by Stacy Reid
Even though she had decided on this affair with him, she still doubted his motives. She wondered if she would take back her offer to be his lover in the cold light of morning without the sensual strain of music in the air, and his tempting presence luring her to unknown pleasures.
He shuttered his gaze quickly enough, but she saw her question had startled him.
“For my part, because of my views on marriage I’ve wanted to take a discreet lover,” she explained, “which I know you’ll be. You’re breathtakingly handsome and interesting and irreverent, and I wanted you from the moment I saw you at Lady Calvert’s ball. I want to throw propriety in the wind and simply enjoy my life.” She tilted her head and regarded him. “But why are you interested in me?”
“You are available,” he drawled blandly.
She jerked back, stung. Pain sliced through her at his callous answer. “I—” She hated that he’d said it that way, as if she were a common doxy. She did her best not to show her profound hurt. “I see.”
The familiar feeling of shame tried to rise up, but she refused to indulge it. Ice crept over her, chilling the warm satiety in her flesh to cold indifference. She straightened her spine and started to walk away. “I bid you good evening, my lord.”
“Most young ladies would have slapped me for my temerity,” he said.
She halted, anger flushing her cheeks. “You were testing my reactions?” she demanded.
At his silence, she spun and walked with rapid steps out of the garden.
“Phillipa.”
“Go to hell,” she said, and kept walking.
In an instant he had grasped her arm, spinning her to face him.
“I’ll tell you why. You captivate me. I admire your thirst for adventure…your joy for freedom, your vivacity. I want you because you rouse me as no other woman has done in years, if ever. And I want to burn in the passion I see beneath your cool gaze, a passion I suspect will satiate my every need. I want to see you bound to my bed with silken ropes as I spank you, fulfilling your every dark fantasy. Then I want to ride you hard and deep, until neither of us can move for spending.”
She gasped at his vivid descriptions…and at the chaotic cravings that erupted in her body at the forbidden pictures they created in her mind.
He saw her expression, and gratification swept over his. “I want total control over your body and your pleasures, Phillipa. I believe you want the same. You will match me perfectly, fantasy for fantasy. I had thought to court you. But if you are not interested in marriage, I will gladly take you as my lover.”
Heat slashed her cheeks, her whole body. How does he see me so deeply?
She nodded jerkily, stunned by his profound insight to a part of her she had never dared reveal to a living soul. And grateful, at least, that he understood why she had no desire to marry. “I thank you for your honesty, Anthony,” she managed.
She did not linger. She couldn’t. She needed to think. To work through the intense emotions that had erupted within her at his bold declaration. She fled through the gate, nimbly walking toward the side window.
Missing the shadow that lurked behind a hedge, watching her as she hastily made her way back inside.
Chapter Nine
The white silence of winter pressed in on Anthony. Snow fell in a steady dribble, dotting the land with its frosted beauty. The fireplace crackled, and his mind inevitably turned to the delectable Miss Peppiwell. She consumed his thoughts. Her vigor when she danced, the coldness she could exude, and the honest need she burned with when he took her in his arms. The sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. And the forbidden things they had explored together…
But it was her desire to be free of society that tantalized him. He had wished for the same, years ago in the face of constant disapproval from the old duke, the occasional thrashings, and the feelings of inadequacy.
She had no wish to marry. But he would entice her with sensual fantasies and tantalizing adventures, and when he had secured her affections, he would offer for her hand. How could she refuse?
He wondered what had happened to her to inspire such an aversion to marriage. Most young ladies plotted their wedding day from the cradle. He knew Constance had already decided before she left the schoolroom the month and day she would wed.
Mamas and young chits throughout Society constantly sought to entrap him or his brother. It was just his luck that the first woman to evoke such intense passion and his first real interest in marriage only wanted to have an affair. But he was determined to woo the lady, and would do everything in his power to ensure her answer would be yes.
