by Tanya Wilde
The butler disappeared.
“How dare you leave me with those vultures?” Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.
He did not even pretend to misunderstand, and for that, she was glad. Instead, his jaw clenched, and his eyes turned to steel.
“Would you have preferred I stayed?”
“I would have preferred you not kiss me at all, but yes! Staying would not have put me in such a compromising position.”
“Madam, if I had remained, you would have been much worse off. At least with me gone, the situation was more salvageable.”
“Salvageable? Salvageable? It was no such thing!”
“I’m sure you played me the evil villain and cried all about it.”
“By saints, you are full of yourself. How was I supposed to portray you as a villain with all of them laughing at me, snickering behind my back, spreading rude gossip and rumors about your latest conquest? I left with what little dignity I could muster.”
“You did not cry to them about how I overpowered you? Called for the pitchforks and fire?”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Christ woman! You were supposed to make me out the blackguard and save your reputation! Surely you are not that dense?”
Anastacia blinked up at him. Her throat constricted at the insult, making it hard to breathe. It had struck her squarely in the chest. How had she not known what to do? The duke had evidently thought she would. He had even whispered she slap him in front of all the guests. But then, he was a seasoned rake, she, a country miss unschooled in the ways of men and the rules of fending off the ill-advances of rogues. How could she know?
His loud curse filled the hallway, reminding them of their position. Servants gossiped, she recalled faintly. But what did it matter now? The duke did not seem like a man who would cave to her demands. And did she honestly wish to be shackled to a rake for the rest of her life? Already her mind pursued other avenues of thinking—her Plan C, for one, and Plan D for good measure.
Strong fingers pulled her into a nearby room and pushed her into a chair.
“Christ woman, sit before you fall.”
Anastacia did not offer any resistance. Her legs were wobbly, and she needed to consider her next options. She even took the drink he poured her, too shocked at her grand stupidity to do anything else. So she sat, sipping on whatever god-awful substance he’d given her, while he just stared at her, brows raised.
The golden liquid burned down her throat, washing some of the taste of her humiliation away. At a loss for words, she considered how things might have turned out differently if she’d known to cry wolf.
“Perhaps Averly will still have you?”
She shot the duke a glare. He knew very well that would not be the case.
“Why have you come here, Lady Anastacia?” he pressed. “I cannot undo what has been done. Perhaps you wish for me to speak with him?”
“He is betrothed, has been from childhood, though he likes to forget his duty from time to time.” Verbally voicing it, especially to Blackcress, was pure torture. Dense, he had called her? She was, beyond question. Desperation, it seemed, had addled her wits.
For her actual Plan B—as this could not possibly count—she must be smarter and cleverer than before, and for that, she required funds, since her uncle refused to release her inheritance.
Anastacia set the glass down and lifted her eyes to meet his. “I came to London to seek marriage. You have ruined any chance of that.”
“And if I made certain everyone knows you are an innocent who had no chance of escaping my clutches? In time, your reputation may recover.”
“No. There is no more time for courtship.”
His eyes narrowed on her, his fingers drumming against his knee as he considered her.
“Why is that?”
“The details aren’t important; what is paramount is that I marry now or leave. And since you have ruined my reputation, you must make it right.”
His eyes hardened. “If this is a ploy to trap me into marriage so you can become the new Duchess of Blackcress, you are sadly mistaken,” he said in a low, steely voice.
Hah!
“Ploy? I have done nothing but stay away from you! Whereas you went through a great deal of trouble to learn my name. And just so that we are clear on the matter, your grace, I have no desire to become the Shameless Duchess of Blackcress, for that is what a woman must be to wed you.”
Anastacia rose as she delivered the last, and the duke rose, too. To her consternation, she could not help marvel at his enormous size, compared to hers. Even glaring down at her, with his unkempt and disheveled hair, he commanded attention. The desirous kind. She nearly pinched herself on the spot. Focus.
“If you do not want marriage from me, I can only surmise you want funds.”
“And lots of them.”
“Woman, have you lost your mind? I will not part with a fortune just because I kissed you. If every chit I kissed demanded payment, I would rot in destitution.”
“I am in possession of all my faculties, thank you very much, and I’d wager not every chit you kiss suffers from my predicament.”
That earned her an incredulous stare. “That is your argument?”
“It is a solid one.”
“And what do I receive for my money’s worth?”
“Peace of mind,” Anastacia snapped, refusing to feel threatened or intimidated. The man was rich. What did a few coins matter to him?
He snorted, leveling her with a glare. “So I get to part with a hefty purse or marry you, over one single kiss. I feel cheated, my dear. And you are not the first to try to cheat me this way.”
The nerve of this man! To assume she wanted to trap him into any ploy when he was the one who ruined all her plans. How arrogant, how cynical, how self-absorbed!
“I merely want what is owed to me after your actions placed me in this predicament, sir. That one single kiss that means so little to you has cost me my entire reputation and all my prospects. And I am not the one who dragged you into the shrubbery!”
