Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2)

by Alexandra Ainsworth

  “You’re hopeless,” the headmaster growled. “A disgrace to your classmates, a disgrace to Eton, and a disgrace to your family.”

  Each word stabbed Michael’s heart, even though the words were not anything he hadn’t heard many times before. His father wouldn’t look at him, had stopped asking his tutor to present him after dinner, like the other children’s fathers did. Had hurried him off to Eton, even when his tutor told his father he wouldn’t be capable.

  And he wasn’t. He could do mathematics and he could write, but he couldn’t debate, he couldn’t recite, and sports were a place where people chose to play with their friends.

  His mother had died in childbirth, and it hadn’t been worth it. Hadn’t been worth it to have Michael. How can I ever become a marquess?

  “You’re the poorest student, I’ve ever seen,” the headmaster continued. His voice boomed, and every word was articulated clearly, mocking Michael for his inability to even speak. “You’re ten years old and you can’t even speak.”

  Michael swallowed hard.

  “You’re an idiot.” The headmaster glowered and strode to the wall. “Bristles or flat?”

  “B-b-br…” Michael began.

  The headmaster scowled and grabbed a weapon. Not the bristles.

  “Undo your breeches.”

  Michael nodded and scurried forward. His fingers slid as he undid his flaps. His heart thumped as his chest seemed to constrict. Hairs on his body rose, the chill spreading through him, as he exposed his bottom to the headmaster.

  “Count backwards from twenty. And really count this time.”

  Miguel blinked. The lump in his throat thickened, and he opened his mouth. Knowing nothing would come out.

  “T-tw-tw…”

  Whap. Michael’s bottom stung. Pain consumed him, as the flat ruler slammed against him.

  “That wasn’t a number,” the headmaster growled.

  Michael inhaled and heavy shudders wracked his body.

  Whap. The board tore his skin, weakened from frequent beatings. Every instructor hit him, just like every student teased him.

  “Ei-ei…”

  “Start from twenty. You haven’t said any numbers yet.”

  Whap.

  Michael’s fingers tightened. “T-tw-tw…”

  Whap.

  One day, Michael vowed, he would be strong. One day he would speak properly. One day he wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt him again.

  Chapter One

  Toby Burgess strode with considerable haste through the crowded ballroom of Somerset Hall. He practically pounded the floor. Other guests swiveled their faces toward him, widening their eyes and opening their mouths as he stormed past them, his coattails no doubt fluttering behind him in a fashion unbecoming of a man of his rank. A lady brushed an oriental fan over her mouth, her eyebrow arching in studied humor.

  He gritted his teeth and considered slowing his pace. He must appear ridiculous. A trait Toby did not generally strive to display.

  But this was about Annabella. This was his wife. Of one whole year. Not yet the mother of his children. But one day, certainly.

  He swung open the massive door of the ballroom and stepped into the quieter entrance. He inhaled, relieved to be free of the scent of floral perfumes, each designed to entice in its own, surely spectacular way, and not meant at all to blend with its competitors. He raked his hand through his hair and ascended the wooden carved staircase. Candles flickered from gilded sconces, lighting the path. Up there was his wife. Up there was the woman he had vowed to spend the rest of his life with. He shuddered to consider the person who accompanied her.

  He plodded up and winced as the stairs groaned beneath him, as if informing him all attempt at subtlety was in vain. Looking both ways, anxious to ensure no overeager servant had entered the room, he dashed up the remaining steps. His head lurched. Not perhaps an unfamiliar sensation for him, though this time he could not blame the brandy. Well, not entirely.

  Marble busts dotted the hallway, perched beside oil paintings in newly polished frames. Jewel-toned flowers stretched their stems and blossoms in centuries-old vases, oblivious to his turmoil.

  A door slammed, startling him as much as if a wayward bullet had zoomed past him. Sweat dampened his brow and he turned toward the sound.

  He scrunched against the wall, grateful for the over-sized Chinese vase. He inhaled the scent of roses some over-zealous servant had crowded into the vase. No cost spared for a duke to celebrate the birth of his first child. Even in hallways forbidden to the judgmental and money conscious eyes of the ton.

