by Tanya Wilde
“And now that I know of your wish to escape your home, I am better suited to grant it to you.”
The wild beat of her heart began to thunder in her ears.
“I have just the match in mind,” he continued, swirling his drink.
“You—”Anastacia could not go on, found it impossible. Her throat tightened up, like a vise grip tensing until she couldn’t breathe.
“Betrothed or not, Averly is too young for you. You will marry Bloomington, and he has already agreed to the match.”
She bit back the protest welling up inside her. Bloomington had a son, but he was much younger than Lord Averly, which meant . . .
Chills spread through her veins at her uncle’s bark of laughter.
“Indeed, you will marry his father,” he said, correctly guessing the direction her thoughts had strayed.
Anastacia could not stop her gasp of horror. Bloomington was an old lecher and in the same league as her uncle. Cruel. Twisted. Without mercy. She would be better off dead than married to him.
“He has a strong appetite for young girls, may even share you from time to time. He may even let me watch.”
Anastacia felt sick to her stomach. She would sooner die than marry that beast or allow them to use her for such dastardly means. But how to escape this fate her uncle had all mapped out for her?
Then an oversized shadow filled the doorway, and Anastacia’s fear turned to panic.
“Bloomington,” her uncle said with glee, “how good of you to join us, old chap.”
Bloomington’s gaze roamed hungrily over Anastacia’s frame, lust gleaming in his eyes, causing tiny shivers to prickle along her skin.
“She’s a prime piece, Sheffield,” he said.
Her uncle nodded, motioning for Bloomington to inspect his goods. “Something, isn’t she?”
Anastacia remained ramrod stiff as Bloomington approached her, making shockingly lewd noises in appreciation. “She better be all you promised. I’m paying a pretty penny for her.”
Anastacia gasped, her uncle had sold her to this . . . this . . . debaucher?
Bloomington grabbed her jaw and angled her face his way, inspecting her skin. “No blemishes, that is good.”
His eyes feasted on her breasts, and he groped her, pinching her hard. “Bountiful, too.”
Anastacia knocked his hand away and shot her uncle a defiant glare. By George! She would not allow fear to rule her, and she certainly would not submit without a fight.
Just then, a heavy knock on the door interrupted their inspection, and Anastacia let out a breath of relief. At that, her uncle cast a warning glance her way before he strode from the room, leaving her alone with the lecherous hound.
Inching away from Bloomington, she spared him a wary glance. How could her uncle do this to her? She had always known he was a cruel man—he punished her often enough—but never had he alluded to such a level of depravity. He wanted to watch her—
She couldn’t bear to finish the thought.
One thing became achingly apparent to Anastacia: she had to escape, no matter what. She had always known that, but now, now it was more dire than ever before.
To marry Bloomington . . .
No. That was out of the question.
He, along with her uncle, would break her until there was nothing left of her soul.
Anastacia twisted her fingers in the satin of her gown, inching away from Bloomington, who she noticed with despair regarded her bosom with stark appreciation.
“Sheffield has dangled you before my eyes for far too long, my dear. I’m going to enjoy bedding you,” he said.
Anastacia shrank back from the menace in his tone. Had her uncle planned this all along? And she, foolish, had presented him with the perfect opportunity to proceed with his dastardly scheme.
Voices filtering into the room drew Bloomington’s attention away from her, and Anastacia instantly recognized the rough timbre of Blackcress’s voice.
What was he doing here?
Hope bloomed and was quickly dashed when she recalled she had perhaps forgotten her reticule at his home. Dear lord, her uncle would now know she had consorted with the duke, as well!
Anastacia strained to hear their conversation.
“My niece is not here; she has returned to our country estate.”
More of Blackcress’s low voice.
Then her uncle said, “I do not know how you came to know my niece, but the acquaintance is over. I will not allow her to keep company with the likes of you.”
Anastacia panicked. Blackcress, as loath as she was to admit, may be her only hope of escaping this wretched fate. Now that her uncle knew of him, her punishment would entail a good beating, as well.
Blackcress said something else indiscernible. Curse his voice for being pitched so low!
“My niece has dementia, as did her mother. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to attend to.”
No! She started forward, prepared to scream, but a hand covered her mouth, and she was plastered up against Bloomington. Aghast, Anastacia felt his bulging rod pressing against her back.
“You will pay for that, my dear. I won’t tolerate any disobedience.”
The force of the door slamming shut signaled the end of any hope she may have harbored to be rescued, and moments later her uncle returned. Anastacia struggled out of Bloomington’s hold, and he let her go. She moved away from him, putting as much distance between her and the men as she was able.
“I can explain.”
Her uncle said nothing, but the thunder in his stormy expression caused her pulse to leap. She recalled how Blackcress had told her to make him out to be the villain to salvage her reputation and attempted to do just that. “I’ve only met that horrid man twice, and he is a shameful libertine who cares for nothing but himself.”
“Blackcress seemed rather concerned for your well-being, which is out of character for him. Whatever could you have done to produce such emotion?”
“I did nothing, uncle. I swear.”
“That is the second man I learned you have consorted with.”
