by Stacy Reid
How she wished she could walk over to the earl, take his hands, and press the tips of his fingers to her temple and have every thought flow from her mind to his. Four years ago, when she had been a silly, idealistic eighteen-year-old debutante, a lecherous snake had attacked her. The visions of grasping hands, punishing kisses, brutal fingers digging into her thighs, the rending of her clothes churned in her thoughts. As always, the memory made her gorge rise, and she fought to hide the reaction.
That man, Marquess Durham, had not managed to rape her, but he had hurt, humiliated, and frightened Verity terribly. For four years she had hidden away from the memory and the shame of it all in Bedfordshire, to her mother and brother’s relief. Somehow, she knew deep down, one of the steps in reclaiming herself was to know how to fight. It was outrageous, scandalous, bordered on the brink of madness, but she needed to do something.
Lord Maschelly set his glass down on the table with a soft clink and made to walk away.
“I dare because I do not want to be afraid anymore,” she said softly.
And she would see the very brute who had attacked her within society. A beast her brother called a friend. A blackguard society loved and respected. The heir to a respectable and powerful dukedom. The very awareness of it made her want to vomit.
The earl froze and his arresting gaze landed on her. “And of what are you afraid?”
Of being helpless again, of having no one believe me or to defend my pride and honor. When she had fled to her brother, her clothes torn, her cheeks bruised and her lips bloodied, he hadn't demanded her attacker’s name to make the man pay for his crimes. Albert had asked one question with her mother looking on with tears in her eyes.
Can we force him to marry you?
As if what had happened had been a case of a compromising situation.
Her soul had recoiled at the repugnant notion. She’d answered no with all honesty for Durham had been recently married. They had not asked for her attacker’s identity, and she had been too afraid to give it, believing his conduct to be her fault. Once she’d wanted a whirlwind courtship, a handsome beau who would woo her most ardently and then propose. She had wished for it, desired it, and hoped endlessly. Suddenly all her dreams had vanished like smoke in the wind, buried under shame, doubt, and fear.
When the marquess had attacked Verity, somehow, he’d stolen her confidence and dreams, left her guilt-ridden, and it infuriated her knowing that she had allowed it for over four long years. And though her brother wanted her off his hands, it had been convenient for the family to agree for Verity to remain in the country to help nurse Aunt Imogen who had been feeling poorly for some time. No more. One of the steps in reclaiming herself was to be able to defend herself. Even if she would never use the knowledge, the fact that she could, perhaps then she would no longer scream at shadows.
“What are you afraid of?” he repeated, his tone low and curious.
“Someone…someone hurt me.” It took so much to admit that when her family had made her feel at fault. “There are consequences to youthful exuberance,” her mother had cried at one point. Taking a deep breath, Verity repeated it, only stronger this time. “Someone hurt me.”
The earl faltered into remarkable stillness, a dark expression crossing his face before his mien shuttered.
She waited in pained silence for his response.
Finally, he asked, “Do I need to summon a doctor?”
“No,” she said, clearing her throat delicately. “It was some years ago.”
His curious expression didn’t change, and it was making her uncomfortable. “Then it is no concern of mine, lady.”
How remarkably disinterested he sounded. The notion he would have aided her had been wild and farfetched, in the realms of possibilities, it was along the same ideas of dragons being real. Yet the disappointment that lodged against her stomach felt like a massive boulder, pushing her into the carpeted floor.
“I…I heard a story of how you helped Lady Morton with a delicate problem she had, and Miss Cecily Bateman. You broke Lady Morton’s husband arm for beating her most severely, and Miss Cecily's blackmailer had been persuaded to direct his nefarious attentions elsewhere. From your expression, I am assuming there is some veracity to those stories. I was hoping you would help me too. Please.” And everyone knew that a lord had slapped his servant at Tattersall last week and Maschelly had intervened. Despite everything, he was kind. “I gambled my reputation in coming to see you.”
“I am sorry you undertook the disagreeable task of coming here this late for nothing. I cannot help you.”
Verity felt tears prick behind her lids, and she lifted her chin, grateful he could not see that she was on the verge of crumbling. She had been so hopeful. “May I tell you a story before I leave?”
He stared at her, a peculiar expression on his face. “Go on,” he urged softly.
“Five years and eleven months ago, a young lady met a lord, a friend of her brother’s, whom she believed to be good-natured and amiable. Being eighteen years at the time, she was hopeful, and wistful with dreams of a prince charming, an unmatched love, and marriage and family. So…she foolishly allowed the lord to kiss her.” The memory unsettled Verity sufficiently to make her press a hand over her mouth through the veil, even though she recounted the experience from an out of body perspective.
“They took long walks in the country, rides in his curricle, and she anticipated an offer. When no offer came forth, she daringly asked what his intentions were, for she was impatient to start living the life she’d long dreamed for herself. That was when he revealed he already had a wife…who lived in Scotland with his two children. The young lady was not being courted for marriage, but to…to be his mistress. She was disconcerted, for how could such a person be a gentleman. She lashed out in anger, calling him every vile name she knew and made to depart his presence, and…and the veil of her innocence was rent from her as he attacked her. Tou…touching her in places no one should ever touch. And treating her in ways no woman nor lady should ever endure. Her Aunt came upon them, and that is how she was spared greater pain and humiliation.”