  His heart pounded as a man, dressed in the style of a servant, strode nearer him, the man’s pace quicker than normal. Toby’s breath halted, desperate for the servant not to encounter him cowering in humiliation.

  But the servant hurried on, no doubt just anxious to rejoin the ball and his beloved, and Toby rose and tried to ignore his now-aching joints. He thumped the porcelain vase, and murmured, “Not so bad after all.”

  He needed any friendship he could find. If his best one was a two hundred year old vase imported from the Far East, who was he to complain?

  Toby returned to concentrating on finding Annabella. Perhaps the man downstairs had been teasing him, forgetting a wink that would have relegated his words to simple banter, and not to the careless destruction of a man’s vision of his life.

  But the cold silence that greeted Lord Ramsgate’s words, the sharp intake of breath from the other gentlemen, the heated blushes on their cheeks, and the manner in which his former Harrow classmates and current gambling companions averted their eyes indicated Ramsgate was not simply teasing. Not simply bantering.

  He crept along the hallway, his feet sinking into the sumptuous carpet spread upon the floor. His eyes followed the geometric arrangement of flowers and vines decorating the carpet, as he endeavored to convince himself life had not abandoned all order. All meaning.

  For was not Annabella his life? His world?

  Another lord once described his own wife in such generous terms and Toby had taken up the practice, enjoying shocking people with the extent of his devotion to his wife.

  That way they might forget my behavior at school.

  He continued his journey along the corridor, conscious now of where he placed his feet, wary of causing the floor to creak beneath him. He would discover what there was to discover. Hopefully Annabella would be without blame – surely she would be, but he would not allow his gait to be the cause of letting her maintain a secret from him.

  Happily married couples often espoused the notion of having no secrets, but this secret, infidelity, would be larger than most. He needed to prove she maintained her virtue.

  Light shone from one of the doors, and he paused. He pressed his ear against the wooden paneled door, his gratification at not hearing anything soon broken when moans vibrated from farther down the corridor.

  He had never been unfaithful, despite the fact many of his peers in the ton found fidelity a quaint option to be ignored.

  How could she leave him first? To a Spaniard? Weren’t they practically at war now? Soon to be proclaimed enemies by the king and all the generals whom he respected? Would Annabella give birth to a swarthy son with brown skin and hair? So everyone would stare at him in sympathy, aware the future Viscount Burgess looked nothing like the other ones?

  His pace quickened as he hurried past the Lewis family portraits, avoiding images of auburn haired children smiling even in their stiff frocks.

  Toby’s vision blurred and his breath caught in his chest. He gazed down at his clothes, his expanded body still causing him to cringe. He was a softer, less virile version of himself. Marriage had not been made him more dashing.

  But that was normal. A sign of happiness. And great contentment. Everyone said so.

  That did not mean Annabella could dash about embracing strange men. And of all the men to cavort with, why did she have to choose Conde Valeriano? The most flagrant rogue in London. Indeed
he wouldn’t be surprised if the man headed up the list of rakes in Madrid as well. He shuddered to ponder what the man would be like in his natural environment.

  He stood before the last door of the corridor, memorizing the pale door, covered in the French style with delicate painted flowers that in no way spoke to the atrocities occurring inside. Unless the pastel petals fluttering about signified his increasingly shattered heart.

  The moans drifted through the door with force. He raised his fist and hesitated. Annabella had never sounded so exuberant with him.

  He gritted his teeth. No need to knock now. If Annabella refrained from propriety, why should he continue to subscribe to its rules?

  He gripped the handle, took a breath, and swung the door open.

  And his life changed.

  The sight molded its way into his mind.

  Annabella lay splayed on the bed, her long blonde locks unraveled over her ivory skin. Her eyes widened as they met Toby’s, and she lifted her torso and shoved the man on top of her over. Her large, firm breasts, the ones he praised to all his friends, were displayed, dark markings on them. As if the count had put them in his mouth, sucking, and–

  But of course he had done that.