“Perhaps, but you are the one who kissed me back.”
“I—ugh! That signifies nothing here!”
“Does it not? You are also the one who failed to take the opportunity to salvage your reputation and are now asking for marriage or a bribe. Perhaps it was all a ruse; perhaps you wanted me to chase you to this end. So while I’ve always been clear about my motives, it seems you are less clear about yours, madam. Which makes this situation suspect. It seems to be that you are as expert of a bachelor trapper as the rest of them.”
Lord, what had the world done to this man that he was so deeply paranoid about his bachelorhood and his purse? With every reason she provided him, every point of argument, he only seemed to become more and more illogical. He had landed her in this mess. She only needed enough money to purchase a ticket aboard a ship to the colonies, which seemed her last hope for a husband. Perhaps if she just explained that she simply wanted to leave, he would better understand.
“Your grace,” she began, but his eyes had hardened, and so had the planes of his face, which lowered her hopes, “I am not entrapping you, and neither am I being unfair. I only need enough coin for—”
“No. I refuse to be blackmailed.”
She nearly flinched. “I am not blackmailing you, I simply am asking for help.”
“And why pray tell, would I help a manipulative, lying siren like you?”
Beasts, the lot of them.
All she wanted was to escape her uncle and his cruel punishments. All she wanted was a life where she was truly free and given what was rightfully hers. Yet everything, all her plans, had gone horribly wrong. She could not blame the men either; they were, after all, just men. It was not an excuse in any way, but why call a fish by any other name?
Time was running out, however.
Anastacia would not take his money. Not now, not after his last words. With little funds, she would not make it far, b
ut she would make do. And all she wanted to do was leave, but not before she relieved his mind of the character he had painted her out to be. Because, for some unexplainable reason, it mattered what he thought of her.
Wiping madly at the wetness gathering in her eyes, she lifted her lashes to meet his. “I may not have known the rules of the game, sir, but I’m no manipulative hussy, though you are the second man to call me that this day. I’m the daughter of the late Duke of Sheffield, sister to my dearly departed brother, and a woman desperately in need of aid to escape a ruthless uncle. What I do not need is your title or your poor attitude. Now, since I will not take any amount of coin from a man who speaks so ill of me, if you will excuse me, there must be a decent lord somewhere on this godforsaken island, and I intend to find him.”
Or find another way to leave for the Americas next sundown.
With those parting words, Anastacia turned and marched from the room, head held high, through the front door, down the steps, and into the night. She had half expected him to stop her, but the utter shock on his face would satisfy her for some days to come.
***
An hour later Anastacia arrived home, exhausted and with blisters on her feet, no less. The walk from the duke’s house had taken much longer than she had expected, but she had dared not waste more funds on luxury. To her regret, she had also forgotten her pink silk netted reticule back at his place, or Averly’s, she couldn’t be certain. Though luckily all she had lost was a scent bottle and her fan—more luxury items.
She would not weep. Not here. Not now.
Oh, blast this entire situation, she thought with a bitter sigh.
She had been defeated by London, yes, but she had not yet lost the war. In the morning, she would secure passage on a ship bound to the colonies where she would proceed to search for a man willing to marry her. She had heard the colonists weren’t as stuffy as the English, they liked to fight with their fists, and women had much more freedom over there. Perhaps the colonies had been the better choice from the start.
Surely there would be a colonist willing to take the plunge.
A rancher, perhaps.
Her thoughts circled back to Blackcress and the shock on his face after she’d left. But that only reminded her of their kiss, the reason for her ruination, which she ought not to think about.
But she did.
With vivid recollection.
It had, after all, been her very first kiss. And her first scandal. Nevertheless, it made the truth of leaving England harder to accept.
Rather unhurriedly, her finger trailed over her lips, recalling the way his mouth had molded into hers. How could one man be so utterly deplorable and at the same time kiss so magnificently? Even in need, he had turned her away. Granted, she had not given him much in return and had lied to him about her name. But that was for her protection. Still, it was rather arrogant of her to expect him to come up to scratch in light of her behavior.
Anastacia would find another way.
I always do.
Entering the drawing room, she all but slumped onto the settee. What would it be like to be a rancher’s wife? Kneading bread? Milking cows? Plucking chicken feathers? Cooking? Anastacia knew nothing of the kitchen. She could ask her hired seamstress-chaperone-acting-aunt, who usually joined her for a cup of tea after the day’s events, but the woman had yet to appear. Was she napping, perhaps?
Shades of the evening already filtered through the window, but no sound, not even that of a servant could be heard.
How odd.
Deciding to investigate, she rose to her feet and tiptoed to the hallway, poking her head through the door. Not a breath of whisper reached her ears. She continued down to the kitchen, finding not a soul in sight. Returning to the drawing room, Anastacia listened intently for even the slightest of noises, but the only sound was that of the soft padding of her footsteps. And they were bursting with tiny splinters of pain.
Nothing appeared different about the room either, but the air seemed more . . . stifling. Brows furrowed, she once more proceeded to the settee.