The earl had clenched his hands into tight fists at his side. “And did her brother call him out and put a bullet through his black heart?”
She laughed, the sound hoarse with remembered pain. “No. That vile blackguard is the son of a duke. Somehow the young lady’s brother was convinced by the attacker’s story that she was the seducer and he fell under her seductive wiles. She was blamed entirely, and her brother and mother were ashamed of her.”
A harsh curse slipped from Lord Maschelly.
“She was no longer the bright, rosy debutante. With all her aspirations replaced by nightmares which started that very night, she eschewed society and hid away in the country, in Bedfordshire to be precise, for she had become timid, a mouse afraid of her own shadow. And they’ve lasted for four years, six months, and eleven days.”
Her voice cracked, and she took several steadying breaths to regain her composure. "That young lady, Lord Maschelly, is me. And five months ago, sometime after the nightmares had ceased, my isolation bore down on me. For I realized I still wanted everything I used to dream about. A loving husband, children to dote on, a charitable endeavor to support. I also missed my friends, attending balls, the theater, the opera, even the noise and smell of London I wished for. So, I ventured back into society…and the first night I saw my attacker at a ball I cast up my accounts. I thought I had moved past it, I thought I had healed, but I am still afraid.”
“And why do you think learning to fight will suppress that fear?” he demanded gruffly, searching her veiled features intently.
“The night I saw him…last Friday to be precise, he touched me. It was so very fleeting, but I froze, then I trembled as if ill. Society does not know he is a snake who wears a charming mask.”
She took an involuntary step back at the sudden fierceness in his expression. And Verity wondered at his reaction. She could only ho
pe her honesty would pierce his earlier icy refusal.
“I jerked away from him, and he laughed.” She closed her eyes briefly against the memory. “That night my dreams started again when I thought I’d left them in Bedfordshire. I do not want to feel helpless.”
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “Why are you telling me all this, I am a stranger.”
“Because I desire your help, my lord. Please think on it.” Then she turned and walked away.
“You court scandal and ruin if you go ahead with such a scheme and society finds out. As you've said, you have a dream for a home and a family, are you willing to risk that?” His tone was measuring as if he was trying to determine her backbone.
She paused, and without shifting around, answered, “The freedom to rest without nightmares, to walk in the park without fearing what lurks behind the bushes, to attend a ball without dreading his presence, is worth everything, my lord.”
Chapter 3
Someone hurt me…
Those softly spoken words had lodged themselves deep in James’s heart and stirred something wicked and ugly inside of him. He felt oddly off balance. The temptation had been there to simply ask for her attacker’s name and avenge her honor. It hadn’t mattered that he did not know her identity, he despised those who hurt and abused people who should be protected. He had also never been the type to tolerate injustice. And somehow, she had uncovered that truth about him, trying to appeal to his softer side, except he had no softness in his heart.
Someone hurt me…
His unknown lady had departed a little over two hours ago, and her softly whispered words of pain had already started their haunting. Well hell, come on then…
He took a sip of whisky, his fourth glass since she’d left, and he was nowhere close to being inebriated. A state he would welcome for it would numb the pain in his ribs. Tonight’s fight had been rough, dirty, and unnecessary. He had enough wealth now to manage his estates comfortably, he did not need the fighting pits as he had a few years past. He’d stayed away for more than a year, and then he had stupidly allowed Lady Susanna’s hysterical rejection to drive him to fighting, seeking its dark pleasure and the freedom of leaving the cares of the world behind.
Someone hurt me…
A hiss slipped from him as her soft entreaty rolled through him once again. It was nonsense, a lady wanting to fight. And he did not doubt her. There had been something wild and defiant in her expectations, even though her speech, carriage, and how she folded her damn hands screamed gentility. He admired her courage, but she was far too independent and bold. The haut monde had no use for people that were different, especially in their women. A rigid adherence to their rules was the general expectation.
Though it was conceivable that there were young ladies who dared to step out from under the restrictions their families and society dictated. His veiled lady would not survive long amongst the wolves of society with a personality like hers. She would be judged and found wanting for her unique bravery. Even now if society should learn that the son of a duke had attacked her in such a violent, disgusting manner, it would be her that would be judged and cast aside. Very much like what her brother had done. Her brother also deserved a rapier through his misguided and selfish heart. No doubt his connection to a future duke had been more important than protecting his sister’s honor.
It was a wonder she’d had the courage to visit James in his home when she’d heard so much of his reputation.
I do not want to feel afraid.
And in that softly echoed statement, he'd felt a moment of affinity…a connection of sorts. There had been a time when he had been afraid of the older boys in the village who resented a future earl, pretending to be one of them—poor, hungry, and desperate for another life. James had been seven at the time, and those boys had been older by a few years. They'd attacked in droves, and he'd had no one to defend him. His father had abandoned him in his drunken grief and had deliberately set his only son to endure a harsh life without any of the privileges that came with being a future earl. James had learned very quickly how to fight and to hurt so he could have a measure of peace.
