But only because he had Merewood to return home to.
The magnitude of what lay ahead clenched his heart. The very ways his world was defined meant nothing in the land of opportunity.
Georgiana wiggled off his lap, said something about asking Mama about whether she would be required to have lessons in America too, and dragged Blythe out the door with her.
Adam stood and followed them with a slow, measured step. Suddenly, he understood how Aria chafed against the mores of society he didn’t question. He turned down the hall.
When one had lived with such freedom, this world would be restrictive beyond belief. Small.
Soon, his family would be in a world without those restrictions. What they shared in common would dwindle tremendously.
And Aria...by marrying her, he would be asking her to permanently live within those restrictions. He had to wonder if the strength of his feelings for her was enough to build a compatible life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
That evening Adam arrived at the Whitney house. He fisted and unfisted his hands, trying to release the knots that had wound him up all day. If Aria wasn’t here...
Though somewhere along the way, he’d started to wonder what he would do if she was.
He was let in, and found Mrs. Whitney in the parlor that was becoming so familiar. She sat on a chaise, speaking in quiet tones to the man next to her.
Wade.
“What are you doing here?” Adam asked bluntly. His mood turned even blacker. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with.
Wade stood. “I came to accompany Miss Whitney to Covent Gardens this evening. It was planned for weeks.”
“Perhaps she believed her plans changed when she told you she was betrothed to me.”
“A betrothal to a man she hardly knows?” Wade sneered. “What is important is that Aria was not here when I arrived. And I understand—” he looked at Mrs. Whitney, “—that she has not been here all day.”
Wade exchanged knowing glances again with Mrs. Whitney, which only fueled Adam’s annoyance. “What?”
Patrick let out a breath that dropped his shoulders. “I am concerned Aria has gone to find her father.”
“She has been doing that for months now. She was attending events and pretending an interest in finding a husband to gain information.”
Understanding dawned in Patrick’s face, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “I see. So she has been using you. She has no intention of going through with the wedding.”
“Aria doesn’t have that option.”
Mrs. Whitney gasped. “Do you mean—”
Patrick stepped toward him, clenched fists at his side. “Are you suggesting that you’ve...you and she have...” He couldn’t force the words past white lips. “You lie.”
“I have no reason to,” Adam said. He couldn’t help getting a perverse enjoyment out of the red hues of anger that slashed over Wade’s neck. There was something about this man... He couldn’t pin it down, but every instinct inside Adam stood at alert. He looked to Mrs. Whitney. “We need to establish a search party, track her last movements.”
Mrs. Whitney let out a shaky breath and sank into a chair. “I should have listened to you. I never thought...What could have happened to her?”
“Mrs. Whitney, you know Aria is impulsive,” Wade said. Even his clipped tone grated in Adam’s ears. “I hate to worry you, but it’s possible she booked passage to go to Egypt herself.”
“She wouldn’t leave London right now.” Adam didn’t question that.
“You don’t know her,” Wade shot back, turning to face him. “You don’t know what she would do.”
Mrs. Whitney looked between them. “It wouldn’t surprise me... She has talked almost every day, especially these last weeks, about leaving London for good as soon as her father returned.” She shrugged. “Perhaps she finally accepted Gideon’s death and left.”
In that moment, Adam could see only the small flowered pattern on the chaise Mrs. Whitney sat on. Hear the bustle of carriages and people on the street.
She had planned to leave?
Patrick lifted his overcoat with a snap of the heavy fabric. “Very well. I will have my men check the docks, outgoing ships or whatever way she might have left London.”
Wade moved toward the door. He never turned his body toward Adam, dismissive and patronizing at the same time.
“She will never be yours,” Wade said softly, pausing in his stride. His words more a threat than a whisper.
Adam turned to face him directly. “She already is.”
Their gazes became a challenge, two dogs measuring each other and searching for weakness. The hard lines of Wade’s face stretched into an ugly smile. “Whatever you say.” With that, he tipped his head and left the room.
Adam gave Mrs. Whitney what assurances he could, since he had none he felt sure of, and began to formulate a plan. But the ugly realization kept rearing its head.
It was becoming more likely that the woman he thought he was looking for did not exist.
* * *
The walls of the drawing room rattled as a door slammed shut. From the hazy depths of her drugged state, Aria lifted her head and waited, unable to summon more than a mild curiosity.
Patrick filled the archway, his black coat billowing about him like the wings of a crow.
His face contorted with rage.
Her stomach tightened into a coil, her heart slammed up into her throat, and Aria struggled to sit up. Then Patrick was there, his snarl in her face. Steel fingers dug into her arms as he yanked her up, inches away.
“Did you whore with Merewood?” The heat of his breath burned her skin, and his tone matched the thunder in his eyes.
Her head...fuzzy. Refused to clear. “What are you talking about?”
He dropped her like a ragdoll. She crashed back against the chair, her back bending in ways that shot knives of agony down her legs.