A soft knock sounded and his ornery butler entered, his eyes blazing with irritation. “A Sir Hawke is here to see you, my lord.” Interesting having a butler who felt exasperated when his door was knocked upon.
“I will see him in the library,” Anthony indicated, swiping up the copy of George Elliot’s Middlemarch he’d been reading.
A few minutes later Hawke strode into the library looking more harried than usual. He was short and stocky, with dark, beady eyes furtively scanning the room to pause on the decanters of brandy on the drinks tray. Anthony had never seen the man so distressed. Hawke hastily handed his top hat and coat to the retreating butler, then scurried over to the great chair and sank in its depth, his eyes darting everywhere but at Anthony.
“What is it, man?” he asked as he rose. He walked around his oak desk to pour the man a brandy, and pushed it into Hawke’s hand. Taking a seat on the edge of the desk, Anthony folded his arms across his chest and waited for Hawke to speak.
“The gel you had me watching was taken.”
“What?” Anthony demanded, instantly on his feet.
“Miss Peppiwell was taken on her walk from Kensington Gardens.”
“Damn it, man!” He bent to grab the lapels of Hawke’s tweed jacket. “Taken by whom? Why did you not prevent it?” he bellowed.
“You paid me to watch at a discreet distance, not to interfere.”
He jerked the man out of the chair. The brandy went flying. “Tell me what happened.”
“I believe she was kidnapped. Some gent grabbed her from behind and threw her into a carriage. He then leaped in after her and the driver sprung the team into motion. I couldn’t have reacted in time to stop it.”
Anthony’s gut tightened. “And you did not set anyone to follow?”
“I did my best, milord, on me own. You didn’t pay for—”
He grabbed Hawke’s neckcloth and strangled his words. The man’s eyes bulged and Anthony went cold, immune to the fear that widened them. “If she is harmed because of your inefficiency, I will hunt you down and gut you,” he swore savagely.
He let the promise sink in, and only after Hawke nodded, he released him. “Which direction did they travel? And tell me the type of carriage.”
“It was a black lacquered. The crest was covered with a black cloth and the driver’s hat was pulled low over his face. But their horses were Andalusian, some of the finest I have ever seen. They headed toward Brighton, but…”
“Spit it out man,” Anthony snarled at his hesitation.
“I followed as far as Corydon, then I lost them.”
Anthony’s mind worked swiftly to reason out his options. “Go,” he grunted. “Hire as many men as need be. Send to the west, east, and south. Discretion is paramount, but do everything you can to find her. If she is located, bring her here. Pay anyone you must to keep silent.”
He opened a desk drawer, withdrawing a hefty bag. It jangled as he threw it at Hawke. Anthony ignored the man’s sharp inhalation as he opened it.
“This is gold, milord!”
“Get out,” Anthony ordered, fury riding him hard.
Hawke moved swiftly to obey, and Anthony strode to the gun case and grabbed several weapons. He carefully loaded his pistol and slipped it in his pocket, then withdrew his special cane, twisted its head, and checked that the hidden sabre was still razor sharp. He shrugged on his jacket, and then yank
ed on the bell pull.
“Yes, milord?” The butler had appeared instantly, his irritation smothered by the anger that saturated Anthony’s voice.
“See that my brother gets this tonight.” He scrawled a note and stamped his seal handing it to him. “There must be no delay. Find him wherever he is and deliver the note personally. He is most likely at Sherring Cross.”
The butler executed a smart bow and sped from the library, a man on a mission. Perhaps his mother had not been so remiss in hiring him, after all.
Anthony stormed out to the stables, his mind roiling with the possibilities. It could only be Orwell. The knowledge settled uneasily in Anthony’s gut. He would investigate, leaving no stone unturned, but the obsession he had seen on Orwell’s face had been about more than Phillipa let on. He’d had little doubt before, and now it was confirmed.
Rage burned at Anthony, some of it directed at her for dismissing the danger Orwell presented. Most of it was directed at himself for not demanding a full explanation. If he had not been concerned and hired Hawke to watch her, no one would even know she had been taken. Not until it was too late.
