“You must have misunderstood.” She licked her dry lips. “My father would have never been so cruel.”
The marquess thumped his chest with his fist. His eyes burned with old frustration and rage. “Oh, there was no possible way to misconstrue your father’s refusal. While you, my sweet Juliana, were off chasing butterflies in the pasture and composing silly songs to amuse your family, your father was in the library lecturing me about my unyielding character and how it conflicted with the temperament of his creative, vivacious youngest daughter. He proclaimed that such a marriage would be disastrous.”
Her father had never mentioned the marquess’s proposal of marriage. Perhaps he had hoped to spare the young man’s feelings. It also explained why their cousin’s visits had ceased. Then, a little more than a year later, her beloved papa was dead.
And the lecturing tyrant had inherited his title.
“How you must hate me.” She blinked furiously. “My family.”
He startled her by plucking her by her waist and pulling her into his arms. “Convince me otherwise.”
His mouth descended and there was little Juliana could do to avoid his kiss. She tasted the faint bitterness of ale as he cradled her head in his hands and tried to convince both of them that her father had been wrong. Silently she despaired, knowing that her father had been right. Juliana felt nothing as the marquess nibbled and caressed her lips, demanding some kind of response from her.
Juliana shuddered against him.
All her cousin evoked was a terrible sadness.
And fear.
Lord Duncombe took her wordless response as acceptance.
“I have gone about this business all wrong,” he murmured huskily. “I should have taken you as my bride the day your maid packed away your mourning clothes.”
He groaned against her lips while his fingers found the pins in her hair and cast them aside. Her blond tresses fell around her face and shoulders. He pulled her body closer, letting her feel his arousal.
He wanted her.
Panicking, Juliana twisted in his arms. Good grief, the man was strong! It was apparent the marquess was determined to anticipate his wedding night.
“No,” she murmured against his mouth. She used the bed’s post as leverage to shove him away. “This is wrong.”
The marquess slapped her hard across the face. The momentum sent Juliana sprawling across the bed. Before she could push her hair from her face, Lord Duncombe seized the front of her corset and dragged her to him.
“Wrong?” He pinched her chin and kissed her roughly. “I wager you did not protest when Sinclair tossed up your skirts and mounted you.” She cried out when Lord Duncombe tangled his fingers into her hair and jerked her head back.
Juliana tasted blood. It might have been his. She hoped it was his. “Are you mad? Let go of me!” she seethed, furious that she was too weak to fight him off.
He crawled on top of her, straddling her hips. She kicked and strained against him. He sharply bit the curve of her shoulder.
“Madness is learning that your future bride was hauled off to London by her reckless mother to find a proper husband.” The marquess bent down to kiss Juliana, but she ruined his aim by turning her face away. He licked her cheek. “I tried to scare your mother by sending her letters—”
Juliana gasped. “You sent the blackmail letters?”
Those notes had terrified the family.
“It was merely an attempt to delay your ambitious mother until I could travel to London,” he said, panting from exertion.
Juliana froze, letting his words sink in. “Those notes . . . you were still in the country and yet you knew specific details . . . ,” she said, her voice giving out on her.
Her cousin grinned down at her. “I have kept my promise to your father. I hired someone to discreetly watch over you and your family. He was my eyes and ears until I could join you in London.”
He forced her arms over her head. Juliana dug her fingernails into his wrists as he used his knee to part her legs. “I knew about Sinclair before your mother did. Of the naughty games you played with the man. Once I watched the two of you together. I heard you begging him like a greedy whore.”
She and the marquess struggled silently for a few minutes as he locked her wrists together with one hand. He used his unencumbered hand to admire the string of pearls around her neck.
“These are a gift from Sinclair, are they not?”
Juliana did not bother replying to the question. The marquess had been spying on her and her family. He knew who had given her the pearl necklace.
