Legacy of Succession

by Anna Edwards

  “Are they doing alright?” he asks and motions toward the screen.

  “As can be expected,” I reply, still engrossed in Victoria. She's looking around the room for an escape route now. She tries the bedroom door — it's locked, and the window is the same. She stamps her foot in frustration.

  “Which one is that?” Reggie queries.

  “Victoria Hamilton.”

  “Viscount Mayfield’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She seems braver than your mother. I remember standing here with your father watching her. I’d just been promoted to butler, despite being young. He was laughing at the girls as he watched them cry and try to find their way out. He picked your mother out immediately as the weakest of the three. I knew she wouldn’t last long, from that moment.” He goes quiet and becomes lost in his private thoughts. I don't ask him to share them. I know he'll clam up. He always does — small snippets about my mother are all I'll ever get out of him. He bows and leaves me alone again.

  My attention re-focuses on Victoria. She’s at the bookcase. As her fingers skim the titles, she stops on one and pulls it out — I can’t make out the name from the angle I have. It doesn’t matter because she pushes that one back in when she sees another that captures her attention. I recognize this one. It's a book on art. It’s one of my personal favorites, and we have several copies around the house. It lists the more obscure paintings by some of the most famous artists in the world.

  She looks between a Queen Anne chair, in the corner of the room, and the four poster bed as she debates on which one to choose. She finally decides on the chair and settles in it with the book. I pull up the file on her, on my phone.

  The Honorable Victoria Hamilton

  Born: 25th July 1997

  I skip past the bit that tells me about her breeding, education, and physical attributes to the hobbies part.

  Hobbies:

  Victoria swims regularly, at least one hundred lengths a day. She doesn’t have many interests that allow her to leave the house as has been specified in the documentation regarding the raising of a chosen girl. She enjoys baking with Viscountess Mayfield and has been painting since a young age. The only time I allow her out, under my strict supervision, is to visit the art galleries of London. She reads an abundance of material on the subject. I’m sure this will be of interest to Earl Lullington.

  The passage written by her father does indeed interest me. Art is my life. The pictures in the hallway — she was studying them. I smirk at my intelligent little girl.

  Victoria yawns in her chair, and her eyelids flutter. She's becoming exhausted from her long day, no matter how much she wants to continue reading the book that interests her. She yawns again, and her head falls forward. A few seconds later the book drops to the floor open on the page showing Van Gogh’s Poppies. I knew it. I turn the screen off and let her sleep peacefully. Tomorrow is a new day, and I think my father is correct: Victoria Hamilton is going to cause a great deal of trouble.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VICTORIA

  I’m out at a party with Tammy. We’re dancing away to the latest craze, and two guys are behind us with their hands on our backsides. I turn around and lock lips with my man. His deep, raspy voice tells me he wants to fuck me hard tonight. I won’t be able to walk the next day. I pull away, and the face of Nicholas Cavendish greets me.

  I sit bolt upright in the bed when the door slams, and men flood in, I realize I was dreaming. I’m confused. I’m in bed, but I fell asleep in the chair. I look at the dressing table, and the book I was reading is placed on it. How did I get here?

  “Good morning, Miss Hamilton.” It’s then I realize that the Duke of Oakfield stands at the foot of my bed. My eyes widen as I take in him and Nicholas, plus two other men.

  “Get out,” I shout.

  “Manners. When you address me, you’ll call me, Your Grace.”

  “Get out, you fucking pervert.”

  I see the little smirk on Nicholas’ face, but the Duke’s far from having a sense of humor. If steam could come out of his ears, I think it would be right now.

  “Playing the little bitch won’t get you anywhere.” He rips the sheets from my grasp and throws them onto the floor. I’m left on the bed in only the nightgown, which I made shorter yesterday. I’m beginning to regret that decision.

  “If you’ve brought him here to try and take me for his wife” ‒I look at Nicholas who is motionless‒ “then, it’ll be rape because I don’t consent to this.”

  The Duke laughs.

  “What kind of savages do you take us for.”

  “Err. The type that kidnaps and brands girls for their pleasure.”

  He steps forward and slaps me hard on the cheek. I see stars but also see Nicholas’ fists clench.

  “If I didn’t need you pure because my son chose you, I would teach you a few lessons about just what type of man I am, and why you need to respect me,” the duke snarls. “This is my private physician, Dr. Fredrick Fallen, and this is my lawyer, Sir Percy Cleveland. When your father gave you to us, he made assurances as to your virginity. As part of the requirements of the rules governing our society, you’ll be tested to ensure that is, in fact, the case.”

  “I’ll what?” I pull my legs up to my chest and use the pillow to hide my modesty.

  “Don’t play dumb. Dr. Fallen here will check to see that your hymen is still intact.”

  “Hell no.” I scramble from the bed and grab the nearest implement to protect myself. A lamp. “If any of you try to come near me, Dr. Fallen will need to spend his time stitching your head back together rather than sticking his fingers up my vagina.”

