"The dark air hovering around Castle Plum drew attention to the ravages of time, visible in some parts of the building. The massy gate of the castle was opened by a tall, dark-haired old man who screeched, ‘Who goeth?'"
~ Conscious of approaching death, Flora begs Plum to send her beloved Frederic a lock of her hair.
~ Lord Plum keeps the hair and nurses her back to health instructs his housekeeper to nurse her to health. Yes! Very Bluebeard.
~ Lord Plum: "How improbable that any man who had once viewed the Ethereal Graces, the Matchless Beauty of this maiden, should quit her side?" (Flora cheers up.)
~ A ruse, because he has a wife in the attic. Or somewhere.
~ Her youth and innocence not proof against the dangerous combination of male beauty and sleek artifice. This is good!
Mia made her way back to her bedchamber and closed the door, which reminded her that locks had been installed on the bathing chamber door, but not on the door leading to the corridor. Vander would follow her to apologize, and she would be unable to keep him out.
She went straight into the bathing chamber, put the hook on both doors, and looked about for a place to sit. There were two alternatives: the bathtub or on the floor. She chose the floor.
She sank down, so devastated that for some seconds she didn't even breathe, let alone cry.
Their marriage was only two days old and already a pattern was being established: Vander would blurt out the truth about how he felt.
Afterward, he would apologize and pay her false compliments . . . until the next time he let slip just how little respect he had for her.
Even worse-and she hated this truth-he hadn't been wrong: she was greedy for him.
She had written that poem all those years ago. She had created the moonbeam, even if she hadn't known what she was talking about. She had dreamed he entered her bedchamber. Somehow, just by being around him, that side of her sprang back to life.
She had allowed him to pull up her skirts and take her against a wall. It didn't matter that he was her husband. In a way, it was worse.
Real ladies were never treated that way. He had seduced her without a single compliment or an adoring glance, no matter how insincere. How could she blame him?
She had agreed, if tacitly, to being demeaned. She had opened her legs and let him do what he willed.
If at any point she had said "no," Vander would have stopped.
That was what hurt the most. She didn't want to be a woman like that. Words knocked around in her head, ugly words: greedy, cock, pearls . . . jam tart. They brought on tears that streamed down her face until she had her head on her knees, sobbing.
Sure enough, after a while, there was a knock on the door leading to Vander's bedchamber.
"No," she said, taking a shuddering breath. "Please go away."
A moment of silence, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. Seconds later, the door to her bedchamber rattled.
"They are both locked," she said, choking. "Just leave me alone, please."
"No."
It would seem that dukes expected to get their way all the time, even when their duchesses were desperate to be alone.
"Go away!"
"I want to talk to you. I must apologize."
Mia heard a floorboard squeak as Vander shifted his weight. She had known that apology was coming. Did she care to hear it? Not particularly.
He had already made clear what he thought. And he'd said it in the heat of passion, when a man couldn't lie if he tried. What he'd said was real. It was no great surprise he was now sorry he'd blurted that out. He was a decent man, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings.
But that didn't make it any less truthful.
She wrapped her arms around her knees. "I accept your apology," she said, clearing her throat and raising her voice. "I shall be out in an hour or so. Please give me some privacy."
She began pulling herself back together. After all, she wasn't sluttish all the time. Only around him. Her poem had been innocently desirous.
Not that she was innocent any longer. She had taken one look at his unbuttoned breeches, and she would have done anything to have him thrust inside her. Lie down on the ground, on the gravel, probably.
Another tear slid down her cheek.
Up against the stable wall.
She shuddered at the memory. If she could just get away from Vander, she could regain her self-respect. She wasn't like this with other men. She knew with absolute certainty that she would never have behaved like this with Edward.
They would have had an affectionate marital life, intimacies conducted under the bedcovers, with respect.
Love would have come in time. She had already loved him a bit. Or, at least, she had been tremendously fond of him.
"Duchess!" It seemed that her husband was growing annoyed. Her thoughts darkened. Vander ought to shoulder some blame as well. He had treated her like a hired harlot, even though she was his duchess.
The door rattled in its frame, more forcefully now. "Open this door!"
Did he really think that roaring at her would make any difference? He was far too used to getting his own way. Women had probably melted in front of him from the time he was . . . oh . . . fourteen. Thirteen, she thought, remembering what he looked like at that age.
The door rattled some more and he began ranting about something or other, but she had stopped listening.
Hadn't he said something about a race tomorrow or the next day? A pulse of relief went through her. He would be gone soon.
Suddenly she heard Susan's voice, and Vander ordering her to take herself downstairs, which he hadn't any right to do.
"She's my maid!" she shouted.
Susan abandoned her, of course; she could hardly refuse the duke's command.
There was a huge thump and the whole door vibrated.
"What are you doing?" Mia shrieked. "Nottle said that door was imported from Venice."
"So what?"
Another resounding thud.
"It probably cost as much as a thatched roof! Don't you dare break it."
"Then open the door. Now!"
"I want to be alone," she cried. "Is that so hard to understand? I want to think."
His voice quieted. "Don't think."
"How can you say that? Do you think that you can rule every moment of my day?"
"I know what you're thinking."
"No, you don't."
"You're thinking that I don't respect you."
"I am not." There was no point in dwelling on unpleasant truths.
The door rattled again. "Mia, if you don't open this door, I shall break it down."
"Oh, do go away, why don't you!" she snapped. "You don't care how I'm feeling. I'm the wife you loathe, remember?"
"I do not loathe you."
Her answer was a curse that she had never spoken aloud before. In fact, now she thought about it, he brought out all her worst tendencies.
"I do not loathe you," he repeated.
"You-you did that to me, and you said those things. A man only treats a woman he loathes in that manner." She kept her voice steady even though another tear ran down her cheek. "Or a woman he's paid for."
"That's it." Another thud, and the door bowed ominously inward for a long instant. With a shriek, the lock gave way and the entire hook and eye assembly flew across the chamber, smashing into one of the long mirrors.
She turned from gaping at the cracked glass to see Vander standing in the doorway, looking so stormy and beautiful that her heart temporarily lodged in her throat. "Look what you've done!"
"I hate these damned mirrors. In fact, I loathe everything about this room."
Mia wrapped her arms around her knees and put her head down again.
Edward would never have treated her like a harlot. He had kissed her with reverence. Once he even dropped a kiss on her forehead for no reason.
Vander hadn't kissed her when they wed, not even when the vicar bade him to. It was no wonder that his kisses were more like invasions than demonstrations of respectful affection. His kisses were just about lust, brute lust.
He stood over her now, as big and tall as a pine tree. Mia refused to look up. He could glower and bully her all he wanted.
Then Vander hunkered down before her. "I'm sorry, Duchess. I shouldn't have said those things. They were unconscionable."
"Yes, well," Mia said. "I'm sure you had your reasons. It hardly matters."
"Yes, it does matter, because I've hurt your feelings and I didn't mean to."
At that she raised her head. "Yes, you did mean to hurt my feelings. No man would speak in that manner unless he deliberately wished to hurt. But at least you were speaking the truth. I prefer the truth."
"What truth?" He sounded frustrated.
"You were correct. I-I bewhored myself." Her voice wavered a little. Whore was such an ugly word; she had never thought to apply it to herself. But she would never have thought that she could behave in such a manner either. "All the same, I saw in your eyes that you wanted to hurt my feelings, so don't try to insult me by pretending otherwise."