The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel

by Victoria Vale

  “I had three,” he said, letting her take the portrait from him. “I was the youngest, with Andrew only a few years older. He was only a boy when he died … an illness that presented itself as a sneezing fit, of all things. I was in the room when he stopped breathing altogether, though my mother did not know I was there. Who could spare me a glance while Andrew lay there gasping and choking, his lips turning purple as he fought for air?”

  Her horrified gaze lifted to land upon him, one hand coming up over her mouth. “Oh, Robert …”

  “This was Jonas,” he said, offering her the second portrait. “He was the second eldest and Briarwell’s resident troublemaker.”

  He couldn’t help a little smile at the thought of Jonas, despite the heavy weight of grief settling in his chest. The portrait she held did a poor job of depicting the wide, jubilant smile his brother had always worn. He didn’t think there was a painter alive who might have gotten right. The smile lived on only in the memories of those who had known him.

  “What happened to him?” she asked, laying Andrew’s portrait in her lap to better study Jonas’.

  “He joined the Royal Navy, and on his first voyage away from home his ship ran afoul of a storm. The vessel went down with all hands, and … they never recovered a single body.”

  The corners of her lips turned down and she gave him a mournful look. “How horrible for you all … your poor mother.”

  “This was William,” he said, his voice growing thick and hoarse as he prepared to tell her of the final death—the one that had broken him. “He was the firstborn, the heir. He had almost completed university when he died.”

  Tears shined in Cassandra’s eyes when she looked up at him, but she shed none, remaining as strong as always. He felt as if he’d begin weeping any moment, his own eyes stinging and his vision going hazy.

  “He gave his life to save someone else,” he choked out. “A woman who was being accosted by some blackguard after her jewels. He saved her, but he was killed. He … I know it is bad of me to play favorites, but … William was my favorite. He was everything I was not —strong, brave, sure about everything. He was everything I wanted to be, and after losing Andrew and Jonas he was all I had left.”

  Cassandra cradled the three miniatures in her hands and stared down at them, the three boys who’d never grown to become men in truth. William had never gotten to tell the person he loved how he felt. Andrew had never even grown his first chin hair. Jonas had sought adventure on the same seas that had claimed him in a watery grave.

  “I never understood why,” he sobbed, swiping at his leaking eyes with the back of his hand. “My parents struggled for years to conceive, and lost three babes before William. Why would God give them to us, only to take them away after all that?”

  Cassandra shook her head, a lone tear finally escaping her eye. “I don’t know, Robert. I … I’m so sorry.”

  He sniffed and reeled himself back in, determined not to fall apart —not now, when he needed to get through to her. “I know it isn’t the same as being raped and publicly ostracized. I cannot imagine what that that like. But, I do know pain. I know what it is to feel helpless and not understand why something has happened. I know what it is to hurt in a way that can’t be healed.”

  She came to her feet, reverently placing the miniatures on the bed before turning to him. He had expected more resistance from her, more scorn. But, she shocked him by bringing both hands over his face and moving close until their bodies touched. The surface of his skin tingled at her nearness, the need to grab hold of her and never let go overwhelming him.

  “It is no wonder you respond the way you do to the pain,” she whispered, stroking her thumb over his lips. “It is all you know. You were born from it, you lived through it. Pain reminds you that you’re alive, that your heart is still beating, that your skin can still register the sensation of a touch—no matter if it hurts or soothes.”

  He nodded, lowering his head and letting her kiss his brow. The sweetness of it stole his breath away, and as much as he craved her dominance, he found himself wanting more of her tenderness, too. She allowed him so little of it, and now he needed it like a parched man wandering an endless desert in search of water.

  “You make me feel alive,” he murmured. “I need you, I love you. Please … this thing with the Menace and Sir Downing … let it go, Cass. Let it go and come home with me. I couldn’t stand it if you were caught, or hurt, or …”

  She released him, shaking her head as she backed away from him.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can,” he insisted, reaching out to grab her.

  She backed away from his touch. “I can’t!”

  He ran his fingers through his hair with an exasperated sigh. “Why not?”

  “Sir Downing killed his wife because of me!”

  Realization washed over him as he thought back to what Randall had told him. He’d claimed that there was bad blood between Cassandra and Sir Downing, but he hadn’t made the connection until now.

  “You threatened him to stop beating her. You visited him as the Menace, but he did not heed your warning.”

  Her chin trembled, but she raised it and snuffed out the grief that had shown in her eyes for a moment. “I went after him thinking to spare that poor woman anymore pain. He killed her in retaliation, I know he did.”

  He shook his head, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling her against him. “You cannot know that. If he’d been hurting her all this time, he would have killed her eventually.”

  “He has to pay.”

  “Then we will go to a magistrate.”

  She stiffened, her cheeks flushing as she became more agitated by the second. “Magistrates are all but useless, and you know it! The only reason one became involved in Bertram’s case was because of generous compensation from the Earl of Hartmoor. Some of us do not have that much money or influence to throw around, so we use the only tools we have at our disposal.”

  “Cass, he could hurt you, or kill you! Is this revenge vendetta worth your life?”

  “Yes!” she screamed, taking hold of his lapels and shaking him.

