He had lied! Been lying all along! About Rosalie too! And if he had lied about this, how many other things had he lied about to her?
He had said he had not seen Leonore in months except as casual acquaintances. Now he was the father of her child! And they were having an assignation right under her own roof, in the middle of their wedding festivities! Did the man have no shame?
Apparently not, for he had married her, even though he could not possibly love or esteem her if he had been sneaking behind her back. Had he been a rake all along at the inn, and after her fortune right from the start once he had become her guardian?
Her stomach churning, she stepped away from the door, listening for any further conversation. But the only thing she heard was a groan from her husband. The kind of groan he uttered when--
Leonore had reached up to plant a kiss on his lips, and his groan was one of exasperated disgust as he tried to pull her arms from around his neck.
But Arabella's final peek inside the room and view of them kissing was the last straw. Hoisting her train and skirts, she fled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Adam stood outside on the terrace, grimly plotting his revenge. It was a dish best eaten cold, as his French friends were fond of saying.
Thus far, though, he had done nothing but set up the two women to lie, and burn with fury over the way the little rabbit had escaped his snares. It wasn't enough…. He wanted them to both suffer.
He took a last drag on his cheroot and ground it underfoot. He turned to go back inside the drawing room when he saw a bright streak crossing the lawn amid the darkness.
He started. Then he laughed to himself. For a moment he had thought it a ghost. But the only thing that haunted the woods hereabouts was him.
The long train in white and gold… It could only be one person. When he saw Arabella was alone, he began to run after her. Maybe the goddess of fortune was smiling down upon him at last.
He caught up with her as she lay sobbing against a tree trunk as though her heart would break.
"And so you should bloody well cry, you little whore. You've given yourself in marriage to a man with no sap. One who wouldn't know what to do with a woman in a million years."
At Adam's words Arabella laughed hysterically. Oh, he knew all right. He was a master at seduction. If only she had realised it before….
"Tears on your wedding night? Well, I'm here to step into the gap, show you what a woman is made for."
His crushing grip on her forearms left her in no doubt as to what he intended to do. Adam pulled her up to him for a bruising kiss, drawing blood as he ground his mouth against hers.
Then he rammed her down onto her knees, jerking her head painfully with one hand as he began to pull himself out of his breeches with the other. She tried to shove herself away from his body, throw herself on the ground, but he held her inexorably against his groin.
"I've got something else for you to kiss. It's what sluts like you are made for. And in case you are thinking you're going to complain to anyone about this, just remember everyone thought we were to be married. I'll simply tell everyone you led me on. You wed that bastard for his fortune, but it's me you've wanted all along. Then see what your precious husband and friends think of you."
She gagged weakly at the stench of his appalling body odor, made even worse by the cologne he had tried to use to conceal it, and another smell--medicine, herbs?
It was one thing kissing an adored husband, quite another this act of violence. Desperate now as his flaccid penis hove into view, she bunched her fist and rammed it upwards with all her might.
Adam howled in pain and threw her from him, sending her head crashing against the trunk of the tree. An explosion of light burst in her head, and her last nearly conscious sensation was of hands shredding her gown, her underclothes, as he clawed and pummelled her.
She screamed for Blake, even though she knew he had most foully betrayed her…
"Get away from me, Leonore," Blake barked, yanking her questing hands away from him as he tried to get her out of the room.
"Don't you dare ever presume to try to kiss me again. I'm a decent and respectable married man who loves his wife. There's nothing that you have to offer me. There never was. You relieved me of my virginity when it became too much of a burden to bear, but our arrangement suited you as much as me. You got money, company and the variety I'm told you crave.
"I know what you are. A kept woman. A rich man's mistress, idle and bored. Men talk, just as women do. I've never done anything of which I am ashamed except be so weak as to continue my loose liaison with you when I knew I didn't care for you. Could never care for you.
"I made you no promises, and never thought of marriage. We had not seen each other for months even before I met my wife, so you can't possibly hold my defection against Arabella. It was already over. Well, it never really started.
"And there were others. Not many, as you saw at Lady Cavendish's, didn't you, but enough for me to know there were women with far more excitement than you on offer. You're far too cold and calculating to ever truly please. Too much in love with yourself for any man to ever convince them that you loved them.
"You have amply proven your character now by coming to me with this Banbury Tale of being with child. I know how old you are, that your bleeding has stopped for some time. You think to fool a doctor? Not to mention the fact that I haven't seen you for months.
"Even if there were a child, it is none of mine. If you give this out abroad, I shall have no qualms whatsoever about suing you for slander. Alistair Grant will willingly take my case and wipe the gutters with you. Do your worst, but don't ever come into my sight or my wife's again. You disgust me."
