by Micki Miller
Unsure as to his sincerity, yet not in a position to do anything else, Rose nodded. “Of course. We’ll just forget tonight ever happened and start fresh in the morning.”
“Thank you, Rose,” Piers said on an exhale. His lips made two motions as if he would say more, but then he glanced off to her right, peering into her room. “Here, let me light the fire for you. You must be freezing.”
“Thank you, but I can—”
“No, no, I insist.”
She stepped to the center of the room and stood as he lumbered into a kneeling position before the small hearth and made a fire for her. With some effort, he got to his feet and turned around, brushing the dust from his hands.
“Thank you,” Rose said.
Piers nodded, saying nothing as he passed her. She heard him close the door and wilted in her relief. She then swiveled around, only to find he had closed the door, from the inside.
“Piers?”
“Rose, you’ve no idea how lovely you are, do you?”
He stepped toward her. Rose stepped back. “Piers, you have to go.”
“It’s torture, torture I tell you. Every day I see you around this house, looking as you do. You’re so innocent, and sweet, yet so fiery. It’s intoxicating. I’ve spent these years watching you grow into this beautiful, desirable woman I now see before me. You couldn’t even begin to guess the desperation of my need for you, Rose.”
Rose attempted to be discreet as she stepped sideways. If he would not listen to reason, perhaps she might dash around him and make it to the door, and get to Edwina.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Piers. You are my sister’s husband.”
His hardened distaste lasted the duration of his first sentence, before he again focused on Rose. “Edwina is a cold fish. But you, you are so much more than you even know. If you’ll but allow me to teach you how to be a woman, your life here in this house could be so much more enjoyable.”
Less discreet now as her fear grew, Rose took a longer step to the side. The shift gave her a direct and open route to her door. Then, Piers shifted his girth over a step, once again blocking her exit.
“Piers, you must see how this is outside the bounds.”
“I’ve wanted you for so long now, Rose. I have to have you.”
“Piers…”
Her brother-in-law said not another word. Instead, he took action. Piers lunged for her. Rose trotted backward until she ran up against the wall. Her sister’s husband was but a half step away. Before she could make another maneuver and escape him, Piers clasped her upper arms, squeezing her in a painful grip.
Perspiration ran from his temples, down his jaw, and dripped to the floor. Teardrops of whatever honor the man once had. His nostrils flared. His head made a slight tilt to the right when he spoke. And he shook her a bit, emphasizing his words.
“I’m mad with desire for you, Rose. Can’t you tell? I know you must feel it for me, too. You’re just too young to understand your own desires.”
Words ran through her head as she tried forming new, more effective arguments. Fear stunted her thoughts at every turn. Swinging her around as if she weighed nothing, her brother-in-law threw her down on the bed.
“Piers, no! Eddy! Eddy!” she shouted, two seconds before he dropped on top of her. His heavy girth quashed her breath and doused her shouted pleas in the fluid mobility of his excess.
He grabbed her breast, squeezing hard, and she cried out again as loud as she could raise her voice under his weighty suppression. Piers used his other hand to clamp down over her mouth. Rose struggled beneath his heft. She shoved with all her strength, but her brother-in-law outmatched her in every way.
Piers lowered his face. She twisted her head away as his sloppy kiss dragged across her brow.
Then, with her face pressed against the worn counterpane, her eyes caught sight of the heavy, amber pig still lying on the bed.
She ceased her useless effort to shove away her brother-in-law, and instead made a grab for the pig. Her fingertips brushed the cool surface of its head, but it was too far away for her to get a grip.
Piers shifted his body so he could maul her other breast. The slight movement allowed her to squirm a little and get closer to the pig.
Rose caught a fingernail on one of its small ears. She was able to scoot it toward her a tiny bit before her fingernail slipped. Stretching her shoulder, arm, and fingers out as far as she could, she almost had it. Yes, yes, she caught hold of its head.