“You let the man claim your innocence, and still, there were so many things you did not know about your lover.” The marquess wrapped the pearls around his finger, tightening the circumference until the pearls pinched her neck. “He never told you that he was Lady Gredell’s half brother. If he had told you the truth, you would have never let him touch you. Nor did he mention his fondness for pearls.”
Juliana sucked in several quick breaths, wondering if the marquess was planning to strangle her with Sin’s gift. “My lord, you are hurting me.”
“I was told that Sinclair gifts all his mistresses with a string of pearls,” her cousin said, his keen gaze marveling at the perfection of each pearl. “He has a rather unique manner in which he bestows his expensive gift—”
The afternoon in the coach.
Juliana hiccupped and choked on the tears clogging her throat.
How many women had worn his string of pearls? A dozen? Fifty? Her mind feverishly thought back to all the compliments that she had received about the necklace. A few of the ladies had equally stunning pearl necklaces. Had they been gifts from Sin, too? Juliana groaned, recalling how she had returned the compliments. Oh, she had been such a fool. Everyone had guessed the wicked things she had done with Sin. The pearls around her neck had been a public declaration of Sin’s carnal prowess.
Ashamed, she shut her eyes in defeat.
“Ah, yes, I see the rumors are true.” Lord Duncombe freed his finger from the necklace, letting it fall against her collarbone. “I must confess that I am rather surprised by your conduct, Juliana.”
He unshackled her other wrist. She did not bother trying to sit up.
He stroked her hair. “I was not prepared for Sinclair. My spy reported back to me that the man was pursuing you, but I could not fathom why. You were too innocent to appeal to a man of his amorous appetites. Until the confrontation in Gomfrey’s private box, his motives puzzled me.”
Juliana rolled onto her side.
“I can assume that Sinclair will no longer be a problem?”
She stiffened at the marquess’s patronizing manner. Juliana opened her eyes and glared up at him. “If you are asking me if I detest Sin as much as I do you, my dear cousin, then my answer is ‘yes’!”
Lord Duncombe bellowed with fury. He slammed his fists down on the mattress over and over. Juliana screamed, though she managed to avoid each thunderous blow.
“Enough!”
Sobbing, she battered his head with her hands and kicked as the marquess grabbed the hem of her petticoat. He ripped the fabric at the seam and proceeded to tear a long strip of cloth.
“No—no!” she screamed, fearing that he intended to strangle her.
Lord Duncombe appeared oblivious to her frantic struggles. He bound her wrists with the length of petticoat and dragged her to one of the bedposts. She cried out in pain when he pinned her tied wrists against the ornate wood.
“Hold still,” he snarled, using the loose ends to secure her to the post. Unsatisfied with his efforts, he removed his cravat from his neck and wound the length around both her wrists and the bedpost several times before knotting the ends.
Juliana flexed her fingers. The tips tingled unpleasantly.
“You cannot keep me tied to this bed forever.” She laughed hysterically. “Someone is bound to notice.”
“The bindings are temporary. I cannot have you running off while I se
e to a few tasks,” he said, visibly shaking.
The marquess bore her marks, she mused with savage pride. There were red welts on his neck from her fingernails, and a bruise was blooming on his left cheek from her elbow. He was sweating and his clothes were mussed.
He kissed her lightly on the mouth.
“We are on our own this evening,” he confessed, stroking her knee affectionately. “So no one will hear you if you cry out. When I return, I plan to remove any doubt that you might have about my abilities to be a good husband.”
Juliana bit her lip as she stared at the thickening bulge in his trousers. Hurting her had aroused him. She tugged on her bindings.
The knots held.
Chapter Twenty-three
IT WAS A shame his friends were not here to watch Alexius break into Duncombe’s town house. They would have laughed themselves into a boneless puddle of mash as his female confederates armed with beaded reticules prepared to rescue their beloved Juliana.
Their endeavor had all the earmarks of a colossal disaster.
“Step aside,” he ordered the three ladies as they approached the front door.
Lady Duncombe whirled about and used her arms and body to block the solid oak door. “You cannot kick it in.”