  He furrowed his brow, trying to understand, wanting to know why she had been so reckless with her own well-being. “Why?”

  “I can’t stop,” she said, her eyes darting as she seemed to begin retreating into herself again. “I have to fight.”

  He tightened his grip on her arms, determined not to give up, not to allow her to go on hiding from him. “Tell me why, Cass.”

  “Because I didn’t fight him!” she wailed, more tears springing to her eyes. “Because when Bertram overpowered me, I did nothing to stop him. I laid there and let him have me!”

  Chapter 11

  Cassandra clenched her hands together, staring at her interlaced fingers as her knuckles began to whiten. She hadn’t meant to blurt out her secret, but the words had come tumbling out against her will. The shame of her admission had stunned her into silence for a moment, and apparently it had done the same to Robert. He stood there looking at her with sorrow in his eyes, his mouth turned down into a solemn frown. He seemed to be waiting for her to finish telling him why she couldn’t stop fighting, why giving up was completely out of the question.

  What else could she do but tell him? He’d come all this way to try to stop her without understanding her reasons. He loved her—she believed that with her whole heart. Why else would he endure her shifting moods and secrecy? Why else would he stay when she’d done everything she could to chase him away?

  “We were in a carriage returning from an afternoon at The British Museum,” she said, still avoiding his gaze. “We’d been courting for weeks, and he’d charmed me so thoroughly I lost hold of all my good sense. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like the ‘plain Lane daughter’. I wasn’t a wallflower. The son of an earl thought me beautiful—he said so all the time. He hung onto every word I said and showed me affection whenever he could. He sent me flowers and called u
pon me at home, and made mention of marriage often. He was perfect … and I was in love.”

  She paused, taking a deep breath and swallowing the acidic bile stinging the back of her throat. She’d told this tale many times—to her mother and sisters, to Bertram’s other victims, to Randall. It had been some time since relating it had put her in such an emotional state.

  It was Robert. He had pried into her soul and unearthed the feelings she’d suppressed concerning these memories. Inhibiting it became difficult with him looking at her as if feeling it all right along with her.

  “He was very good at fooling people,” Robert offered. “It was no fault of your own.”

  Cassandra shrugged off his reassurance. It did nothing to make her feel better about letting herself fall into his trap.

  “I knew better than to let him kiss me and take other liberties with my body when no one could see. But I’d never felt desired before … never been kissed, never been touched in a sensual way. All the years I envied Amaryllis and Pandora for the attention and admiration their looks had earned them faded away into nothing. Because a handsome, charming man who was popular with the ton liked me. He wanted me when he could have had any other young debutante. I have to admit that the attention and the way he made me feel … it was addicting.”

  He nodded as if in understanding, but kept quiet, seeming content to listen.

  “That day in the carriage, we were without my chaperone. I’d been paying my abigail to go for walks in the park, or spend time in circulating libraries or coffee houses while I went off with Bertram. We’d been carrying on this way for a fortnight by then, and each time I found myself alone with him, he pushed our encounters farther and farther. I’d always insist we stop before things went too far. The fear of ruination held me back from allowing him to make love to me, even though I wanted it … I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything. But after we’d left the museum and he began kissing me again, touching me, trying to lift my skirts … it didn’t feel right. Everything was different than it had been before, and he was—not himself, or rather, not the man I’d come to know. He was far too aggressive, ignoring me when I told him he ought to stop and return me home. He’d instructed his driver to take the long route back to Hyde Park, where my chaperone waited for us to return. I know now he did it on purpose, to give himself more time to …”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Robert insisted. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  She shook her head and met his gaze at last. He looked as if every word of her account was making him sick, his hands clenched at his sides.

  “I have to,” she whispered. “You need to understand …. I need to tell you this.”

  He clenched his jaw, but nodded anyway, freeing her to continue.

  “It did not take me long to understand what was happening. He wrestled me to my knees on the carriage, then bent me over the seat. I struggled, but he was too strong, his weight pressing me into the seat until I could barely draw breath. He lifted my skirts and told me I was a good girl for not fighting him. He knew I wanted it, so there was no use pretending otherwise.”

  “Cass—”

  “I laid my head down and gave in,” she said, her words ground out from between clenched teeth. Her eyes brimmed with tears again, but she blinked them back, determined to get through this. “I didn’t scream … I fell silent after my pleas for him to stop went unheeded. I didn’t kick or flail or try to hit him. I just … I yielded and let him do what he wanted.”

  “You were frightened,” Robert argued. “He overpowered you, he would have hurt you worse if you’d fought him—we know that based off the other women’s’ testimony. You did what you had to do to survive.”

  “I was weak!” she bellowed. “Can’t you see that? My body was on the line, and I laid there and let him have it … stunned into submission so fast it was laughable.”

  “You were a young, scared girl,” he insisted. “He disarmed you, knowing you stood little chance of escape. You cannot blame yourself.”

  “I don’t,” she spat, turning away from him. “At least not for being raped. Bertram did that, and he paid for it. But, I do blame myself for being so naive, so weak. I blame myself for crying and lying there to endure the pain of being torn apart when I should have resisted.”