“He told me your betrothal was not an option, but required. Did you play the whore, Ariadne?” Patrick roared.
Through the fog, she couldn’t hide her own anger. “None of your business.”
He took a step toward her, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. “Answer me.”
“Go to hell.” The defiance sapped every ounce of energy she had, but she’d be damned if she would give him a moment of satisfaction.
A roar erupted from his lips and at the same time, he lashed out with his foot. His boot landed with a bone-crushing thump against her thigh. “Did he ruin you?”
A cry erupted, and Aria bit down on her lip to suck in it. The metallic taste of blood touched her tongue, but she stared back in defiance. “Define ruin.”
Patrick let out an animalistic sound filled with rage and insanity.
Aria scrambled to get away. He advanced, and before she could escape him, he threaded fingers into her hair. Crushed her against him. Slammed his mouth against hers, a move of possession.
Of the need to control. Nothing of desire.
“You think you can insult me like that? That you can spread your legs for a bastard’s title?”
Aria shook her head from side to side, trying to pull away from the searing pressure that made her teeth feel ready to fall out. She tried to scream, even knowing no one who could hear would come to her aid. She pummeled his chest with her fists, though her small efforts did little good.
Then he let go as if she’d caught on fire, leaving her to fall in a heap on the floor. Every movement took three times the amount of strength it should, and her limbs had stiffened.
The momentary flash of wildness disappeared from Patrick’s eyes, leaving them cold and flat.
“You were never interested in him. His touch meant nothing to you. You belong with me.”
He paced in a circle, one hand tapping fiercely against his thigh in a fevered rhythm. “This requires some minor adjustment.”
A chill ebbed through the aches everywhere. He was mad. Truly, bone-chillingly mad.
“He is twice the man you could ever hope to be. In bed and out of it.” The words escaped before she could think twice, and when he stilled, not a single movement for what felt like hours, dread filled her stomach with a sticky nausea.
Oh God, why hadn’t this sick understanding that she needed to learn to keep her mouth shut come a few seconds earlier?
He stood with his back to her, and time moved with the snails. Then he slid a foot out, swiveled on that until he faced her. The inhuman gleam had returned to his eyes.
She knew fear.
A flash of panic careened through her like a flood, filling her aching limbs with the urgency to move.
Get out. Now.
Before he—
He swept down at her, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her once again to her feet.
“Ow!” she cried.
“Twice the man?”
Fingers curled around her upper arm, the ends digging in as if sharpened. The skin and muscles screamed as they were pinched while he dragged her fully against his hardened body.
Everywhere.
The thickness of him pressed against the juncture of her legs. How could he be aroused by this?
Get away. Get away.
The cloying scent of him, sweat mixed in with the musk he wore, threatened to choke her. But she had to think. Focus.
“Let me go.” She shoved at his chest, which did nothing to slacken the grip he had on her. “Patrick. Let. Me. Go.” She looked up, met his eyes and realized the futility of her task.
Their depths were void of anything. Everything.
His mouth descended, but instead of taking her lips, it fell to her neck. Revulsion slithered along her skin, and she fought to calm her fear. Defending herself was about fighting the fear. With a solid thrust, she shoved the heel of her palm up toward his face, aiming for his nose. His hand knocked hers away, but he lifted his head, so she balled a fist and aimed it directly at his throat. Again, he deflected and flickers of panic began to flare inside of her.
Nothing was working.
Every hit she landed against his muscled body jarred her arms and did nothing to stop him. His lips left a wet trail down her neck.
She struggled in earnest now, using elbows to shove his hands away, but they came back, again and again. She smacked her forehead against his and her vision went blurry for a moment.
It only spurred him on. He bit down, dug in until she thought he would rip her apart by the skin.
“No, you bastard! Stop this!” She fought, scraping nails against skin when possible, wherever possible. But he held her down, iron shackles around her, holding her prisoner against the brick wall he’d become.
The sound of ripping fabric filled the air. The chilled air attacked her chest, her stomach.
She choked back the bile as his lips touched the upper swell of her breast, as one of his hands squeezed the other breast until tears sprung into her eyes.
“You are mine. Every bit o’ you. You’ve always been mine. Do you understand?” His words were feverish, sounding nothing like the smooth tones he spoke so carefully. His speech had slipped, along with his façade.
He was too strong. She couldn’t stop this. She couldn’t keep him from—
The absolute shame of being unable to change what was happening began to flood her inside, until tears spilled down her cheeks. His lips, his hands touched where they shouldn’t.
His weight shifted.
He fumbled with his trousers with one hand, held her at the throat with the other. With every struggle she made, he pushed down, cutting off the air until spasms of coughs burst from her.
Then both hands were free.
She summoned every vestige of strength she had and kicked.
“Arrrgh!” His howl filled the room. He fell to the ground, holding himself. “You bitch!”
Every place Patrick’s hands had touched her body felt raw, exposed, like ants ran under her skin, and she couldn’t rub or scratch the feeling away. She ached.