Anastacia was well and truly trapped now. She spared a brief glance to the door, calculating if she could manage to dart past her uncle. If she could make it outside, she’d be able to disappear into the darkness.
“Do I not provide for you?” he asked.
She nodded dutifully. “You are too generous, uncle.”
“Ah, too generous. Yet, you ran away. Perhaps, therein lies the problem.”
Bloomington made a disapproving sound. “Seems to me the chit is an ungrateful little girl and must be taught a lesson.”
Her uncle’s cruel laughter filled the room. She did not know what they planned, but she was certain it would be painful.
“Anastacia, Anastacia, what are we going to do with you?”
Chapter 8
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed on the door that had just been thrown shut in his face. His first reaction was that of astonishment, the audacity that somebody had dared slam a door on him. Then rage rushed through his veins, overcoming any lingering shock. It started in the pit of his stomach, boiling in his blood until his fists balled at his side and his jaw burned from clenching his teeth together. He turned and stormed across the lawn, his movements rigid and controlled before he came to a sudden halt.
Blast it! He could not just leave. And why the hell not? He would be well rid of her. If he returned home now, Sebastian could go back to his life and forget about the infuriating, enchanting Lady Anastacia. He could resume with his life of profligacy, the way it had been before he met her—without a stitch of guilt.
Before he met her . . . As if it was an event that severed his life into “before” and “after.” Thoughts like that were the reason he ought to wash his hands of her. There was no “before” and “after.” He was still the same man. Nothing had changed. Except . . .
He glanced down at the reticule clutched between his fingers. Something inside him awakened
in her presence. He did not like it, but he bloody well could not walk away from it either. The woman had left him dumbstruck after her parting words, and by the time he realized she was on foot, it had been too late—she had disappeared.
Rather than hunt her down in the streets—too many directions to head in—he headed straight to the residence of the Duke of Sheffield. There he discovered Lady Anastacia had not been in residence for years. His curiosity piqued, he’d begun to contemplate where the hell the chit lived until he recalled her late brother had owned his own lodgings.
Sebastian had caught the flash of fear in her eyes when she spoke of the current duke, so it made sense to him. What had her uncle done to cause such distress? It all seemed too mysterious for him. Until he had come face to face with the lying bastard.
He muttered a foul curse.
Sebastian hadn’t known her father, but he had respected the late Sheffield. Her brother, on the other hand, he’d met on a few occasions, and the pup had been a good lad. All in all, Lady Anastacia was supposed to have had it all. Why then, did she require marrying in haste?
She had told Sebastian her uncle was a cruel man. Had he done something to her? Something she was ashamed to speak of? His questions only led to more disagreeable ones. Like why had she never returned to society after her father’s passing? And why was she being kept locked away in the country?
Nothing about it felt right to Sebastian. Perhaps the conclusion would have arrived earlier, had he not been so selfish in his attention. Regretfully, it had taken a grand exit to provoke his curiosity. But hell, she was a sight when she was furious.
Such passion.
The thing of it was, Sebastian was no hero, had no aspiration to become one. Hero’s gave a damn. He did not. Neither, however, would he consider himself a real villain. Villains also gave a damn about something. Their evil purpose, if you will. Sebastian still did not give a damn, though. Given a choice, he would always be cast in the role of the villain, because it was simply easier to act the part of one. But now . . .
He ran a hand through his hair and glanced back at the house. Somewhere inside those Georgian walls was Lady Anastacia. And now that Sebastian thought about it, the current duke himself had flung open the door instead of the customary butler. That alone spoke volumes, did it not? Unfortunately, instead of excusing himself like he ought to have done, one look into the duke’s eyes and Sebastian had enquired after Lady Anastacia. A mistake. For something else had entered the duke’s eyes then, something menacing. Years of exposure to bastards like the duke had warned Sebastian not to challenge the man, not on his territory.
So he had retreated.
Sheffield was the reason Lady Anastacia desperately wished to marry. So much so, in fact, that she had come to him. Sad to say, Sebastian suspected he had only made things worse for her by seeking her out.
It was why, in the cold hours after midnight, Sebastian was climbing through what he hoped to be her bedroom window. Sheffield and Bloomington—another shock—had departed moments earlier, and Sebastian had wasted no time in playing the burglar.
Being exceptionally average at detecting lies, except, perhaps when it came to the lady in question, he’d not believed a word Sheffield had uttered.
Dementia?
Sebastian snorted.
Whatever reason for the lie, he was now quite certain Lady Anastacia was on the receiving end of it. But on the receiving end of what? Neglect? Being imprisoned in the house? In a few moments, he was going to find out.
He just bloody hoped he had chosen the right room.
A house with this few servants only meant one of two things: the family was destitute, or something was underfoot. And where Bloomington’s presence clung, it was almost always the latter.
As heroic deeds went, this was arguably his first, and it would bloody hell be his last, he decided. The only reason he felt compelled to play the hero—and this Sebastian told himself in no uncertain terms—was because he had ruined her chances to what seemed like a grand escape from her uncle. It did not hurt his motivation that the duke had shut the door in his face. Aiding Lady Anastacia would also spite Sheffield, which Sebastian was in the mood for.