  Robert’s hands fell onto her shoulders and he pulled her back against his body. She wanted to lean into him, accept the comfort offered by his nearness and his touch.

  She could not afford to do that. The sun had begun to set, and the need to finish what she had started persisted. Sir Downing could not get away with murdering his wife … and she had to do something to atone for her part in all this. Perhaps Robert was right and the man would have murdered his wife without her interference. But, she would never know, and the guilt of it would eat her alive.

  She’d kept her head down and her mouth closed following Bertram’s assault, believing she’d been the only one. The revelation that there were many others had been devastating, and only exacerbated her anger at those who’d known all along and done nothing. She would not stand by and allow Downing to hurt another woman, possibly even kill again.

  “Injustices happen every day,” he murmured, turning her to face him. “I am not saying that you ought to turn a blind eye to them … but, you cannot carry the weight of the world upon your shoulders. You cannot avenge them all, and the way you’re going about it is dangerous. If you are caught …”

  She cut him off, taking his face in her hands and capturing his mouth in a deep kiss. He gave in with a predictable lack of resistance, his arms going around her as he threw himself into kissing her back. He seemed to take this as acquiescence, and she did nothing to show him otherwise. Backing him toward the bed, she began loosening his clothes and peeling them off before tossing them aside. He sighed against her lips as if relieved. If they were naked in bed, intertwined with one another, then she couldn’t run off and get into danger. She let him think this, pushing him down on to the mattress and urging him up toward the headboard.

  She reached out for one of the tasseled cords tying the bed curtains back, showing it to him with a wicked smirk that had his cock hardening against her thigh. He submitted to having his hands tied, as she’d known he would, his gaze never wavering from her as she lifted them over his head and secured them to one of the bedposts.

  Then, she leaned down to kiss him again, giving it everything she had and making it last. It could be the last chance she had to taste him and experience the heady feeling of being kissed by the most beautiful man she’d ever known. It was not his face that made him so, but the kindness he’d shown her even when she did not deserve it, and his acceptance of who and what she’d become. When she pulled away he smiled at her, his eyes taking on the glassy quality of a man who’s had too much to drink. He anticipated more of the torment he’d endured last night, but Cassandra had no choice to deny him. She had somewhere to be, and now that he was tied to the bed, he could not stop her.

  Leaving the bed, she returned to where she’d left her clothes, retrieving the various articles from the floor and pulling them on. Robert lifted his head, frowning as he watched her tuck her shirt into her breeches.

  “Cass, what are you doing?”

  Ignoring him, she pulled on a pair of stockings, then shoved her foot into one boot. He began to struggle, pulling at the bonds keeping him tethered to the bed.

  “Cass … wait … don’t do this.”

  She moved faster now, needing to leave this room and outrun the guilt making her want to climb back into that bed with him. Clenching her jaw, she pulled on a coat and buttoned it before swirling her cloak about her shoulders and pulling the hood over her head. She abandoned the mask, leaving it on the floor where Robert had dropped it last night. She couldn’t be seen traipsing about Mayfair in a black mask unless she wanted to bring the city watch or the Bow Street Runners down on her own head. Besides, it did not matter if Downing saw her face … he
would not live long enough to expose her.

  Outside, the sun had set and twilight settled over London, telling her it was far past time for her to leave.

  “Cassandra!”

  She pause on her way to the door, turning back for one last look at him. He was as perfect as ever, and hers for the taking in every way she could imagine. Confusion and sadness etched his handsome face, a golden strand of hair falling over his brow, his nude body stretched out in a tantalizing display. The heaviness in her chest only grew worse, her stomach churning at the prospect of walking through this door without looking back.

  She’d had years’ worth of experience pushing her emotions aside in order to survive, to do what needed to be done.

  “I’m sorry, Robert,” she murmured before stepping out into the corridor. “But you deserve so much more than I have to give.”

  Without another look back, she made her way toward the stairs, turning her mind toward Sir Downing. If he adhered to the routine he’d been following the past few days, she ought to arrive at his townhome just as he set out for the night. The knife in her boot and the pistol stuffed into the back of her breeches bolstered her as she stepped out of The Pulteney Hotel and onto the street, turning in the direction of Berkeley Square.

  She reached Downing’s townhome in record time, taking her place across the street as the man emerged from inside. She drew in a slow breath and released it on a sigh of relief, her heartbeat slowing a bit. For a moment, she had worried that the time spent with Robert had caused her to miss him. There were rumors that Downing planned to depart for Devon any day now, so she could not risk letting him slip through her fingers. It had to be tonight.

  She crossed the street, moving fast to be out of the way of a hackney cab rolling in her direction. Keeping her prey in her sights, she followed him along his route to the brothel, making sure to lag behind a bit. Gas lamps became fewer and farther between as they moved away from Berkeley Square, prompting her to remove her pistol while keeping it hidden within the folds of her cloak. There was an alley up ahead she could drag him into. One blow to the head and she’d stun him, another and he’d be subdued enough for her to drag him into the darkness and slit his throat. She’d rather not shoot him, as the noise would attract notice … but if she were forced to pull the trigger, she’d do so without hesitation.