by Rebecca King
“My dear, you haven’t heard what I have to say yet,” the Count began.
“But, I thought you came to tell me about my father,” she murmured.
The Count shook his head slowly.
Marguerite read the intent in his gaze and panicked. When she tried to hurry past him, he stepped toward her. To Marguerite’s horror, one long arm slid around her waist. The Count dragged her against his lithe frame whereupon he held her firmly against him with his surprisingly strong arms and leaned over her until she was bent backwards at an uncomfortable angle.
“Let go of me,” she gasped, as she struggled against him.
“You will stay and listen to me,” he demanded, his voice commanding.
“No, I won’t,” she protested. “Unhand me this instant.”
The warmth of his alcohol laden breath swept over her but rather than being tantalising, it was abhorrent. He was abhorrent. This was the first time she had seen him up close and his outward appearance was just as hideous as his personality. His pock-marked skin spoke of years of excess. While his features were thin, his eyes were pale blue and devoid of expression. His hollowed out cheeks and slightly sunken eyes gave him the appearance of someone who had long since departed from this mortal coil. He was horrible, and when glaring at her mercilessly, a small smirk of contempt curling his thin lips, appeared completely ruthless.
He looks like a ghoul, she thought desperately as she continued to push ineffectually at his arms.
In spite of his thinness, he was surprisingly strong, and she made no headway in getting him to loosen his grip on her. When his head tipped toward to her, she edged away, turning her face toward the wall in a desperate attempt to avoid the kiss he tried to give her. A shiver swept down her spine. Her skin crawled at the coldness of the cheek he pressed against hers. Bent backwards as she was she could do nothing to break free of him. She was completely at his mercy.
“I have chosen you to be my bride,” he whispered directly into her ear, his voice soft and menacing.
“I-I can’t. I am not-” She continued to push. He wouldn’t budge and instead held her closer. It was horrifying. Marguerite struggled to think of a way to get out of the situation. She couldn’t just surrender to him. She had to fight him, somehow. She just didn’t know how.
“Oh, but you will, my dear. It has already been agreed with your father. He left you here so I could escort you home. He thought it was a good idea for us to spend a bit of time together so we could get to know one another before our marriage.” As he spoke his eyes dropped to the deep v of her cleavage, his lascivious gaze scouring every inch of her bared flesh.
She recoiled in revulsion.
“I am not marrying you,” she protested, more disturbed than she cared to contemplate at the prospect of being at the mercy at such an odious creature. “I don’t care what arrangement you have made with my father. Go to Hell.”
“I am afraid you don’t get any say in the matter,” the Count assured her.
Before she could utter a word, he grabbed a handful of her hair in a painful fist to hold her still while his lips slammed brutally onto hers.
Joe peered through the narrow gap between the door jamb and the door and watched the woman in the cadaver’s arms. Although beautiful, she could only be described as buxom. She was not the kind of woman he would have expected the Count to be interested in. There were far more beautiful women in the recital who were much more slender and had considerably better connections. However, this woman was obviously much more than a mere guest. Her connection to the Count was purely personal if the way he was mauling her was any indication.
Earlier, he had watched her talking to herself when she had been alone but had been too far away to overhear what she had said. He had, however, witnessed an array of emotions on her face as she spoke. There had been enough written on that expressive face for him to realise she had been wrestling with a significant problem, and it brought forward a complex mix of emotions that set her to pacing around the room like a caged tigress. He had to wonder if it had anything to do with the man who was now wrapped around her like a leech on nubile flesh.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he studied the young woman. She was beautiful in a way, and someone he had never seen before. If he had to place her, he certainly wouldn’t have believed she belonged in the music room with the rest of the guests. Her clothing was well cut but certainly not wildly expensive. Nor was she from the docks. She was somewhere in between; somewhere, Joe suspected, the Count inhabited when he wasn’t at these functions. Her rounded curves were certainly not fashionable. Neither was her long, neatly curled yet dark hair. She wasn’t the kind of woman to help the Count’s social aspirations, so what was he up to?
Who was she? Where had she come from? More importantly, was she working for the Count, or was she his whore?
From the look of the way he is mauling her, she is his whore, Joe mused with a rueful sigh. He listened to the clock behind him chime the hour and wondered how long it would be before he could leave the darkened room and follow the wretched man home. Until they both left the room next door, all he could do was watch and wait and hope nobody found him.
CHAPTER TWO
Several painful minutes later, Marguerite eventually managed to push him away enough so she could wrench her head to one side. At the same time, she stomped on his foot but it made little difference to the Count, who didn’t even flinch. He did, however, release her slightly. Enough for her to breathe at least, and scold him for the liberties he had just taken.
“Unhand me this instant or I shall scream and bring all the guests upon us. I will make it clear to them that I have been accosted by you, and your carefully preserved reputation will be impugned,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “I don’t care what arrangements you have made with my father, I refuse to marry you and, as such, you should not consider yourself in a position to behave so appallingly.”