Anthony would tan her backside when he found her. For real, not in bed play. He refused to give in to the ugly thought that he might never find her.
“Milord?” His groom scampered out of his way in alarm. “I was not told to prepare a horse, milord.”
“I’m telling you now.”
With grim efficiency they saddled Odin, his fastest thoroughbred, and he launched onto its back and thundered through the gates of his estate, determined to catch the reprobate who’d thought to harm Phillipa.
Orwell may have kidnapped Phillipa to marry her by force. Or he may have taken her simply to have his pleasure with her. But either way, the blackguard would take her body against her will. Anthony’s gut tightened. He despised men who raped or hurt the fairer sex. He would crush Orwell if he so much as touched Phillipa’s hair.
Anthony rode low in the saddle, Odin’s hoof beating like thunder as his long powerful strides ate up the distance. Orwell was ahead by at least an hour, but he traveled in a carriage. Even though it was pulled by a team of four, Anthony’s single mount would be much faster.
Storm clouds darkened the sky, and the cold rolled over him in chilly waves. Despite Orwell’s head start, if Anthony was headed in the right direction, he should catch up before the rain started. He sped into the windy night, hoping that Sebastian got his message informing him of his decision to marry.
Anthony would insist he and Phillipa marry if he could not extricate them from the situation without scandal. And there was a slim chance of that. Orwell would surely have seen to it that word got out of her ruin.
Before taking that step, Anthony would have to reveal the truth of his birth to her…much sooner than he’d planned. He prayed the fact he was a bastard would not turn her against him. Or worse, somehow become public knowledge. He didn’t know what he would do if she refused to marry him.
But first he must rescue her from Orwell’s clutches.
He sent a fervent prayer to God that he would find her alive…and unharmed.
…
Phillipa squirmed and twisted, bucking wildly against the fiend who held her, striking him ineffectually with her parasol. She saw his fist crashing down toward her face, and could do nothing but lurch backward to avoid its full impact. The blow glanced off the side of her head. Terror exploded inside her at the look of savage enjoyment on his face at her pain and terror. The carriage jostled, throwing her against the swabs with jarring force and she dropped the parasol.
“You are a madman, Lord Orwell!” she hissed, sounding far braver than she felt. “You will not get away with this. My father will see you hanged!”
Orwell barked out a laugh. “You honestly think anyone will believe your merchant father over a noble lord? It is you who are mad, my dear girl. And I am sure your family would be beside themselves with joy if I decide to make you my wife.”
Phillipa ground her teeth, wincing at the pain in her jaw. Unfortunately, he was probably right. Especially given the untenable position in which she found herself. Her only choice was between Orwell and complete ruination for her and her entire family.
He had come out of nowhere, grabbing her right off the streets. Regret flared that she had dismissed her maid, taking pleasure in walking the short distance to her home without someone watching her every move.
“You will ignore me no longer. I have begged, cajoled, sent you gifts, and you still rebuffed my attentions at every turn.”
“Attentions? You tried to make me your whore,” she spat out, swiping up her parasol again. The delicate fabric was torn.
“I asked you to be my wife…before I found out your true nature,” he said, his eyes glowing with lust. “You will never get a better offer than to be my mistress. Phillipa, I desire you in a way I have never desired another woman. I must have you. You will say yes.”
She shrieked as he came at her. She swung her parasol, smacking him in the eye. He howled, and ripped it from her hands, tossing it to the floor and reached for her again. She swung her fist at him. Pain splintered through her hand. She reeled as he slapped her hard, her vision wheeling.
“I will not be used by you!” she cried, even as despair swamped over her. No one had seen him take her, and when her abduction was discovered, her reputation would be shredded beyond repair.
It would not matter that she was the innocent victim of his despicable deed. The stain would be on her and her family. A harsh sob ripped from her chest, and fury filled her at society’s hypocrisy.