  Toby brushed his hand through his hair. Nausea rose in his throat. Annabella snatched the lace-edged sheet and draped it over her body.

  “Toby.” His wife gasped his name, and all he could do was blink at her. Simply standing on the ground seemed like an accomplishment, and Toby’s hand tightened on the doorknob so much that his knuckles turned white.

  A blur of muscles moved, and Toby braced himself as Valeriano turned around.

  “Perhaps you should shut the door. Unless you would like other people to witness.” The man’s lips turned up. He was smirking. Smirking!

  Annabella and Valeriano were supposed to be afraid when he came in. He was the husband. The angry, deceived husband. A viscount. What was Valeriano? Did they even have aristocrats on the continent? Not proper ones. Not ones from good families. He was certain. They probably all called themselves counts.

  “Be nice, Valeriano,” Annabella murmured. Once Toby would have compared her soprano voice to the sound of angels, but now the sound grated on his ears. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Her eyes flickered to the ground, and she reached for her satin slip. Toby stared, transfixed. When had his wife’s hair gotten so long? It reached to her waist. Hair that even now Valeriano stroked.

  A flash of red sparkled in the dimly lit room; she still wore the ruby bracelet he had bought her. At least she appreciated his gift.

  Valeriano started to pull the shift over Annabella’s head, the satin gleamed under the crystal chandelier some romantic person had placed over the bed.

  “I’ll help.” Toby stepped forward, his mouth dry.

  “Those are your first words to us?” Valeriano raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Darling, maybe he desires to join.”

  Heat shot to Toby’s face, as Valeriano shook his chocolate, tousled hair, his eyes glinting with mirth.

  Toby stumbled forward and touched the shift.

  His wife’s head popped through and she stepped away. “Don’t touch me.”

  A laugh sounded in the room, a deep laugh, like liquid. Toby swiveled his head at the count.

  “Aren’t you supposed to fear me?” Toby asked.

  “Nonsense.” Valeriano smiled and stretched his legs over the bed. They were long and masculine. Covered with hair.

  Toby gasped as a certain part of Valeriano became visible, and his chest tightened until Valeriano pulled a pillow over him.

  He hated the sight of him. Despised him.

  Valeriano dressed in fluid, graceful movements. Toby had the impression he should be screaming at the man, displaying his anger at having his life torn apart, and instead he only gazed away, contemplating if his life had ever been as glorious as his descriptions of it.

  Finally Valeriano rose. Toby frowned. The man still smirked at him. And at least the man could have the decency to be taller than him. Were Toby to be cuckolded, it should be by somebody who surpassed him in all respects. Instead they looked into each other’s eyes.

  “I believe you are… How should I say it? More frightened of me,” Valeriano murmured.

  Toby shivered and eyed his glass. Empty. Blast. He darted his eyes around the room, settling on the tumbler on the counter. He stepped toward it and poured whiskey.

  “Really?” Annabella sighed. “Must you always drink?”

  Toby froze. The inviting liquid swirled in his glass as he tightened his clasp around the crystal tumbler. He lifted the amber sustenance to his lips and swallowed.

  He could survive now. Survive until the end of the day, and then tomorrow, he would just need to focus on getting through the next day. One day at a time. It’s amazing how he could allow himself to not be miserable if he just focused on that.

  “I didn’t ask you to speak.” Toby flinched at the sharp sound of his voice.

  Annabella’s shoulders slouched. Fine. He shouldn’t be surprised if she held no fondness toward him now. She clearly hadn’t liked him very much before. Because why else would she be here with this Lothario?

  “Your skills at wooing her back may be ineffective.” Valeriano grinned. He stretched, a lazy motion that emphasized the too tight cut of his shirt. Every inch he leaned back revealed the manner in which his shirt hugged his chest muscles.

  Toby’s fists clenched, his fingernails carving into his skin.

  The man was so obvious. Preening and flaunting his body.

