Love's Price(31)

She pulled out her portmanteau and tossed it on the bed, ready to pack it and depart. But to where? Where could she go? Who—in the entire kingdom—would take her in?

She stared into the wardrobe, at the pretty dresses that had been delivered. They provided stark evidence that she’d sold her soul for a cupboard of frills and trinkets. She could have demanded so much more for herself. Why had she settled for so little?

Suddenly, she could hear him marching down the hall, and his confident approach only underscored her precarious situation. She couldn’t deny or refuse him, her sole option being to participate in their affair for as long as he insisted it continue.

When they had started in, it had seemed so right, so natural. Now, it merely seemed idiotic and dangerous.

He barged in without knocking, and as she whipped around to face him, she wondered if there were servants in the hall, if anyone had seen him enter.

How many minutes would pass before gossip filtered out that he was in her bedchamber? Once their liaison became common knowledge, what other disasters would it bring?

“Get out of here!” she said, more furious than she’d ever been.

“No.”

He looked over at the bed, saw her bag, and his own fury spiked. He stomped over, grabbed it, and pitched it on the floor.

“I have not given you permission to leave.”

“I’m an adult, and I can go whenever I want. You don’t own me.”

“No, I don’t, but you’ll do as I say, and you’ll do it gladly.”

She was trembling so violently that if she’d been holding a pistol, she might have shot him.

“I am not loose,” she declared, “and I am not a whore.”

“Have I ever so much as hinted that I thought you were?”

“For pity’s sake, you have a paramour around every corner. What am I? Your fancy of the month? Or is it just the week?”

He stalked to her, and he towered over her, vividly reminding her—with his size and stature—that he was omnipotent, that he could do whatever he wished.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Why are you so upset?”

“What is wrong with me? I walk into the parlor and see you embracing your ward, and you want to know why I’m upset?”

There was a possessive, shrewish tone to her voice that she loathed, but she couldn’t temper her remarks. She was jealous and envious and very, very hurt.

He frowned. “You think I was embracing Miranda?”

“I have two eyes in my head. Don’t you dare try to pretend that I’m mistaken or I’ll...I’ll...” She spun away, sick at how she sounded, at how she was acting. “Just go. Please.”

With her infatuation blossoming to outlandish heights, she’d forgotten a cardinal rule between lord and servant: It was none of her business what he did. If he wanted to fornicate with a dozen women—with a thousand women!—it was none of her concern.

Like the most naive fool, she’d assumed he was growing fond of her, but it was ludicrous to suppose that she had a lock on his affection.

While she’d been finding threads of romantic drivel sewn through the fabric of their relationship, he’d merely found an easy method of assuaging his lust.

Her anger was ridiculous, and she was greatly embarrassed to have him observe it, to have him realize he could drive her to such a pitiful level.

“Miranda is my ward,” he stupidly said. “I’ve known her since she was a baby.”

“She wants to marry you! Are you deaf? Are you blind?”

“Marry me!”

“Yes, you! Not your brother. You! Why can’t you see what she’s doing?”

“She’s a child. She’s like a little sister to me.”

“A child! She’s only two years younger than I am, and from the moment I arrived, she’s been throwing herself at you.”

“She has not. I was comforting her. We’ve had some bad news, and we—”

“Comforting!” She shouted the word. “Is that what you call it? You’re so obtuse that you don’t notice what’s happening. Or maybe you do notice, and you don’t care. Maybe you’re flattered.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“Am I?” She clasped a fist over the center of her chest. “My heart is broken. Can you even begin to understand? I don’t know what I’m doing with you. What is going to become of me?”

“Nothing has changed between us.”

“Really? Tell me this: What am I to you?”

He narrowed his gaze as if trying to bring her into clearer focus. “What in bloody hell do you mean?”

“Am I mistress? Am I whore? Am I brief dalliance? Tell me!”

“You’re...you’re...Helen.”

“And...?”

“You’re just...you.”

His inability to describe his view of her position only made her more irate, only made her choices more farcical. Why had she involved herself with him?

“I will not sit by,” she seethed, “and watch while you seduce your brother’s fiancée!”

“Have you any idea how silly you’re being? I suggested the match to him. I arranged the marriage contracts.”

“Well, it appears you’re having second thoughts. Have you no honor? No shame? When he returns and discovers that you’ve ruined her, what will be your excuse? You were swept away by passion?”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Do not speak to me of my brother.”

“Someone needs to. You act as if you’re—”

“Be silent!” he roared.

His color was very high, and she cringed, worried that he might strike her. Instead, he shoved her away and went to the window to stare out. She scurried to the other side of the bed, using it as a barrier between them.

An awkward impasse ensued, where she wondered what he was thinking, but she couldn’t guess.

Had she pushed him too far? Would he finally fire her?

At the notion that he might, she was unbearably sad. She’d sacrificed everything to be with him, while he’d given up nothing at all.

She should have been wiser, should have protected herself, but she hadn’t been able to resist the excitement he brought to her life. Yet if there was to be joy at one end of the spectrum, there would be anguish at the other, and though she’d recognized there would be consequences, it had never occurred to her that they would be so wrenching.

He glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes glittering with emotion.

“My brother has been lost at sea.”

She gasped. “What?”

“I just received the news. His ship was attacked by pirates; he was set adrift.”

“Is he...he...?”

Gad, she couldn’t say it. She’d been accusing him of flirtation and seduction, while he was staggering under the weight of the worst tidings he would likely ever hear.

“He is presumed to be deceased,” he tersely replied.

She collapsed against the wall, not certain her legs would support her.

She’d been struggling with the same type of devastating information: a missing sibling, an unknown fate. It was an impossible burden that levied incalculable guilt.

Could she have prevented Harriet’s disappearance? Should she have realized sooner that something nefarious had transpired? If she had known, would it have made any difference?

“So you see, Helen”—rage wafted off him—“as opposed to how you assume I was scheming with my brother’s fiancée, I was actually telling her that he was dead.”

“Oh, James...”

“Dead, Helen. Dead and gone—like that.” He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.

“I am so sorry.” She stumbled over to him. “I am so, so sorry.”

She reached out a hand, and for a moment, he simply glared at it, then he clasped hold and dragged her into his arms, and he was kissing her and kissing her until she was dizzy and breathless. He was like a wounded animal, needing to lash out, to hurt someone as he was hurting.

“Forgive me,” she begged. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean a word I said.”

He tumbled her onto the bed, rolling them until he was on top and pressing her into the mattress. His hands were on her breasts, fiercely kneading them. He was being forceful and rough, dominating her in a thoroughly male fashion that was feral and untamed, a drive that had to be assuaged, an anger that had to be quelled.

He grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it down the center. Her petticoats were next so that—in a thrice—she was clad only in corset and drawers.

With no finesse or preparation, he fumbled with his trousers, then thrust inside her. At having him enter her so quickly and completely, she arched up and cried out. He hadn’t harmed her, but she was just so surprised.

His behavior called to a deep feminine instinct, making her want to surrender, making her want to submit to his every wish and command.

She spread her legs, holding on, feeling as if she was riding a wild horse, as if she was on a ship without sails or rudder.

Much too rapidly, his ardor rose and crested, and he spilled himself. The instant he was finished, he withdrew and flopped onto his back, not touching her, an arm flung over his face.

She was quiet, watching him, not having a clue as to what she should say.

He teemed with emotion, his demons roiling out of control. What were they? How could she best expel them?