The Blackmailed Beauty
By Ilene Withers
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
THE BLACKMAILED BEAUTY
Copyright © 2013 ILENE WITHERS
ISBN 978-1-62135-220-4
Cover Art Designed by AM BOOK DESIGNS
I dedicate this book to my family and my work family. Their support has made it all possible.
Chapter One
Claire Stuart tugged her shawl close against the March wind as she stepped outside. After spending most of the morning bent over the sampler she was stitching for her mother’s birthday, she craved a short walk. A chill wind would not keep her from it. She slipped out the gate of the vicarage and paused. The church next door sheltered the cemetery and a quiet bower. It would be the perfect place to spend a few solitary minutes.
Her parents had left over an hour ago to visit the sick in Chittingham, a small Surrey village not far away, and her younger sisters were doing their studies. Mrs. Quince, their only servant, was busy baking bread. Claire reveled in the sounds of nature as she walked— the wind, the rustling grasses, a squawking bird.
Entering the churchyard, Claire stopped when she spied a young hare grazing in the cemetery. She admired the efficient way the animal foraged for tiny shoots of green among the more bountiful brown vegetation. Trying not to disturb the animal, she walked to the furthest corner of the church. There the bushes grew close to form a secluded bower where she could enjoy a few minutes of tranquility.
“Miss Stuart, what a delight.”
Claire jumped at the sound of the unexpected male voice. Stepping away from the bower with reluctance, she saw Alistair Norton, Viscount Pitt. A sense of dread came over her as she realized he must have been in the graveyard and had followed her.
“Lord Pitt,” Claire replied, her voice reflecting the deep aversion she had for the intruder. She was nervous to be alone in the isolated churchyard with him, for he had a reputation as a womanizer and a gambler. Rumor had it he had once shot a man over an opera singer.
Claire watched as his icy, gray eyes moved from her face downward, causing a shiver of distaste to crawl its way down her spine. She tugged the heavy shawl tighter, seeking what little protection it offered from his penetrating gaze. Forcing herself to stare impassively past his shoulder, she concentrated on her pounding pulse. Perhaps if she did not appear frightened, he might leave her alone. At last, he raised his eyes back to her face, his dark countenance appearing almost evil to her.
“My sister mentioned the two of you will be sharing a season this spring,” he remarked with an affected drawl.
Claire moved backward to put space between them. “I have heard we will be in London at the same time,” she said, implying no closer knowledge of Lady Regina Norton's plans.
“I, too, will be in town this season.” He leered at her bodice as he spoke in a suggestive tone.
Bile rose in her throat as the viscount stepped closer to her. Claire jerked her head toward her home. “I hear someone calling me,” she lied, seeking an excuse to escape.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Lord Pitt replied as he followed her gaze. “You couldn't have in this wind. The vicarage is not close enough,” he added as he closed the space between them with one step. Before she had time to react, he reached out to stroke a tiny wisp of her pale blonde hair. His fingers slid down her cheek with a tortuous slowness. Claire stepped to the side, hoping to put distance between them, but also to step further away from the bower's entrance. Her foot caught on an exposed root of the ancient oak behind her, and she began to fall. Reaching out, she tried to catch herself but found nothing to grasp. Her shawl slipped from her grip just as her back slammed against the rough trunk, almost knocking the breath from her lungs.
Lord Pitt moved in fast, trapping her. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, “with an angel’s face, and the figure—”
“Lord Pitt!” Claire’s voice shook with fear. “You are being ungentlemanly.”
“Most women beg for my attentions.”
“I assure you I am not one of them,” Claire stated emphatically. “Now I must be leaving.” She pushed away from the tree and quickly moved toward home.
He grabbed her upper arm and swung her around, his fingers digging into her flesh causing Claire to wince at the pain. “Not so fast.”
“Unhand me, sirrah,” Claire demanded as she jerked her arm away from his grasp, her heart pounding. She spun around once more to flee. He grabbed her again and swung her back around, wedging her between the tree trunk and his chest. With one quick movement, he captured her arms, pinning them behind her. Without warning, he crushed his lips against hers. Claire tore her mouth free as a wave of nausea washed over her. “Let me go!”
As she saw his face coming closer to hers again, Claire screamed for help. Her lungs burned as she gulped for air. She screamed again. The viscount laughed as her screams faded into the chill wind. When she struggled, he grabbed the base of her neck, splaying his fingers against her skin and tightening them until she could no longer breathe with ease.
He slammed his mouth against hers again, cutting off her next scream, as he moved his hand from her neck to grab at the bodice of her dress. Claire fought wildly, gaining strength with each precious breath. When she was unable to free her arms she stomped on his foot, but her slipper just slid off his boot. Grasping the worn wool of her gown, he ripped it open jaggedly over her heaving chest. A roar built in her ears as she felt his fingers trace the line of the torn fabric. Claire wrenched from side to side, desperate to escape him. He just tightened his hold on her as his lips ground against hers, his tongue forcing its way between her teeth. Gagging, she reacted automatically, biting down hard against the meatiness of it.