She would not let him touch her again. She would not let him violate her.
She would rather die.
She grabbed the vase of flowers and threw it at his head, then ran. The shattering of glass and his increasing litany of curses told her she hit her mark, but she refused to look back.
The window. She couldn’t go out the doors. The guards were there. But the window—if she could just get there.
“You will pay, you stupid wench!”
With a frantic breath, she reached the window, fussed with the latch until she could shove the window open.
“Do not be stupid, Ariadne. It’s the second floor. You’ll break your neck.”
She hiked up her skirts, braced one foot on a chair and slid up to the windowsill.
Scrapes of movement behind her sent the ants into a frenzy, and with a cry of desperation, she slid her leg through the window. Then the other.
And let go.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It’s dark outside, Adam,” Adam’s mother said in a calm, I’m-talking-to-a-five-year-old voice. “Perhaps we should wait for daylight.”
Adam stopped his pacing long enough to look at her. “I will not wait. We’ll take candles, lanterns, whatever we must. Something is wrong. Very wrong.”
She stepped closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Adam looked down as she squeezed his arm, surprised by the easy comfort she offered, even though he knew she was furious with him. “You’ll find her.”
He placed a hand over hers, squeezed back. “Thanks, Mama.” He moved to the center of the room. A handful of servants entered.
“Ye called fer us, milord?” Shamus, the coachman, asked. The footman, groom and stable-boy all stood alongside, with Higgins bringing up the aft.
“My betrothed, Miss Whitney, is missing,” Adam said bluntly. “We’ll mount the search immediately.”
“Missing?” Lily echoed, as she walked into the room with Cordelia and Georgiana. “What do you mean missing?”
“She hasn’t been seen since yesterday. She hasn’t been home.”
“Perhaps she ran off with someone else to Gretna Green,” Cordelia said lightly. When every eye in the room turned on her, she shrugged. “I was only teasing.”
“This isn’t funny, Cordelia,” Adam snapped. “She could be—” He stopped. He didn’t want to think about “could be.” He looked back at the servants. “We have very little to go on. The last she was seen was leaving her home on Somerset. She was supposed to meet me in Hyde Park and never showed. We’ll start there and work our way out.” He pointed to Shamus and John, the footman. “You two will go to the Cumberland Gate and work along Park Lane, then inward toward the Serpentine.” He pointed at the groom and stable-boy. “You two go to Hyde Park Corner and move in. I will go to her house and travel the path to where she and I were to meet.”
“Lord Merewood?” the stable-boy asked, his hands together and shoulders hunched. A wary fear lit his eyes.
“Yes, Jonah?”
“What are we looking for precisely?”
An image of Aria, crumbled to the ground as Blythe had been, only this time dead, flashed through his head and he strove to control the rolls of nausea in his gut. This was every nightmare he’d ever had come to life.
The slamming of a door saved Adam from having to answer, and he watched as Blythe strode in, yanking off gloves and cloak as she entered the room. The dark blue gown underneath indicated they’d planned on an evening out. Ravensdale was two steps behind her, also dressed in finery. As he entered the room, the doorwa
y was filled with about five or six men.
“We’re here. What can we do?” Blythe asked, coming to stop in front of him. She tossed her things on a chaise and reached up to embrace him. “We’ve brought some of Michael’s servants to help with the search.”
Adam glanced at their mother, certain she’d sent for Blythe and her betrothed, but not about to turn down the offer. The more people involved, the quicker they could move.
Ravensdale gestured his men inside and then came to stand next to Adam. “What is the plan?”
“Start from her home. Search the park. Knock on doors if we must and see if anyone has seen her.”
“Knocking on doors might not get you anything but servants this time of night,” Blythe told him. “And tonight is the Bedford Ball. It’s quite likely most of society will be there. It’s where Michael and I were headed.”
“You should still go. You can do more by asking about her there, versus staying here.”
She reached for the gloves and coat she’d tossed. “Something feels very wrong about going to a party while the rest of the household is searching, but I understand.” She tilted her head. “Do you suppose that is how Aria has felt all these months? She was attending parties and pretending to be husband hunting, all the while searching for information on her father’s whereabouts.” She tugged a glove on. “I hadn’t considered how difficult this must have all been for her.”
Adam had. Every day. Aria had delved into a world she didn’t understand, tried to play by their rules. It had cost her the freedom to choose who she married. It had cost her reputation. And possibly her life.
And she had wanted to escape it the moment she had the chance.
He shook off the thoughts. No time to brood. “It was daylight when she left her house and headed to the park. Anyone might have seen her, servant or lord. I need to know, so we’ll still knock on doors and ask the servants.” He glanced around the room, and waved a hand. “Go, go.”
The sounds of shuffling feet, of soft-spoken words as people matched up with their partners and discussed their actions. As they filtered out of the room, one by one, Adam found his family looking at him with a mixture of pity, worry and fear.
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