A moment later, she had its solid body secured in her grip.
As hard as she could, Rose smashed the heavy pig against the side of Piers’ head. Blood immediately gushed from the split in his scalp just above his ear. His eyes widened with shock. He lifted himself up to his knees. For a moment, he froze in place. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over, dropping to the floor with a heavy thud.
Trembling from head to toe, her breath coming in sharp gasps, Rose leapt from the bed and spun around on shaky legs to stare at her sister’s husband. He lay on his back perfectly still. Blood streamed from his head in a condemning red, flow. It formed a small pool on the unpolished, wooden planks of the floor.
“Piers?”
He didn’t answer. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. Maybe he was dead or would be soon. She had to get Eddy. But would her sister help her, or condemn her? Or worse, leave her fate to Piers.
Rose spun around to run from the room, but then stopped, her head swiveling to look back over her shoulder. The pig lay in the center of the bed. In the spin of her mind, the one, solid point was the comfort of her precious pig. She wanted it in her hands. She needed it, now, first.
On quick and quiet steps, she walked back and leaned over the bed on her left leg, hand stretching out to retrieve her precious pig.
“You ungrateful bitch!” Piers shouted as he grabbed hold of her ankle.
Rose struggled to get away, but his grip was like a leg-iron. With eyes bulging, Piers stretched his neck, his mouth opening, lips peeling back. She gaped in helpless horror as he shoved her skirt aside with his other hand and sunk his teeth into her calf. Rose cried out before lifting her right leg, and with all the force she could marshal, stomped her foot down into the mound of his soft belly.
Piers’ hand snapped into a flex and shoved Rose away at the same time his vicious bite released her. When his mouth gaped open, lips peeled back, smears of her blood showed on his teeth. He bellowed an angry, painful cry. The entirety of his expelled breath muffled the sound like a windstorm over a howl.
Rose swallowed a scream and grabbed her amber pig. She dashed from the room. Without a pause, she ran down the stairs, out the front door, and into the cold, cold night.
Chapter 2
London, May 1812
No, he could not have heard right.
Burke Darington, Third Earl of Blackwood, raised one dark brow and peered over his snifter of brandy into the clear eyes of Viscount Ashton Sennett. Between the music and chatter of the soiree, the sound of the man’s words must have jumbled. Sennett couldn’t possibly have made such an outrageous request.
Three violinists positioned at the other end of the hall filled the room of sixty or so of the Viscount’s guests with soft, pleasant arrangements flowing with ease from one to the next. On a portion of the marble floor cleared for dancing, several couples dressed in their colorful finery bowed and stepped in a graceful minuet.
Crystal glasses clinked, silver forks tapped on Creamware plates with scalloped edges. Laughter accentuated the already jovial mood. Conversation ebbed and flowed, but never ceased beneath the candle glow of a half-dozen, multi-branched chandeliers.
The tidy young viscount chuckled. After straightening the crisp, white ruffle at his cuff, he slid a hand back against his fresh-trimmed, blond hair and said, “Yes, you heard me right.”
The earl set his glass on the varnished, tulipwood table and folded his hands beside it as he leaned back. The evening had been pleasant en
ough, the music, fine brandy, some of the company he even found tolerable; the young viscount with whom he now spoke, for example.
Lord Sennett had earned his respect. Over the last two or three years, they’d done business. Burke had come to know the viscount was a man of integrity who could be trusted to honor a verbal contract, yet was wise enough to get everything in writing.
Still, Burke was far from a social enthusiast. He cared naught for Society’s endless gossip, or more precisely, the ever-active hypocrisy lurking behind it. As far as he was concerned, most of the ton could waltz straight into the Thames.
This particular invitation, however, had intrigued him. Or rather, it was the note Sennett had written on the back of the invitation.
The viscount implored him to overlook his aversion to social events and attend the soiree. He wrote there was a matter of great importance he wanted to discuss with him. As Lord Sennett was not given to dramatics, Burke’s respect and curiosity was roused enough to make an appearance.