  Valeriano’s eyelids fluttered, and he relaxed into a languid smile. His calm face reminded Toby of a misplaced angel. Of —

  Toby frowned. Why am I comparing Valeriano to a celestial being? Shouldn’t he be more like the devil himself? Hades ushering Persephone into the world of the dead? The Minotaur trapping anyone in its path?

  He swallowed as his wife turned to him. His heart hammered unevenly in his chest like a faulty clock. He swigged another glass of brandy and sighed as the familiar liquid burned its way down his throat, distracting him from any outside pain.

  “A duel,” Toby said.

  Valeriano straightened rapidly and his eyes widened. Good.

  “A duel?”

  “You heard me.” Toby rose and moved toward him, finally smiling. “Or is your English not so good?”

  Valeriano frowned. “My English is fine. I hadn’t realized we had stepped into the eighteenth century.”

  “I haven’t abandoned all my morals.”

  “Tobias.” Annabella frowned. “You don’t need to fight him.”

  “Why? Because your precious lover might get hurt?” Toby scowled, tore off a glove, and flung it at Valeriano’s face. The glove slid down the Spaniard’s face, and by the time it dropped to the floor, the mocking expression on Fernand’s face had turned to shock.

  Annabella’s face darkened. “You flung the gauntlet at him?”

  “I doubt he’ll be here long regardless,” Tobias muttered.

  “Well for that insult I might need to accept,” Valeriano said, his face recomposing into a neutral expression. “I will not allow him to muddy your reputation, my darling.”

  “Are you saying you intend to take care of Annabella now?”

  Valeriano frowned.

  Annabella eyed her new lover as well, before blushing when Valeriano failed to answer. She lifted her chin. “You can’t ask him such a question.”

  “You don’t value your wife sufficiently,” Valeriano said. “She is very beautiful.”

  “I know she’s beautiful,” Toby said. “That’s one of the things I like about her. Hair as gold as Princess Charlotte’s crown, lips as red as rubies…”

  “–Breasts as luscious as grapefruits?”

  “Yes.” Toby’s jaw clenched. Did I declare that to so many people?

  Valeriano smiled. “But tell me, who really likes grapefruit? A bit sour, don’t you think? And Annabella, darlin
g, you are anything but sour.”

  Annabella giggled.

  Energy shot through Toby’s body. He rounded his fist and thrust it toward Valeriano’s face.

  Valeriano stepped away, moving his long legs to the other side of the bedroom, weaving past ornate chests, leather ottomans, and dainty armchairs with ease. “That can wait until the duel. I find postponing delights to be all the more satisfactory when filled.”

  Toby nodded, disappointed. “Swords or pistols?”

  Valeriano froze. “If you insist on following quaint, dated customs, let us use swords.”

  “And the time?”

  “Meet at dawn in three days. Is that not traditional?” Valeriano shrugged. “Englishmen are such idiots.”

  Toby stared at Valeriano, surprised at the man’s insult. “If you desire more duels, I can pass on your opinion to the other Englishmen here…”

  An emotion flickered across Valeriano’s face. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Three days at dawn,” Toby repeated, a smile slowly growing on his face.

  Valeriano paused and glanced at Annabella, before his eyes darted back to Toby. “I don’t suppose you’ll retire now, viscount. There’s more alcohol downstairs.”

  Toby crossed his arms. “I refuse to leave you anywhere near my wife.”

  “Such a shame.” Valeriano buttoned his frock coat, moving his fingers with dexterity. He nodded at Annabella and winked. “We were having a good time.”

  Toby swallowed as Valeriano tied his cravat with the ease of a man accustomed to having to do the task frequently in places without a manservant. His chest was hairy. The man exuded masculinity.

  “I’ll see you later, darling?” Valeriano nodded at Annabella whose cheeks pinkened.

  Cheeks like pink petals. Toby realized he had once said this about Annabella. At what point did Annabella’s cheeks stop flushing around him? Since they married.

  His shoulders slumped, avoiding Valeriano and Annabella’s eyes. “I ask you not to make plans with my wife.”

  “And why not? You might be dead soon, viscount.”

  Valeriano laughed and left the room, slamming the thick door.