And it was that she wanted. Peace…to sleep and not have nightmares.
Who are you? The sudden need to know burned through him with alarming fierceness. What kind of lady was she? Brave. That answer was immediate. She exuded a fire and strength he had never seen in another woman, attested by her will to venture down such a dangerous and ruinous path. And the need to help her flamed through James. And perhaps he would take her offer to learn how to be the kind of man ladies of society required to be their husbands.
The yearning for such finer things, the acceptance into a world that he should have effortlessly belonged to blasted through him, yet something inside of him fiercely recoiled at bowing to any part of society’s ridiculous expectations. A gentleman? What need did he have of such appellation? Yet the memory of how everyone looked at him, mistrustful as if he was a brute who did not belong to their society, was very reminiscent of his father’s disdain. The memory of Lady Susanna’s horrified refusal felt like acid against his skin.
Seven years amongst his society and he still did not feel as if he had a place.
James scowled, tugging at the loose cravat around his throat. It felt like a goddamn noose growing tighter and tighter with each reflection.
A gentleman.
And what made a man a gentleman? He peered down at his fist, wincing at the callouses and spidery network of old fighting cuts and fresh bruises.
And she believed she could help refine his hard edges more, did she? It wasn’t an equitable bargain at all, but he was still tempted. For he did wish to marry and secure his heir for the earldom. He had fought too long and brutally, done so many things to save his estates to leave it all to chance. It had been his plan for several months now, and he had been foolish to invest his attention in a lady who only saw him as a hulking brute. The same way his father had seen him, for it had been James’s size upon birth which had taken his mother’s life, and his father never once let him forget it.
If this lady could help him refine those sharp edges, just perhaps they could strike a bargain. But what kind of man would merrily help a young lady of society on the path to ruin? For there was no other outcome if she persisted on such a path.
A lady learning to fight. He scoffed, he considered, and his curious fascination grew in unchecked leaps and bounds. Women are amongst the most vulnerable in society. So they should be the most protected, but what if by way of indifference, selfishness, or lack of family they are not protected? In such a case James could affirm the confidence that one gains from being able to defend oneself. There was logic in her reasoning. But what of her reputation? Though degrees of ruination and respectability were solely ascribed by those with elevated opinions of the haut monde. When in truth, neither the lady’s virtue nor character would be sullied. And it seemed she was of a similar leaning in placing little stock in the ton’s opinions. James very soon became reconciled to the notion of assisting her, for he truly hated the helplessness which had echoed in her voice.
But where to find her? The foolish woman had not thought to leave a card or any clues to her identity that he could pursue. Is it that she planned to pay him another clandestine nighttime visit? Making an impulsive decision, he surged to his feet and faltered at the naked woman draped in the doorway.
Bloody hell, he forgot she awaited him in his chamber upstairs, and a woman like Countess Marissa Michaels was not to be ignored and forgotten.
“Darling, I actually fell asleep waiting,” she said with a small pout, meant to be enticing.
James suddenly felt tired of the games that were an intricate part of his lifestyle. Shame and anger also burned through him in equal measure. The Countess was married, and he'd promised himself years ago never to take a married woman to his bed. Simply because he believed in the sanctity of some vows. And a marriage, promising to be faithful to each other’s b
ody, desires, hopes and dreams, that felt like something worth protecting. While he’d felt the awful sting from the brutal rejection of his father, James had weirdly admired the man’s dedication to his beloved countess. He had grieved her until the end of his days.
It seemed his unknown lady had saved him from a folly he shouldn’t have needed rescuing from. James set his glass down on the table and prowled over to the countess. With a smile, she tossed her curly mane of blonde hair, allowed the dark blue silken robe to part perfectly down the middle, revealing her delectable body, hinting at the wild night of passion that could be spent between her legs.
James’s mind or body did not stir, and he belatedly realized perhaps he hadn’t needed rescuing. And that he had lingered in the library drinking, even though a woman willing to indulge in debauchery had awaited him in his chamber.
“Forgive me, Marissa,” he said with a rueful smile upon reaching her. He lightly touched her cheek with the back of his hand, not wanting to abrade her skin with his rough callouses. “You are a lovely woman, but you should not be here. I will arrange for you to be discreetly taken home to your lord.”
Her blue eyes spat fire before narrowing. “Who is she?”
He swallowed back the sigh of impatience. “Marissa—”
“I heard voices. A woman’s one. I saw from the upstairs window as she left and I waited for you to come up to me. Who is she?”
James lowered his hand. “No one of your concern. She has nothing to do with me realizing this is a mistake. Now let me take you home.”
Her eyes searched his and then she sighed. “We will not have an affaire de coeur, will we?”
“No,” he said with another smile to lessen the sting. “It was a moment of insanity which passed before we both did something foolish.”