He pulled his mouth back. “You little witch!” His voice reflected his fury as his hand slapped her cheek, knocking her face against the rough tree bark. Tears sprang to her eyes. Grabbing her hair, he jerked her head back around as his mouth came down on hers yet again, bruising her lips against her teeth until she tasted her own blood.
Suddenly, Claire replayed her father’s voice in her mind. She tried to calm her panic as she remembered his words. “My dear, your beauty is such you may someday feel a man is forcing his attentions on you. In this case, you must insist he stop. Not all men will listen. Those more willful and less courteous will think only of their own enjoyment. If you ever find yourself in this predicament, aim for the spot between his legs. Bring up your knee fast and with as much force as you can muster. When you have made contact, he will release you due to being in a great deal of pain. Then lift your skirts and flee. Run like the wind to safety.”
Desperate to escape with her virtue intact, Claire knew she must follow her father’s instructions. She knew the viscount held her too tight for her to summon the necessary force she needed to bring him down with just her knee. Intent on what she must do and shuddering against the thought of it, she forced her body to become pliant and limp. It worked! He loosened his grip within moments, even as his mouth continued to plunder hers. No doubt, he thought she was growing to enjoy his repulsive attentions. Claire offered a silent prayer she would succeed. Knowing her life depended on this on
e opportunity, she bent her leg, and with sudden and extreme force jerked it upward until it made contact with his flesh.
The imprisoning hands fell away. Groaning, her assailant clutched himself and dropped to the ground as he began to retch. Startled, Claire stared and then remembered her father’s final words. “Lift your skirts and flee. Run like the wind to safety.”
Claire spun around and ran as she had never run before. She did not stop until the vicarage’s heavy gate slammed shut behind her. As her trembling hands checked the latch, her knees began to buckle until she was soon leaning against the fence to support herself. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. Then it came to her— she was ruined. Ruined by a scoundrel she could not bear.
Another sense of panic overwhelmed her, and she found the strength to hurry across the yard. Quietly entering the rear of the house, she listened. Other than Mrs. Quince moving around in the kitchen, all was quiet. Claire climbed the stairs and went to her room. She locked the door and then allowed her body to sink to the floor.
Claire sat there, stunned and shaking, as tears rolled down her face. “I’m ruined, I’m ruined.” Her mind would not let loose of the words. After some time, she gathered her wits and took a shuddering breath. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to think calmly. No one else would know what had just happened, she told herself.
Sitting up straighter, she realized if she acted as if nothing had occurred, the attack would be her own painful secret. She vowed she would remain silent. He would probably not say anything either. After all, she had fought him off, and he would not want to admit it. Claire took another deep breath and crawled up off the floor. No, she would not allow the horrible beast to ruin her life.
Realizing just how sullied she felt, Claire ripped off her clothing and hurried across to the washstand. The water was cold, left over from the morning, yet she scrubbed herself furiously. She washed her face twice, noticing the soreness on her cheek, and roughly cleaned her lips over and over. Everywhere his hands had touched her, she rubbed a soapy, wet cloth hard across her skin as though she would be able to erase the touch. When at last she had finished, she dressed in fresh garments and brushed her hair, pulling it into a neat bun atop her head.
Finally, Claire glanced in the mirror. She inhaled and her eyes widened at what she saw there. A bruise was forming on her cheek, her lips were puffy and red, and there was a small cut near her eye. Staggering across to her bed, feeling as though she were beaten, she sank down on it. The bruise and the cut must be from when her face had hit the oak. She refused to think about her bruised lips, for she could not bear it.
Claire’s mind, as if of its own accord, began to go over the horrible event. Remembering she had tripped on the tree root, she realized her shawl had slipped from her grasp. Her shawl! Jumping up, she searched through the pile of clothing on the floor. No, it was not there; she must have left it behind. Would he pick it up? Throwing herself back on the bed, she curled up in a small ball. Rolling over she buried her face in the pillow, groaning in frustration. After a few minutes, she sat upright. Why would he? It was obvious he had been in pain. Tomorrow, she would walk over and fetch it.
As if the clouds had cleared, Claire realized what she must do. She would tell her family she had tripped on the root. It was no less than the truth. Regretting the need to exaggerate a bit, she would say she had pitched forward, hitting the tree. This had caused her to cut and bruise her cheek on the rough bark and in the fall, she had bit her lip. Yes, there was her story!
Claire forced herself to relax. Now she had an excuse formulated, she knew she must discipline herself to act as if nothing more had marred her day.
Rising, she decided to dispose of the bundle of clothing. She never wanted to see them again. Not wanting to touch them, she kicked them toward the fireplace, where the ashes still glowed hot. Using the poker, she lifted the clothing, spread it out over the embers, and then waited for them to catch fire.