Tears loomed but she daren’t let them fall. She suspected that to betray any sign of her deep distress to this man would hand him an element of control he would use to force her into submission. Instead, she tipped her chin up and pushed hard against him. Her eyes shot daggers at him, daring him to deny her this time. Thankfully, he heeded the warning and seemed to realise he had gone too far. Unfortunately, although he didn’t hold her as tightly anymore, he didn’t release her either.
“I am afraid that it is not up for discussion,” the Count murmured. His gaze slid to the deep v of her cleavage again and lingered. “I always get what I want, Marguerite, and on this occasion that is you.”
“Never,” she snapped.
His gaze was full of lechery when it returned to hers.
“I am not going to be sold off like chattel,” she growled. “Not to you. Not to anybody. Ever.”
“You will if you know what is good for you,” the Count retorted.
There was harshness in his gaze which was simply terrifying. Marguerite knew then that if she wanted to get out of the room with her reputation and her dignity intact, she had to leave now. With as much force as she could muster, she leaned back in his arms and, in doing so, forced him to release his hold.
Once upright again she gritted her teeth, lifted a hand, and slapped Count Vladimir Valentin hard across his cheek.
Joe winced. He felt that loud crack and studied the red welt that appeared on the Count’s face. He didn’t need to look closer to know that the Count was coldly furious. Joe studied the woman again with renewed interest, suddenly doubtful about any connection between them.
Was she really his lover? Had they had some sort of lover’s quarrel? If so, she was incredibly put out by him. He swiftly shoved aside the nagging doubt that began to worry him and continued to watch the couple. She had to be the Count’s lover. She couldn’t just be an innocent guest who had wandered into the room for few moments of peace, could she?
Whoever she is, she is angry with him, of that there could be no doubt.
Joe st
udied the woman’s lips and tried to read what she was saying but the meagre candlelight within the room made it impossible. Whatever was being said was intense, and made both parties look incredibly on edge and at odds with each other. It didn’t support the theory that this was a lovers’ tryst.
What’s going on then? Joe mused with a frown.
Struggling to understand what was truly happening, Joe turned his attention back to the Count, and studied the man from head to toe. Making a mental note of each of the man’s quite distinguishing features, he waited to see how all of this ended.
“Get away from me,” Marguerite snapped as she finally wrenched out of his arms. She put a small table, a chair, and the chaise between them and glared at him.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” she snarled through gritted teeth. She almost cried when the Count sauntered casually toward her.
“Oh, come now dear. I know you are annoyed with me, but call it overzealousness,” the Count began, his voice teetering between cajoling and threatening. “I am not from your country and have little time for the silly English games of bowing and minding one’s manners.” His tone was as arrogantly mocking as the look in his eyes.
“Yes, I can see that,” Marguerite replied pointedly. “I am still not going to be forced into doing something I don’t want, whether it is marriage or, or-” she waved her arm ineffectually toward the spot they had been standing, “-that. So, I am afraid that both you and my father can think again and that is the end of the matter.”
This time, she spoke with such finality that even the Count seemed to realise he had pushed too hard. His entire demeanour swiftly turned remorseful.
“Please accept my apologies, my dear,” the man drawled. “I appear to have upset you.”
She knew from the gloating mirth in his eyes that he had not one ounce of apology within him.
“I am leaving,” she declared firmly.
“But you cannot leave so soon,” he declared pompously, as though it was positively unheard of for him to be thwarted in this way. “I won’t allow it.”
“It isn’t for you to allow me to do anything,” Marguerite reminded him with a contemptuous snort.
Once she reached the desk beside the door, she turned to glare at him to make sure he kept his distance this time. She didn’t relax, even when she saw he was still beside the fireplace, not least because she was well aware of how fast he could move if he had a mind to.
How could anybody be attracted to that? She mused when she looked over her shoulder at him. He looks like the Grim Reaper this evening. Give him a sickle and he would fit right in beside the Devil. He is the type of person only a mother could love.
“Before you go,” the Count sighed.
Marguerite looked longingly at the door and watched in horror as, like a huge bird swooping down on its unsuspecting prey, the Count flew across the room and planted himself solidly in front of the doorway, effectively blocking her exit once again.
“I haven’t finished what I was going to say,” the Count reasoned. “It is rude to abandon your guests.”
“I don’t have any guests,” she reminded him. “I am not the hostess here tonight.”
She wondered if he was being deliberately dense. Her annoyance at him, at this entire situation, began to ignite her temper. With that came her determination to get out of the room, and thwart the man, just to show him that she was not at his mercy. He would not decide when she could leave, and he would not get what he wanted. He just didn’t know it yet.
“Monique,” the Count murmured, a strange look that she suspected was intended to be an appeal in his eye.
“Marguerite,” she corrected, a little annoyed that he was pursuing her while he hadn’t even taken the time to learn her name.