He dragged her out into the corridor, and stormed off to look for his wife, searching from room to room for her. Hard as he looked, though, he could not find Arabella anywhere. Then a smile lit his face. The bedroom, of course.
But when he went up, that chamber too was empty.
A sudden prickle of fear made him turn and run for the door. Once downstairs, he told the butler to get all of the guests into the drawing room, entice them with more refreshments. "I need to have some time alone with my wife. Keep the guests happy, please."
The butler nodded and went about his business, while Blake strode out the French windows onto the terrace. He saw the ground-out cheroot on the terrazzo, and felt another prickle of unease. A pile of laundry under a tree in the distance caught his eye.
Laundry?
There was a movement in the shadows.
Blake shouted. "Arabella! Arabella!"
The shadow loped off.
Blake shivered. As he ran nearer he could see the prone form of his wife stretched out upon the grass. Her face and thighs were streaked with dark patches which glistened wetly in the light of the partial moon just starting to rise over the hills.
"Oh dear God, no. Arabella! No!"
There was so much blood he quailed for a moment, certain she was dead. A vision of a battlefield mired with gore seared his brain for a minute, and he fell weakly to his knees. Then his hands were upon her tenderly. She breathed.
He blew out a shaky breath and checked her head and neck first. A hand cradling her head came away wet and sticky. The whole front of her dress had been practically torn asunder, her breasts covered in rapidly darkening bruises. The skirts of her gown were bunched around her waist, and her thighs were covered with blood. Blake began to sob. He was supposed to have protected her, and now….
His hands upon Arabella roused her for one last fight, and she screamed weakly, "No, no! Let me go!"
"It's me, darling! It's me. You're safe."
She continued to slap at him weakly. "Not safe with you! You lied! All men lie. Let me go! Get your filthy hands off me!"
"You're badly injured! Arabella, please, let me help you. Not just as your husband, but as your doctor."
She tried to sit up to cover herself, get him to stop touching her, but her head
spun wildly. She fell backwards against the tree heavily once more. He tried to catch her, but her head hit a tree root with a solid thunk, and she lay still.
He patted her cheek. "Arabella, love. Arabella?"
He snatched her prone form up off the ground and into his arms in one smooth motion, and ran for the house. He only hoped no one would see her in this state. He skirted the French windows, and went into the back entrance and up the servant's stairs.
Blake ran to her room as fast as his legs could carry him, and laid her down on the bed. He yanked the covers down and then began to cut off the remnants of her once lovely dress.
God, how had his happened? Who could have done such a monstrous thing? To think he had been wasting his time talking to Leonore when his wife had needed him, needed his protection….
He swallowed hard to stem the tide of his rising gorge. She was badly bruised all over. Her attacker had beaten her like a man demented.
The question was, had he raped her? He hardly dared look closely at her. This was his wife, for pity's sake…. He was the one who had spoken with her about being open and honest, but--
Blake removed the rest of her shredded garments, and pulled the covers up over Arabella. He would face that question later. Right now he had to deal with her head injury.
He got a basin and towel, and began to gently probe the wounds. There was a nasty two-inch gash at the base of her skull, and another one about an inch long nearer the top of her head.
He cleaned out the dirt and leaf marl as best he could, and then fetched his medical bag from his room. He would have to shave a couple of patches of hair, but it would grow back, and be concealed by the rest of her tresses.
He went into the bathroom and came back with his shaving soap and straight razor. Turning her over on her side, he began to shave around each wound and stanched the flow of blood anew.
He took out his needle and thread, and stitched each gash neatly, trying to empty his mind of the dreadful question that loomed in his mind. But it didn't matter. She was his wife, his whole world. Even if she had been-
He couldn't even bring himself to think the word. He tried again, as he clipped the thread on the first suture. Raped. He shuddered.
Had the fiend raped his wife?
No matter what had happened, he loved her. For better, for worse. It wasn't her fault.
But what had Arabella been doing out in the fields at night in the middle of her wedding reception? He thought again about the cheroot stub. Well, many men in the neighbourhood were known to indulge. Men….
Had she been lured out there for an assignation? Had she gone willingly? No, damn it. he was not going to start thinking that way about Arabella. He had blighted his life long enough by deeming all women faithless and untrustworthy. Leonore had been untrue, and before her Rosalie, but-
No. It was not the same, not the same at all. Arabella loved him, and him alone, he was sure of it. What they had shared proved that. She had been a virgin, he knew that first-hand. She had told him herself that Adam and his brother had left her cold. If she had been compliant in some sort of dalliance, she would not now be covered in bruises and blood.