  The Duke sighs, “Nicholas, why couldn’t you have chosen the docile one?”

  “Less fun to break,” he replies and steps closer to me.

  “Try it, and there won’t be anyone for us to marry.”

  He picks up the book on my table instead.

  “Interesting book choice.” He opens it to the page that shows the Van Gogh painting. It's then I realize he was the one to move me. I do a mental tally in my head to see if it feels as though I’ve been violated anywhere. Maybe he drugged me.

  “You get your kicks from sneaking into a sleeping lady’s room? Mind you, it’s probably the only way you can get someone near that small dick, your no doubt packing.”

  “My dick’s the thing of your dreams, Victoria.” He gives me an arrogant grin.

  “Get a life.” I roll my eyes.

  “I’ve got three to play with at the moment, thank you.”

  “Enough.” The Duke interrupts our bickering. “Guards.”

  Four men file into the room.

  “We don’t have time for this. We need to see the other two girls, and then, we have the sale. Disarm her and hold her down.”

  “Is that the only way you can get a woman?” I make a swing for the Duke, but one of the guards rips the lamp from my hand. The others grab for me, and I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, toward the bed. I don’t want this. I want to disappear back into my dream, preferably without Nicholas Cavendish in it. Actually, no, I could happily be dreaming of him and his father getting castrated. Instead, I’m thrown face down on the bed. The guards each pin one of my legs and arms down. I thrash my head around, trying to shift enough to sink my teeth into flesh, but a massive hand pushes it down so I can no longer move. I flick my eyes up to see that it belongs to the Duke. He's sadistic in his triumph over me. I feel my hips lifted and my gown pulled around my waist, bared to the eight men in the room. My ass in the air like a wild animal ready for the taking. Nicholas comes to the head of the bed. I watch his every move. He's like a stalking lion, surveying his prey. He plays with the cufflinks that peep out from his suit jacket. They are gold in color and emblazoned with the symbol, which will forever scar my skin. In this position, I have no dignity, and he's enjoying it.

  “Don’t fight — relax, and it won’t hurt so much.” He orders. I spit at him in a fury, an
d he wipes it away with a smirk. His eyes never leave mine as two fingers are inserted into my body. I experience severe pain because I’m dry and not prepared — the doctor is tearing me apart. I screw my face up, but I can’t take my eyes off Nicholas'. I want him to die, painfully, slowly, and maybe, with two fingers stuck up his ass. No, make that a whole fist.

  The doctor gropes around inside me, and I can’t help but feel violated.

  “She’s a virgin,” he announces and withdraws his fingers. I breathe a sigh of relief. Nicholas looks pleased.

  “I could’ve told you that without the need for all of this.” I try to struggle, but they still hold me down.

  “Give her the injection.” The Duke’s voice comes from behind me. There's silence for a few moments except for the movement of the doctor, and then, I feel a sharp jab in my bottom. Everyone holding me lets me go, and I scramble as far away, to the other side of the room, as possible.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “A contraception injection. No babies before marriage allowed here. It wouldn’t be proper,” the Duke answers me.

  “Proper? After what you just did, you're talking to me about what’s proper and what isn’t.”

  The Duke ignores me.

  “Is there anything you can give her to calm her down a bit? Her constant moaning has given me a migraine and become far too tedious.” He glares at me, but I stick my tongue out and look for another weapon. If any of them come near me, then they’re going to lose their heads.

  “Leave her, Your Grace,” Nicholas interrupts. “I think that when she sees what happens next, she'll behave.” He turns on his heels with no further explanation and leaves. The Duke looks at me and cackles, making my blood freeze, and my body slump to the floor in defeat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NICHOLAS

  I watch the girls file into the room. Those to be sold are led to the stage while the ones I chose to keep, for now, are being ushered to seats and told to sit. I watch them. Elizabeth’s her usual confident self and flashes a seductive smile in my direction when she walks in. Amelia’s barely holding it together — she seems like she’s a zombie. Victoria’s quieter than usual. I think I’m getting used to her having a mouth on her and miss the backchat. She doesn’t curse the guard who pushes her down on the chair, and I notice she’s walking a little stiffly. She struggled a lot this morning. Her muscles must be hurting from the exertion. She needs to learn to go with what’s happening here. Nothing can change the future.

  “Welcome back, gentlemen.” My father starts proceedings with his confident address. The room instantly silences, and we all focus our attention on him. “Let’s get straight down to business. We have two ladies here, Lady Joanna Nethercutt and Daphne Knight. I’m going to start with Miss Knight. Daphne step forward please.”

  The small brunette does as she’s told — her eyes are red-rimmed with tears. What is it with all these women and tears? Why don’t they just accept what’s happening and get on with it? None of us have a choice in this farce. At least they’ll have a roof over their head at the end of it. There are plenty of people on the streets of England who have nothing. That’s what we all fear, after all, nothing — no life, no wealth, no love. I snort at the last one. Oakfield Hall has never had any love within its walls.

