“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 tore 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.