The flames did not start right away; instead, smoke began to pour from the fireplace. It seemed the chimney was drawing it well at first, but then it started to drift out into the room. Claire started to cough. Running across to the window, she threw it open. Then she grabbed the coverlet from her bed and stuffed it along the bottom of her door. She dare not let anyone notice the smell in the house— they would wonder what was happening and come to investigate.
Claire spent the next half hour in near panic, knowing her parents would arrive at any time and would see the smoke pouring from the window of her room. She had no story for this and could not even force herself to think of one. At last, the clothes began to burn, the flames building and slowly consuming them. Venturing back over, she used the poker again to make sure every bit of the cloth burned to ash. As the smoke cleared, she swung the window shut but for a crack, hoping no one would notice the smell.
Claire did not leave her room until her parents returned. Even then, she sat listening intently until the door to her father’s study shut. It was only then she rose and stepped into the hallway.
“There you are,” Olivia Stuart exclaimed as Claire entered the parlor, looking up. “Why, dear, whatever has happened to your face?” Mrs. Stuart rose from her chair and hurried across to her daughter, taking her chin in her hand as she inspected her more closely.
“I went for a walk in the churchyard,” Claire stated honestly, “and I followed a little hare into the bower.” Looking her mother in the eye so she would not suspect anything was wrong, she continued. “I feel so silly. I tripped over a root and pitched face forward into the trunk of the old oak.” She wondered where she had learned to lie so. Reaching up she gingerly touched her lips. “I bit my bottom lip, and it actually bled!” She waited for her mother’s reaction as calmly as she was able to.
“Why you poor girl. And here I thought you were the most graceful of all my girls,” she teased as she moved back to her seat. “It will heal with time.”
It will heal with time. Claire clung to those words.
“Is Papa coming to tea?” she asked, knowing she would have to go over the entire story again for him.
“No. He said he must finish his sermon for Sunday. You know how he dislikes leaving it to the last minute.”
Claire nodded a reply as her sisters entered the room. Holly, the youngest, hurried across to sit beside her.
“What happened to you?” the ten-year-old asked.
“I tripped over a root on my walk,” Claire answered, “and pitched headlong into a tree.”
“The same kind of thing happens to me a lot.”
Claire fondly reached over to tuck in a strand of the younger girl’s hair. This was what she needed— a dose of her merry, little sisters. “I know, and now I am much sorrier for you. It hurts doesn’t it?”
Holly nodded. “I always cry.”
“Your face is so bruised,” Fayre entered the conversation. “What are you going to do about London?” she asked bringing up Claire’s much-anticipated first season.
“Your sister’s trip is a fortnight away,” Mrs. Stuart reminded her next to eldest daughter. “It will be healed by then.”
Fifteen-year-old Kate perched on a chair beside Claire and scrutinized her. “The little cut gives you a bit of personality,” she said. “Beauty is so commonplace, but scars show real character.”
Claire could not help but laugh at her sister while their mother asked Fayre if she had been letting Kate read her novels again.
“They’re quite acceptable for her age,” Fayre declared. “You know I wouldn’t let the younger girls read anything inappropriate. Besides, Claire reads them first.”
“She is a bit older, though,” Mrs. Stuart replied.
Claire, thankful for the lively conversation around her, forced herself to join in with the fun. “And where would have I gotten them, Mama, if I had not found them lying around your sitting room?”
Mrs. Stuart blushed a flattering pink. “It’s time to change the subject,” she
declared. Switching her attention to her thirteen-year-old daughter, she said, “Anna, do you have anything to include?”
Anna, a book open on her lap, was eyeing the small plate of teacakes. “Can we just have tea?” she asked.
****
The morning sun poured through the window of Claire’s room forcing her eyes open before she was ready. She had slept restlessly, her thoughts filled with visions of her attacker. Throwing back the covers, she slid from her bed. When she walked across to the mirror, she saw the reflection of her tousled pale blonde hair and blue eyes. Her cheek seemed worse, she noted. It was a variety of colors now— black, yellow, and greenish-blue. However, her lip was less puffy and little soreness remained. The small cut near her eye was already healing. If only her soul would heal as quickly.
Claire joined her family for breakfast. Her father and sisters spent several minutes teasing her about her colorful bruise, but she had a hard time joining in with the banter. Once the meal was over, she told her father she would walk with him to the church.
Instead of entering the church, Claire made an excuse and went toward the cemetery. Taking a deep breath for courage, she walked around the corner, straight to the bower. Pausing, she closed her eyes for a moment as she remembered the sound of her own breathing, heavy and quick, and of the screams ripping from her throat. She could still feel his hot breath and cold touch on her skin. Willing herself to overcome her fear, she forced her eyes open. There was the oak, but there was no shawl beneath it.
Claire searched again. It was indeed missing. Had he taken it? Had an animal dragged it off? Had it blown away in the wind? Not knowing what to do, she forced herself to go into the church where she collected a cleaning cloth and began to dust the pews. While she worked, her mind raced over the possibilities. She stood up as her father paused in his rehearsal. She heard laughter outside, and it wasn’t but a moment until the door opened.
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