He had seen it often enough in London to know. There were men who loved to hit and hurt. Men who couldn't enjoy themselves any other way.
She had not done anything wrong. He could not allow himself to think for a moment that this had been anything other than an act of mindless brutality by some savage beast. There had been no love, romance, seduction. It had been assault, plain and simple.
Whatever happened, Blake had to be grateful Arabella was still alive.
Though once she came to and recalled what had happened to her, she might wish she wasn't.
As soon as Blake had finished sewing up the two gashes in Arabella's head, he cleaned up her face tenderly, and began to apply cream to her bruises, now a livid purple. Her mouth and chest were mottled and swollen, and he feared her ribs had been injured again.
He stroked the cloth down her, removing all traces of blood and applying cream, until he got to her waist. His chest felt as though an iron band had been wrapped around it, and his hands began to shake.
He steeled himself, and slipped the covers lower, parting her thighs. She was bleeding badly, but he could not see any sign of anything other than blood and dirt. He prayed she had been spared, but only time would tell. Once she came to-
And if she was with child? He could never blame or reproach her, and it would certainly not be the child's fault if it was the product of a mindless act of violence.
Still, the thought of her having to carry another man's child, her rapist's child, was just too awful for him to even contemplate. How could the poor girl ever--
She gasped and stirred as he touched her, a strident, "No!" coming from her parted lips.
"It's all right, I'm here. I'm trying to help. You're badly injured."
Her thighs were black and blue, and she was bleeding very heavily. He had no idea what was normal for her in terms of monthlies--was it possible that it was this? Or some internal injury?
He forced himself to look, though he felt like he could barely think straight. For once in his life he hated being a doctor. Maybe he should send for--
But no. The fewer people who knew about this the better. He didn't want this one foul act of violence to ruin her entire reputation in the district.
They had been so happy here thus far. He had thought he would hate life in the country, but his wife had blossomed there. He had felt youthful and carefree despite the huge responsibility that he knew he would inherit one day.
One day long into the future, he prayed, for he was extremely fond of Mr. Jerome, well, the whole family, really. Not to mention all of the fine new friends they had found. But now Arabella might hate and loathe the place where she had been attacked.
They were supposed to have gone on their wedding trip tomorrow. She was not fit to travel far, that was obvious. But nor could she stay here with her face all battered.
What really decided Blake upon his course of action though, was the thought that her assailant night still be out there just waiting for an opportunity to harm her again.
He finished cleaning her from head to toe. Pulling the sheet back up over her, he moved away from the bed he began to gather some warm clothing from her drawers and wardrobe. He found her linen and padded between her thighs before dressing the lower half of her body. He got a chemise over her head, and a dark green woollen gown.
He brushed out her hair carefully, freeing it of the elaborate braids and twists she had allowed her abigail Betsey to create for her wedding coiffure, which were now tangled and matted with leaves, twigs, dirt and blood.
He pulled it back into a simple tail with a matching ribbon, and checked her head. The sutures were still seeping, but he dabbed at them and found a lace cap and bonnet for her. The bonnet was concealing enough to cover the bruises on her chin if no one looked at her too closely.
He wrapped her cloak around her tenderly, and laid her on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed while he stripped it. He burnt the blood-stained sheets and towels, and finally, tearfully, her lovely white and gold wedding dress.
He got out a spare set of sheets and remade the bed. Once he was certain that the room looked in proper order, he took a last look in each of the bags which had already been packed and were sitting waiting by the window for their honeymoon departure.
He was surprised at his own clarity of thought. His emotions were in such turmoil his hands were shaking. He could barely fasten the clasps on the valises as he finished his hasty inspection. When he was finished he rang for Timothy the valet.
"Tell them to bring the carriage around. We're going to Bath," he said through a tiny crack in the door.
"Very good, sir."
He took her down the back stairs and around the side of the house, and got her into the carriage. He propped Arabella up in the corner, moving her head a few times until he was certain that it was
at a more normal-looking angle.
Then he went in to say goodbye to his guests, hoping he looked for all the world like a happy bridegroom without a care in the world. He checked his appearance in the mirror and threw on his cloak over his suit to cover the worst of the dirt and blood he had been bemired with.
He raked his hands though his hair, and rubbed a dark smudge from his cheek. He practiced his false smile in the mirror, and went into the room and looked around, scanning the sea of faces to see who was missing from the reception.
Adam and his brother, both not there. Also Samuel and Martin missing. Not as likely but still…
Geoffrey and Philip had left before, but could they have—
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 93