The carriage lumbered along a street, jarring and jostling her as it ran over cobbled stone. She lunged desperately for the carriage door and hollered at the top of her lungs, praying someone would hear her over the din.
“Quiet!” He rapped his knuckles against her head sharply, and she cried out in pain.
Orwell was insane. She was at the mercy of a raving lunatic. Never had she dreamed he would do something so horrible and underhanded.
“I cannot wait to taste you.” He moved in and wet kisses peppered her face and neck, sweaty hands tore at her sleeves.
“No!” Her scream split the air as he flung her on the cushion and shrugged off his coat.
“I must have you. Now.”
She lunged for the small brazier by her legs, grabbed the iron handle of the grate, and swung it at him. He roared, ducking to avoid her blow, but it struck his head with a sharp rap. His savage howl filled her with satisfaction. He leaped at her, enraged, his strength overwhelming. He was powerfully built, and she had never been more aware of her own body’s fragility.
“Do not do this,” she cried as his hand thrust under her dress, fighting to tear off her bloomers. Her mind frantically searched for a way to deter him. “Lord Anthony will kill you if you besmirch me!”
He went suddenly still. “What did you say?” he growled, his fingers squeezing her jaw.
“Lord Anthony made an offer for me yesterday. I accepted. He will kill you for what you are doing, I promise.” Fear squeezed her insides at the manic look that stole over his face. But at least he had stopped his assault.
“Have you let him touch you?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Have you?” he screamed squeezing her jaw even tighter.
“I—”
He searched her face and his anger slowly turned to cold fury. Then a howl of madness ripped from him. “I saw you in the garden with him at last night’s ball. If you have given yourself to him, it is I who will kill him.” Orwell’s mouth crushed down on hers, his teeth savaging her lips.
Her desperation grew as she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. “Stop!”
“If you have given him what rightfully belongs to me, I will destroy him! The only reason your other lover still breathes is because he lives on another continent.” Orwell’s voice was gravelly with anger and arousal.
Fear cramped her stomach.
With a rip, he tor
e the bodice of her muslin gown in two and grabbed her breast through her corset.
“No!” she screamed in pain at his savage grip.
With the brute force of his muscular thighs, he opened her legs.
A gag rose in her throat. She could feel the press of his manhood through his trousers digging into her stomach. Desperately, she searched for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Hope surged through her as she spied the pistol that hung loosely from his jacket pocket. She grabbed it.
He was so intent on his attack, he reacted too late to stop her.
She cocked the hammer. The soft snick echoed through the carriage. His hazel eyes narrowed in rage.
She pressed the muzzle into his soft belly, uncaring that he might feel the trembling of her hands. So much the better. She could accidentally shoot him.
Or not so accidentally.
“Get away from me,” she ordered between her teeth.
The carriage lurched, but her grip remained tight. He slowly backed away and sank back onto the cushioned seat opposite her. She thought he would feel fear at having a pistol trained on him. Instead, a smile teased his lips. The smile frightened her more than his assault.
“I will shoot you,” she warned lethally. “Stop this carriage at once.”
“I will not.”
She raised the pistol a fraction. “Do it now.”
“You will not shoot me. You will be hanged. Your family made pariahs. Not even fleeing across the ocean would save them this time.”
She forced her hands to steady as she aimed the gun at his black heart.
“Go ahead.” He taunted her with cruel laughter. “I am a lord. You are an American nobody, offended that I spurned her advances.”
“You will not live to tell a tale,” she said coldly, wishing she could end his miserable life. She desperately wanted to pull the trigger, but fear cramped her stomach. What if he was right? She would hang, her family disgraced, even though he attempted to rape her. And if they married, it would no longer be rape. It would be his right.
She had confided his obsessive pursuit of her to no one save Elisabeth, and Elisabeth’s father would never allow her to testify in court. Not even to save Phillipa’s life. Their association would ruin her friend, as well.