Burke swept a brief scan of the room. Most of the faces he knew. Several of the women he’d known intimately. Lady Prudence Hortence, whose husband had died in a shooting accident nearly four years ago, had already whispered an explicit invitation into his ear. Burke fully intended to take Pru up on her offer.
His appearance at her door would be quite late, though, as she was not a woman with whom he enjoyed a preamble of dialogue. Of course, he could say so about most. His experience with her particular traits included knowing Lady Hortence was a spoiled, sharp-tongued, chatty bit of baggage. The woman did have one pleasing forte, however. She was adept at putting her mouth to better uses than distributing the latest gossip.
Returning his attention to Sennett, Burke said, “You must admit, it is a most bizarre request. I’d be willing to bet the first of its kind.”
“Without a doubt,” Ashton conceded with a smile holding both amusement and self-deprecation as his eyes shifted. With a nod, he directed Burke to where his gaze rested, upon his lovely wife who stood not far away. “She is a beauty, Darington. Do you not agree?”
Burke followed the viscount’s line of sight. Lady Rose Sennett was indeed an attractive woman. Her features were delicate, with eyes such a vibrant blue he could see the color from where he sat. Her slender body hosted all the right curvatures. She wore her gold and honey hair in a thick braid wrapped around her head in a coronet, a crown over a fair and well-sculpted face.
He found himself wondering what her hair would look like down around her milky shoulders, teasing portions of which were exposed and complemented by her emerald gown. The snug cut of the bodice was perfect for her. It accentuated her narrow waist and the gentle flair of her hips. Her modiste, whomever the woman was, had excellent instincts on relation and design, but for one piece.
Covering a good portion of her décolletage was a white, lacey fichu. The piece was at odds with the gown, as it leant a rather modest touch to her appearance. Modesty was not a feature that drew him.
“Your wife is indeed a beautiful woman.”
Burke pivoted his attention back to find the viscount leaning forward a bit, an expression of expectancy on his boyish face. The man didn’t appear to be drunk, nor had he ever given Burke the impression he was less than in full control of his mind. Yet, what other explanation could there be for such an outlandish request?
“Well?” Ashton prompted.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you, I am most serious. I’ve given this matter considerable thought and sifted through a great many candidates before I settled on you. You can’t tell me any man wouldn’t find her attractive.”
“As I said, your wife is a beautiful woman,” the earl agreed.
“And you are a man who has known many.”
Burke’s brow rose once again.
Lord Sennett raised a placating hand. “I meant no offense. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I chose you.”
“I don’t understand why you would choose anyone. She’s your wife.”
“Rose is my friend, my dear friend. And in that I love her with all my heart.”
“And yet you put this absurd request to me?”
“That is why I put the request to you,” Ashton said. “Through our business dealings I think we have developed a sort of friendship.”
“We have.”
Until this moment, Burke would have sworn to Ashton’s honor and sound mind. The viscount had married several months ago in a very private ceremony. Word of the marriage, like all other gossip, spread posthaste throughout Society. The recently wed couple had been making the rounds of parties, balls and other social events of the Season. Since Burke avoided such activities, tonight was the first time he’d seen Lady Sennett.
Burke had heard not a scrap of gossip in regards to either one of them. At least two of the women with whom he had enjoyed bed play kept him apprised of the goings on of Society, whether he cared to know or not.
“While the gossipmongers have pinned you with a reputation as a bit of a rake,” the viscount continued. “You are also discreet. It is only by way of whispers anybody even knows that much about your…private activities. Some even claim your exploits are nothing more than rumor, so fine is your discretion. Yet another reason I chose you.”
The explanation was far from complete. Burke slanted another glance toward Lady Rose Sennett. Lady Emory, the tall, dark-haired woman to whom she was speaking, leaned in and whispered something into the dainty shell of her ear. Lady Sennett’s entire face lit up with a dazzling smile, and then she laughed. The sound was musical, carefree, and full of joy.