Alexius was beginning to feel like a vicious dog that had been collared and tethered to a tree by a sly blond tabby cat. “Of course I can. Step aside and watch me.”
“Sinclair, this house has been in the Ivers family for fifty-five years. The workmanship alone deserves our respect.”
“Why do you care?” he demanded. “The house belongs to Duncombe. Your family has been cast out.”
Lady Duncombe was resolute. She braced herself for violence. “Nevertheless, it still means something to this family. You will have to find another way to get into the house.”
Lady Cordelia shattered his stalemate with the marchioness by reaching past her mother and knocking on the door.
“There goes our element of surprise,” he said with disgust. “A brilliant stroke of genius, my lady.”
He lifted his hands in surrender and backed away from the ladies. With each passing minute, his respect for Juliana had increased. She seemed to be the only rational one out of the four women. “If Duncombe is willing to blackmail Juliana into marriage, do you honestly think the gent is so foolish as to invite you into the house?”
Lady Cordelia’s mouth curled as she gave Alexius an exasperated glance. “Our cousin has servants to open the door. There is a good chance we might be able to talk our way into the residence.”
“Where is the butler?” Lady Lucilla wondered aloud to no one in particular. “No one is answering the door.”
“Shameful,” the marchioness grumbled. “Simply shameful. Leave it to Oliver to hire staff as boorish as he is.”
It was time to take charge of the situation. Alexius looped his arm through Lady Duncombe’s and grabbed Lady Cordelia by the wrist before she knocked on the door again. He marched them down the steps toward the waiting coach.
“I insist the three of you sit in the coach. Someone is bound to alert a constable if we continue to brawl in front of Duncombe’s magnificent fifty-five-year-old door.”
Lady Lucilla trailed after them. “No one is brawling.”
Alexius halted in his tracks, striving for patience. “I am tempted to start one if the three of you do not cease your prattle. Duncombe would have to be deaf not to hear all the commotion at his door.”
“He might not have heard us. Perhaps he is upstairs with Juliana?”
It was exactly Alexius’s fear.
Lady Duncombe and her daughters did not seem overly concerned about the marquess. They thought him too scholarly and rigid to succumb to his baser instincts.
Alexius privately disagreed.
In spite of his foppish manners and intellectual pursuits, Duncombe was a man, after all. He had gone to a lot of trouble to possess Juliana. Alexius doubted the gentleman’s interests in his distant cousin were merely altruistic in nature.
“Stay,” Alexius ordered, praying that the women would heed him. “I will climb over the wall and check the back entry. If no one detains me, I will open the front door for you.”
“Can we assume you have some experience in these matters, Sinclair?”
Alexius’s smile exposed plenty of sharp teeth. “Indeed you can, madam.”
There were reasons why smart, ambitious mothers with marriage on their minds kept their pretty daughters away from Alexius and his friends.
The marchioness opened her reticule and began digging. “Very well, if you insist on breaking into the house alone, then perhaps you might want to take my knife.” Noting Alexius’s openmouthed expression, she hastily amended, “Merely as a precaution, of course.”
The blade was removed with an exaggerated flourish.
“Maman!” exclaimed her daughters, impressed that their mother had come prepared to commit mayhem.
Alexius bent down and retrieved the long, thin blade that was sheathed in the inner lining of his right boot. All three women gasped in surprise. “I appreciate your generous offer, madam. However, I prefer to use mine.”
That did not prevent him from carefully relieving Lady Duncombe of her blade. The woman was unpredictable. In a panic, she was more than likely to stab him rather than someone who actually deserved being pricked by her ornate bauble. He tucked the blade into his boot.
He had little difficulty scaling the brick wall. As he landed on the other side, Alexius took note of his surroundings. The faint light of twilight was slowly retreating into darkness. There was enough light left for him to move confidently from window to window. The house was shut up tightly and eerily silent. Moving around to the back, he climbed the curved stairs up to what he assumed led to the library. There he found a small balcony and double doors.