  I look over at Victoria again. I can see her cheeks are flushed red — she’s getting angry. I find myself wanting her to scream and shout and interrupt the proceedings. I like her spirit. She must feel me watching her because she turns her attention in my direction. She rolls her eyes in derision. I smirk, and she focuses back on the sale.

  “Daphne’s an accomplished musician. She plays a variety of instruments including the piano, violin, and harp. She's been privately educated to a high standard and particularly enjoys reading classics. She’d make a good governess and tutor for the next generation of our society.” My father pauses and Laird McGuire, a despicable man from the Scottish Borders, calls out.

  “Enough with the tedious facts. What aboot the interesting ones. How big are her boobs? I’m assuming ye've checked she's a virgin. A dinnae want sloppy seconds from yer son.”

  “Laird McGuire, I can assure you that she's been checked and is innocent. Her vital statistics are in the pack, which you were handed on arrival.” My father doesn’t like this man. In fact, he has a thing against most Scots. He believes them brutish and uncouth. I hear him often chastising my ancestors for allowing them into the society. Thankfully, Laird McGuire and Laird McDonald, who is also loud but less of an oaf, are the only two of Scottish origin.

  “A bet she takes a good whipping. Her skin is pasty white. Will color red in a matter o’ moments. A think I'll be bidding on this one. Get ma cock up her ass within the hour and fuck her senseless.”

  Daphne lets out a whimpering cry at his comment, and Joanna steps forward and holds her up.

  “Laird McGuire. These are ladies, not whores. Please, have some decorum if, that is, you intend to place a bid on Miss Knight. If you simply want a body to engage in sadistic acts, then my butler will provide you with a number to contact.”

  “We have a right to bid on these pieces of meat. Ye canae be telling me how to treat them.” Laird McGuire is on his feet and waving his fist at my father.

  “No, I can’t tell you how to treat them, but I can outbid you and see that you don’t win.”

  I chuckle under my breath. My father doesn't want this girl. He doesn't care what happens to her. If he did buy her, he’d be the one fucking her up the ass within the hour. He just wants to put this man, that he hates, in his place.

  “Should we continue, Your Grace.”

  I step up onto the stage and link my arm around Daphne’s. Her legs are weak, and she leans on me.

  “Please, don’t sell me to him,” she whispers to me.

  “You'll be sold to the highest bidder, no matter who it is. Those are the rules. Accept it,” I reply heartlessly.

  My father comes to stand on the other side of her, and Laird McGuire sits down with a scowl on his face.

  “Shall we start at one hundred thousand?” my father offers to the crowd.

  Laird McGuire puts his hand up.

  “Two hundred thousand.” Comes from Earl Winters, an older man with a penchant for young girls. He’s kind though, and she’ll be treated like a princess. He has a daddy complex. Don’t get me wrong — he’ll fuck her, but she’ll be looked after.

  “Three,” Lord McGuire counters.

  “Four,” Winters offers in reply.

  “Five,” A new voice enters the fray. I don’t recognize it at first but purse my lips in a smile when I see that it's one of my old friends, Viscount West. This just got interesting.

  Lord McGuire waves his hand in defeat, and my father smirks with triumph. West must be bidding on his behalf. Fuck, the poor girl’s screwed.

  “Earl Winters?” my father asks.

  “Five and a half.”

  “Six.” West counters right back.

  “She’s not worth anything more. I’m out.” Earl Winters accepts defeat, and the hammer comes down on Daphne Knight. I can’t help feeling a little sick. If my father has anything to do with this purchase, then the girl wrapped tightly around my arm has little time left to live. There’s nothing I can do, though. I hand her over to West and go to the next girl.

  Lady Joanna Nethercutt was a difficult one to give up. If Victoria hadn’t intrigued me as much as she did, then I would have chosen Joanna. She’s the prettier of the two. All I can do is pray that McGuire has learned his lesson and won’t try to bid on this one.

  My father gives the same speech about the girl again. This one is again highly educated and enjoys reading. She’s also an avid motor car fan. I picture her laid out over my Ferrari. It would be a damn good sight.

  “What shall we start at?”

  “Two hundred.” Earl Winters puts his hand up again.

  “Three hundred,” Laird McGuire replies, and I groan.

&nb
sp; “Four.” Viscount Mayfield steps through the crowd. Victoria gasps when she sees her father.

  “Five,” McGuire offers.

  “Six,” Winters adds.

  Victoria is shaking her head. She has tears in her eyes, now. Mayfield bidding isn’t something I’d expected. I know his wife came from my father’s ‘not chosen’ girls. I wonder if he’s continuing the tradition.

  “Seven.” He stands in the center of the room with his arms folded.

  “Wit that frizzy hair I’m no paying any more. Ye can have her.” McGuire gets up and stomps from the room.