
“Miss Hobson?” asked the nurse.
“I’m fine.” The words came out in a gasp. “Just shocked.”
“I can perform a bed bath if you’re not yet comfortable with seeing the rest of your body,” she said.
I gulped. Was she saying that because of what she had seen last night as she put me into the gown, or because of how I had reacted to the sight of my face? “I-I can manage.”
When Nurse Priya took off the bandages and revealed my purple skin, I hissed through my teeth and jerked away from the mirror. These bruises must have happened when Charlotte’s brother had dragged me down the stairs. I don’t remember Mr. Carbuncle hitting me so many times and in so many places that the bruises would have covered me everywhere.
She showed me the kind of tepid water best suited for the early days of bruising and advised me not to turn the shower onto the hottest settings for another two days unless I wanted even more burst blood vessels. I thanked her and climbed into the shower, letting the cool water run over my skin. Everything felt too sore and too raw to apply shower gel, so I didn’t stay long and winced as I dried myself off.
The nurse redressed my wounds, helped me into Blake’s silk pajamas, and back into the nest of pillows. Just before she left, I asked, “Mrs. Simpson-West said I should use her bruise ointment. What do you think?”
“Wait a few days before applying it, as some of its ingredients might aggravate your open wounds. But it should be fine to rub a small amount on your face four times a day.”
“Thanks.”
She paused at the door, and her gaze flickered from my face to the carpeted floor.
My brows drew together. “Was there anything else?”
“The abduction made the front page of the papers.” Before I could react, she added, “Your name wasn’t mentioned, but the article said that Mr. Carbuncle was caught sexually assaulting a girl in Mercia Academy, whose parents are pressing charges. And other girls are coming forward with complaints.”
“Oh.” I stared into her dark eyes.
“I brought the morning-after pill and an STD test kit. It won’t take—”
“H-he didn’t go that far,” I said. “I mean, he groped me over my clothes and threatened to rape me, but the other man stopped it.”
Her gaze dropped to a spot on the end of the bed. “But you were unconscious for some time in your abductors’ presence…”
Revulsion shuddered through my belly. Surely, I would have noticed something. Both times I had slept with Edward, I’d felt a pleasant ache afterward. If Mr. Carbuncle had done something to me while I’d been knocked out, I would definitely have felt something. Or he would have gloated about it, at least.
“I didn’t feel strange down there when I woke up.”
Nurse Priya drew back. “Very well. Everything is healing as it should. I will return tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
As the door clicked shut, a mantle of unease settled over my shoulder and seeped into my skin, casting the explanation I’d given the nurse into doubt. Charlotte’s brother had been the one to drag me to the apartment. He didn’t seem the type to violate a woman while she was unconscious or to allow a man to do it in his presence, but what the hell did I know about him?
I would have to call Jackie to see if she or her interns had noticed anything untoward in the footage.
Chapter 19
Later that evening, I insisted that the boys return to the academy. Three pairs of eyes on my hideous face, combined with Henry oscillating between shock and fury, Edward scheming about how to get even with Charlotte and Carbuncle, and Blake’s over-attentiveness was too much for me in my current state. The painkillers dulled my senses, and after the shower, the bruises had hardened, making it difficult to speak. Henry and Edward left, promising to call every day, while Blake remained. It was his bedroom, after all.
We spent Monday in silk pajamas, sitting on his chaise lounge with my back leaned against his chest and my head resting on his shoulder. Blake wrapped his arms around me and read stanzas from the poem Don Juan, by Lord Byron. With his perfect, British pronunciation, he brought the work to life, making me giggle at the naughty parts.
I twisted around and gazed into his chocolate-brown eyes, noticing for the first time their flecks of golden brown. “You’re a bit like Lord Byron.”
His dark brows rose, and a smile curved his full lips. “How so?”
“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
Blake’s low, deep chuckle vibrated against my back, and he ran a hand down the silk fabric covering my hip. “Don’t you think Edward’s more byronic than me?”
“Byronic, yes. When I first met him, he was mysterious and moody.” I smirked. “You both have Lord Byron qualities.”
He placed a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I’ll consider that the ultimate compliment. Especially since he had a proclivity for getting ladies into trouble.”
I dipped my head and laughed so hard, my ribs ached. Then Blake put down his copy of Don Juan and changed the subject. It turned out that we had more in common than I’d originally thought. Both our fathers had been addicts who had disgraced themselves in the papers, and both our mothers had been models who had married rich. We’d both had our childhoods blighted by divorce, and neither of us had a place we considered home.
During a lull in the conversation, I told Blake what Nurse Priya had said.
His face clouded. “You have to call Tom or Tola and ask to see the footage.”
“I don’t think I can relive that just yet.” I glanced down at my hands. The
rope marks on my wrists had already faded into dull streaks of pink.
Blake wrapped his arms around me and pressed a kiss on my temple. “Sorry, I didn’t think. If the story has already hit the news, maybe one of those interns has already seen all the footage. Who do you normally speak to at the newspaper?”
I got hold of Jackie, who confirmed that neither man had taken off my clothes or sexually assaulted me while I had been unconscious. She sounded a little distant, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she felt bad about what had happened to me or disappointed because Blake had rescued me before the abduction could progress into a more sensational story. She didn’t mention Rudolph, and I didn’t ask. As far as I was concerned, I was done with the Saturday Correspondent.
On Wednesday, Nurse Priya uncovered my bandages to find that the bruises had healed a lot quicker than she had anticipated, and later that evening, Dr. Chumley-Stokes visited to give me a final check up.
He drew back from my ribcage and smiled. “Ah, the benefits of youth!”
My cheeks warmed as the nurse replaced my bandages. “I also started using Mrs. Simpson-West’s bruise salve yesterday.”
He grunted his approval. “Marvelous stuff. Well, I’m delighted with your progress. Continue taking the pain-killers every four hours, but refrain from sports or any strenuous activity until you obtain the approval of the academy doctor.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor stood and opened the door.
Blake stepped into the room. “What’s the verdict?”
“Miss Hobson is well enough to return to the academy.” He clapped Blake on the shoulder and left with the nurse.
On Thursday morning, I lay in the back of his mother’s Rolls Royce, stretched out on the seat with my head on Blake’s lap. I smiled into Blake’s adoring gaze, my heart warm and giddy that he was now looking me full in the face. Most of the swelling on the left side of my mouth had faded, and my gaze flickered down to Blake’s lips.