Smirking a little, Alexius recalled the marchioness’s earlier concerns about him marring the pristine workmanship of the doors. Out of respect, he quietly tested the lock on the doors. Metal rattled against the wood. The doors were locked.
With the handle of the blade clamped in his hand, he peered through one of the glass panes. In the dim light he could see that the furniture was still covered to protect the pieces from dust and vermin. If Duncombe was in residence, he had not bothered airing out the house.
Alexius grinned at his good fortune.
Perhaps the marquess had also neglected to hire a staff. Alexius flipped the knife over his fingers in a practiced movement and ran the edge of the blade against the connecting seam of the double doors. His skills with locks were not as polished as Frost’s or Hunter’s, but they were more than adequate. A few minutes later Alexius opened one of the doors and slipped through the narrow opening.
The interior of the house was darker. After his knee connected with the corner of a table, he was tempted to light a candle, but he could not shake the unease he felt as he moved from the library to the drawing room.
The house was empty.
Where had Duncombe taken Juliana? Alexius’s ears were ringing as he strained to hear some small sound of life in the house.
Nothing.
He made his way down the stairs to the front hall. There was no reason not to let Lady Duncombe and her daughters search the house. When he opened the door, he was not surprised to see the three ladies standing on the other side.
“You were supposed to remain in the coach.”
Lady Duncombe pushed by him. “You were gone long enough to cause some concern. We wanted to be nearby just in case you needed us, dear boy.”
Juliana’s sisters were content to linger closer to the door.
“Did you find Juliana?” asked Lady Cordelia.
Alexius shook his head as he shut the front door. “I have searched only a few rooms. From all appearances, the house is empty.”
“That is not possible,” protested the marchioness. “Oliver has been in town for a week.”
The furniture in the front h
all was uncovered. Someone had been in the house, but there was nothing to indicate who had been there or if they had intended to remain.
The marquess had lied to the widow.
Alexius leaned over and sheathed his knife in his boot. The impotence he felt as they stood in Duncombe’s empty town house made Alexius want to break a few things. He was certain the marchioness would not approve.
“Perhaps Duncombe thought it too much trouble to open the house for the season. He could have rented a room somewhere.”
“What do you do? Search all of London?” Lady Lucilla wailed.
“You there!” a masculine voice thundered overhead, the vaulted ceiling echoing the gentleman’s indignation.
One of Juliana’s sisters squealed in fright. Four pairs of eyes looked heavenward.
Although his face was cast in shadows, Alexius deduced that they had found the haughty Lord Duncombe.
“This is a private house,” the man announced, not moving from his position on the upper landing. In his hand was a loaded pistol, which he had aimed at Alexius. “You are all trespassing. Leave this house or I will have you put in chains and dragged in front of the magistrate.”
Lady Duncombe cocked her head to the side. “Oliver? Is that you?” She took several risky steps forward. “Where is Juliana?”
“Madam, please,” Alexius hissed.
The realization that the trespassers were family did not diminish the marquess’s hostile demeanor. “Juliana is resting upstairs. The physician gave her some laudanum to soothe her nerves. Come back tomorrow, and pay your respects at a proper hour. Now leave!”
“Of all the nerve—!” murmured Lady Cordelia. “We are family, you pompous twit!”
Duncombe fired the pistol. All three women screamed and scattered in opposite directions with their hands over their ears as the Dresden hand-painted urn, the centerpiece of the round table near the bottom of the staircase, exploded. Alexius charged up the stairs. The marquess had been aiming at Alexius’s chest when he had pulled the trigger. However, distance and panic had caused the bullet to go awry.
Alexius was not going to give the man a second chance. As he raced up the stairs, Duncombe was attempting to reload the damn pistol. If he got off another shot, this one would be harder to avoid. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, Alexius reached the top landing just as the marquess had finished loading his weapon.
All Night with a Rogue: Lords of Vice Page 20