But it was the image of the haunted look in her eyes and the menace he had glimpsed in Sheffield’s gaze that gave him a sense of urgency as he scaled the wall to the window.
Anastacia was being hurt.
Somehow.
His feet landed with a soft thud in the dark room, and it took a moment for his vision to adjust. The chamber was only sparsely furnished, he noted. The bed was empty, as well.
“Lady Anastacia?”
Nothing.
In quick succession, he searched all the quarters, the last chamber the only one that held a whiff of perfume in the air. The scent was so faint, in fact, that he thought he imagined it. He circled the room, studying every corner, even peering beneath the bed.
Where the devil was she?
He was just about to expand his search to the servants’ quarters when a muddled whimper reached his ears. Whirling around, he studied the room once more. Something appeared to be off.
Another muddled whimper, almost as if someone was sobbing, came from somewhere to his right. He turned, inspecting that side of the room. It seemed to be emerging from the armoire.
He padded to the closet, pressing his ear against the surface.
Nothing.
He tested the doors, which opened without effort.
Empty.
That surprised him. There ought to be some clothing or personal items. The entire room, however, was devoid of such, much like the other rooms. What then, were Sheffield and Bloomington doing here? And had Anastacia indeed returned to the country?
Another muddled whimper surfaced, closer this time. An animal of some kind perhaps? It was too indistinct to tell.
Brows pulling together, Sebastian peered behind the armoire. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere there. He gripped the edges and pushed the furniture away from the wall.
Another sob, much louder, reached his ears. This time unmistakably human—and female. Sebastian hunched down, examining the wall. There appeared to be a sort of secret door, leading to what? His stomach twisted at the potential explanations.
With unrestrained force, he shoved at the door, uncaring of the noise, until it gave way under his strength. If those two mongrels returned now, they would have to kill him to get him to stop.
He peered into the small space and inhaled a shocked breath. “Anastacia?”
She lay in a huddled heap on the floor, curled tightly into a ball. At the mention of her name, she flinched. Fury, hard and forceful, charged through his gut. How dare anyone do this to her? How dare they treat a lady so?
Sebastian ducked and reached into the tiny space, lifting a struggling Anastacia into his arms. The muffling sounds of her sobs tugged at his heart. Hard. Hell and damnation!
“Anastacia, it’s Blackcress,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” He held her tight until her struggles abated at his name.
“B-B-Blackcress?”
“Yes, sweet, no need to be alarmed, I’ve got you.” His chest constricted when he saw the bruise on her left cheek. “What is the quickest way out, Anastacia?”
“K-Kitchen . . . side alley.”
Sebastian nodded, striding from the bedchamber, down the stairs, and out through the kitchen, keeping to the shadows and taking his damsel back to his home.
***
One hour later, Sebastian paced outside his bedchamber door, waiting for the doctor to finish his examination of Lady Anastacia. It’d been two hours since he’d rescued her, and his mood had yet to improve. His temper, which had been mild at most, now bordered on murderous rage. He welcomed Sheffield to appear on his doorstep, which would likely be the first place he’d search for her.
Sebastian had sent two footmen to enquire about the whereabouts of Sheffield and Bloomington discreetly, and they had returned with the information that the l
ords were availing themselves to the charms of trollops at a whorehouse.
Savages.
Why had she not mentioned her situation was so dire? Or that her uncle hurt her? Would he have believed her claims if he hadn’t seen Sheffield’s treatment of her with his own eyes? No. He would not have. He’d have thought it a ploy to entrap him.
Fury churned in his gut—and shame.
After he had brought her home, Sebastian had sent for his friend, Dalziel Pierce, a part-time doctor and part-time Bow Street Runner, who was also discreet. He trusted the man with his life, so he could trust him with Anastacia’s as well.
The door opened, and Sebastian straightened, claiming the distance in two long strides. “How is she?” he demanded.
“She has no fractured bones, but she did hit her head pretty hard. The bruise on her face will remain blue for a few days, so will the other bruises on her body. Other than that, one week’s rest, and she should be fine.” Dalziel cleared his throat. “I don’t know where you found her, Blackcress, but she was beaten pretty hard, and there is evidence that suggests this wasn’t the first time.”
Sebastian shot a hard glare to the chamber that separated them. “I want to thrash something, pummel that man’s face in.”
“What the hell happened to her?”
Sebastian’s lips turned into a snarl. “Her uncle and possibly one of his cronies.”
Dalziel scowled. “She is damn lucky they didn’t kill her. If she’d sustained a harder blow to her head, she might have never recovered.”
“Was there any . . . ” Sebastian hedged, but he had to ask, “Internal damage?”
Dalziel lifted a sandy colored brow. “No, she wasn’t raped.”
A breath of relief escaped his tightly wound chest. He had to be certain, for if Sheffield or his lapdog had touched her in that way, they would both be lying in coffins within the hour. As it was, they still may not live through the night.
“What are you going to do? You cannot keep her here, not if she has a legal guardian.”
“I am painfully aware of that. But the lady has suffered enough, and I only made things worse for her.”