This house had been her brother’s old bachelor’s pad, which was why she’d chosen to stay here and not the main manor, which her uncle occupied regularly. Her blood relation had all but destroyed all fond memories of her childhood home with his restyling of the place.
There is no reason to be paranoid, she reminded herself.
The few servants she had hired must be off somewhere else in the house. And it would take a few days for news of her adventure to reach her uncle. She still had some time.
Settling into the plush sofa, she signed.
But oh, how she missed her family. Too much had been taken from her these past two years. Her brother’s untimely death had brought such despair to her father that he slowly wasted away from grief. Anastacia had sat by his side each day, praying for him to get better, but her father had died anyway, leaving her behind.
It was still a source of much sadness for her.
The soft creak of a floorboard flared Anastacia’s senses to life. Finally, a living soul! She desperately needed to speak to someone, even if that person was just a seamstress-chaperone-acting-aunt.
“Hello, Anastacia.”
Chapter 7
The Seventh Duke of Sheffield had been one of the most prominent titles in England, and Marcus Jonathan St. James had worn the title well. His son and only heir, Jonathan Marcus St. James showed even more promise in upholding the family name. Unfortunately, a terrible accident and cruel twist of fate had made certain that never came to pass. So the once-revered title passed to Christopher Thomas St. James, brother to the seventh duke, thus making him the Eighth Duke of Sheffield. The passing of the title would not have been such a tragedy if the recipient hadn’t been such a monstrous man.
A cruel twist of fate indeed.
Even now, the ever-present harsh upturn of his lips stoked fear into Anastacia’s heart. Frozen, unable to even blink, she stared at her uncle’s time-ravaged face. Her first instinct, as always, was to cry out for help, but, like always, she tamped down the urge.
Oh, how he enjoyed her distress!
It was evident from the smug lines around his eyes. He must have been the one to send the servants away.
Bitter regret stole over her.
“I hear you’ve been a busy little bee, my dear.”
“Uncle, I can explain,” Anastacia whispered, hating how timid and fearful she sounded. She wanted to dash for the nearest exit, but her uncle’s voice had a way to kill any rebellion that arose from her fear.
“Explain how you came to London without my permission?”
“I only wanted to enjoy some of the events,” she replied meekly, hoping he would believe the lie, knowing he would not.
“I see.”
His eyes were cold and disspasionate as he stared at her.
Do not take a step back. Stand your ground, Anastacia. “Please forgive me, uncle. I did not mean to disobey you.”
“Oh, dear girl, you intended to do just that.”
Her spine stiffened at his tone. He knew.
“You presume to escape me by shackling yourself to Averly?”
Relief washed over her. Her uncle hadn’t heard. Yet.
“No! Lord Averly is betrothed—has been since childhood. If you do not believe me, uncle, you can ask him yourself.”
“Did you spread your legs for him? Is that your plan? To ruin yourself and disgrace me?”
Anastacia flinched back. Her uncle was determined to think the worst of her, no matter what she said. He would twist her words and use them against her. Punish her. And when he discovered the kiss she shared with Blackcress . . . What would he do to her if he learned her reputation was worth no more than a grain of sand?
“You’ve been a very naughty girl, and disobedience calls for punishment.”
“Uncle please,” she pleaded. “I did not intend to disgrace you.”
“What stories did you share with him? Perhaps, i
f I agree on no harm no foul, I shall overlook this deliberate affront of yours.”
“I told him nothing, uncle. You must believe me.”
“That is the thing, my dear. You have proven yourself to be quite untrustworthy,” his lips turned upward into a vicious snarl, “You would say anything to get out of receiving the punishment you deserve.”
Anastacia reeled back.
No, please don’t punish me.
An unwelcome memory of the first time her uncle visited her father’s home surfaced. She recalled the sneer directed at her as if she was nothing but some rotten carcass. Her brother had told her he’d always been that way; their uncle was jealous of their father and his position in the world. Anastacia had never understood how someone could be so unkind—still couldn’t.
The new duke hadn’t even attended his own brother’s funeral, or his nephew’s. Even worse still, he had ordered her to stay at home that day. So Anastacia had snuck out, determined to whisper one last goodbye in her father’s ear. When her uncle had learned of her disobedience—he always did—it had resulted in her first punishment: he’d locked her away in her room without any food or water for three whole days.
Since that day, the punishments had only grown worse, and soon after, one wrong glance in her uncle’s direction could result in being locked away. Recently, his punishments had become violent and intolerable to bear.
“Please, I will do anything you say, just do not hurt me.”
He said nothing as he strode over to the decanter and poured himself a whiskey, regarding her over the rim of the glass.
“You disobeyed my explicit orders.”
“And I promise I shall never do so again.” And get caught.
He took a sip of his drink, regarding her with narrowed eyes. Anastacia knew that look well. He was deliberating the extent of disciplining her, the severity of it.
“Perhaps, my dear, it is time for you to take a husband.”
Her lungs seized up, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest, sensing a trap. “Uncle?”