For one envious moment, Burke wondered what it would be like to feel so light of spirit.
He kept his eyes on Lady Sennett as she pressed her slender fingers against her lips. An effort to maintain decorum, Burke assumed. He found the move utterly adorable. But as with modesty, adorable was not a quality to which he was drawn.
Lord Sennett cleared his throat and, after a discreet glance around, lowered his voice. “Along with your exploits and your discretion, I’ve heard at least one woman praise you for your, um…talents.”
Burke did smile at Sennett’s comment. “My talents?”
“Lady Brimsford wears her desires on her sleeve whenever you are in the vicinity. It doesn’t seem to matter Lord Brimsford has taken her to wife. She still…speaks well of you.”
Burke knew Lord Sennett worked with many women on the Foundling Project. At least a couple of those women were well aware of his ‘talents’. Had some of the women he’d enjoyed actually bragged to another man of their exploits?
Burke flicked a glance to the other side of the room where earlier he’d spotted said former paramour. He and Lady Brimsford, Lady Harcourt back then, had enjoyed a tumble or two during the three years of her widowhood. Perhaps women attach more commemoration to such things than men.
Lady Brimsford was in a heated discussion with her new husband. She did have a temper, he remembered. When she realized Burke was dead serious about never taking a wife, that, against all social mores, he cared not if he produced an heir, and she would never become mistress of his mansion, her screeching fit sent the very tapestries on the wall into a shiver. She now stood before her husband appearing to be on the verge of another fit.
Apparently, Viscount Brimsford did not approve of the breadth of skin his brazen wife was showing. Burke treated his eyes to the good amount of cleavage her cream-colored gown exposed, remembering well how her generous breasts overflowed from his hands.
“I’m surprised she confided in you such intimacies,” Burke said to Lord Sennett.
“Lady Brimsford has done some work on the Foundling Project. She and I have also become friends. After a second glass of wine, the lady’s confidences become rather open.”
As do her thighs, Burke recalled, with a grin he didn’t show.
“You maintain quite a close friendship with a number of women, it seems,” the earl said, lifting his glass
in what one might perceive as a toast before taking a sip of brandy.
“I enjoy the company of women.”
“Does that include your wife?”
“Most especially my wife,” Ashton answered with great emphasis. “She’s a dear woman, kind and strong. Her mind is agile and she possesses a measure of perceptiveness one rarely finds. Any man should consider it an honor to even know her.”
“High praises with one breath, an outrageous request with another, which brings me back to my original question.”
“You want to know why I have asked this of you,” Ashton said, casting a brief but adoring glance at Rose.
“Our marriage is one of convenience. I needed a wife, to help with certain matters of the home, as an asset in my business dealings, to maintain a particular appearance. Rose was in a terrible situation. She showed up at my door late one night, bruised, weeping”—the viscount smiled a little then—“and furious.” The smile soon vanished. “Her brother-in-law, the detestable Baron Piers Rutherford, struck her, and then attempted to rape her. The bastard actually bit her.”
“Dear God.” Burke shifted a more assessing look toward Rose Sennett. She was a mere slip of a girl. Baron Rutherford was soft, but taller than she was and of considerable bulk. In a match of physicality, she wouldn’t stand a chance.
“How did she manage to get away?”
“She escaped him after whacking him on the head with a pig.”
Burke swung his attention back to the viscount. “A pig?”
Ashton nodded. A glint of pride accented his sly grin. “An amber pig her parents had given her. Quite a lovely piece, really.”
“Handy, too, apparently.” Burke realized he was also grinning. He didn’t even know the young woman. There was no reason at all for him to feel pride in her mettle. He did, though. Maybe it was just the concept of the oppressed and improbable opponent emerging the victor giving him gratification. It was by far his favorite theme.