“I demand that you understand that our connection is inevitable,” the Count declared loudly. “We must do this.”
“No, I won’t,” Marguerite argued. “I refuse. Go and find someone else.”
“But only you will do.”
“Why?” she cried.
“Your father owes me, and I intend to collect.”
“Well, whatever you claim my father owes you, I am not part of the deal and will not have a price put on my head in this way. I refuse to have any part in it,” she declared defiantly.
“I will thoroughly enjoy changing your mind, my dear,” the Count announced coldly.
Marguerite froze and studied him curiously. There had just been a hint of something undefinable in his tone that was disturbing. She knew then that this man was not all that he appeared to be. She wondered if he was aware of his faux pas, but suspected that he wasn’t.
“You can’t,” she replied bluntly, but with a little more confidence now that she suspected she knew his secret. “I have no intention of being married to any Russian, Count or otherwise, or any Englishman.”
Her gaze met his as she spoke. She saw the instinctive widening of his eyes that he wasn’t quick enough to prevent a mere fraction of a second before his face went blank.
A small, somewhat triumphant smile curved her lips.
“I apologise if I have offended you, sir,” she added with a somewhat mocking curtsey, emphasised by the way she held her skirts out to each side. Her eyes met his as she smiled without mirth. “But I don’t like pretence.”
From the cold ruthlessness that immediately swept over his face, she knew she had overstepped the boundaries of this man’s short, and very lethal, patience. It was now time to leave.
If only he would move away from the door, she mused as she studied the doorway behind him.
With that exit barred to her, she had to find another way out. Climbing out of the window was impossible with a dress on. The only other escape route was the door a few feet away from her on the opposite side of the room. She had no idea what was on the other side of it but, as long as it wasn’t the Count, it was a considerably better place to be than the room she stood in.
Oblivious to her scheming, the Count bowed. “I apologise if I have offended you with my bluntness. I know how you ladies prefer to be romanced. I should like the opportunity to further our acquaintance and would ask that you give me the opportunity to allay any fears you might have as to our permanent union, Marlene.”
Never in a month of Sundays, Marguerite thought with a sigh.
“My name is Marguerite,” she snapped.
The Count merely shrugged unconcernedly and sauntered closer.
Marguerite took another step back.
“I cannot be here with you like this,” she replied. “I must go. If you wish to discuss anything with me, maybe you should try at the end of the recital. Better yet, go back to my father. I don’t care what he has told you, I am not going to agree to your plans.”
“Like I said, Magdaline, you don’t get a choice.”
Marguerite wondered if the man was dense, or just bad with names. Either way, she gave up trying to correct him and decided to take her leave of him before he tried to grab her again. Deeply disturbed by what had happened, and with the pressing urge to speak with her father always in the back of her mind, she hurried around the chaise toward the side door, aware that her legs trembled far more than they should.
Why am I so scared of him? She thought desperately.
Deep inside, she suspected that her fear of him didn’t have anything to do with the way he had grabbed her, or his declaration that he had entered into an arrangement with her father for her hand in marriage. It was more the fact that this man was no Russian. He was someone in disguise. Someone cold, hard, and inherently dangerous. Count Vladimir Valentin was a man who would not allow anything to stand in his way when he wanted someone, and they, in turn, would be drawn into whatever schemes he was involved in.
He has got a scheme going, I just know it, she mused.
“But, Matilda, our acquaintance has become so important to me that I cannot conceive of coming to one of these social engagements and not finding you present,” the Count began
in earnest as he hurried across the room toward her, evidently determined to block that exit too.
The intensity in his voice alarmed her.
“Your beauty overwhelms me, Matilda,” the Count continued before she could reply.
She began to wonder if he was in full possession of his faculties. Later, she would try to work out what this changing persona was all about. Whatever was behind it, she didn’t trust the man within an inch, especially now, and refused to be swayed by the almost insipid look on his ashen features.
His voice dropped to what she assumed he believed was a sultry tone. In reality, he sounded hoarse and just a little desperate when he spoke again.
“You have to know that you have captured my attention,” the Count declared dramatically.
“I had noticed,” Marguerite replied dryly.
It is hard to ignore when you lunge at me with all the determination of an overzealous mongrel, she thought.
“I insist on being allowed to put the preparations in place to make our arrangement permanent,” the Count began, his voice dropping several octaves. “Whilst I could force you, I would prefer to have your co-operation.”
Once again, Marguerite watched his lecherous gaze slither over her, and shuddered with disgust.
“It will make life so much easier,” his tone lowered. “And enjoyable.”
“No,” she replied flatly.
“I shall enjoy breaking you,” he told her.
Marguerite refused to be thwarted. She tipped her chin up at the same time that she straightened her spine and stared hard at him.
“I shall enjoy telling everyone what you truly are, Count,” she snapped.
Before he could reply, she spun on her heel and raced across the room to the door that was partially open. Slamming through it, she immediately stopped and stared in dismay at the total darkness that engulfed her.
