Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 57
She lay on the ground, her dress torn and in tatters around her, as he adjusted his pants and tucked his shirt in. Lastly, he straightened his cravat and mumbled, “I trust you can find your way home.”
Warm tears streamed from her eyes and seeped into the earth around her. Her body begged to cry out at the injustice almost completed against her person, but she feared drawing attention to herself once more. Though the men who had happened upon them deserved her thanks, for Chastain would have surely finished the deed had he not feared discovery.
Instead, she remained quiet.
With a curt bow in her direction, the duke turned and headed back down the path in the direction they’d come. She watched his boots as they moved farther from her. Oddly, they remained clean and unsullied by the mud that clung to her so willingly. It was as if filth did not even want to be associated with the likes of him.
She’d highly misjudged the man with whom she was expected to become more closely acquainted. He was no more a proper English lord than she.
Chapter 6
Andrew swirled the liquid in his tumbler—exactly what he’d been doing for the last hour as he awaited Benji’s arrival. He’d spent the hour before that playing billiards with Lord Storr and chatting horses with Sir Ryker.
At first he’d wondered if he had misread Benji’s note requesting his company for dinner at White’s. His interest in hearing tales of Madame Sasha’s country party was minimal, but he could not turn down his friend’s invitation.
Standing, Andrew walked about the room, leaving his half-empty glass behind. In the previous days, he’d had little drive to drink, which was a welcome change from the norm. The days had been spent in the company of his solicitor, planning future improvements to his properties, horse purchases for his stables, and negotiations about a new sea venture. All completely legitimate business dealings, yet they could have waited until after Sasha’s party.
At last, Benji entered White’s, blinking several times and shading his eyes from the bright lights. It figured that his friend was still in his cups after his time at Madame Sasha’s, where the barkeep was as generous as the women.
“Andrew.” Benji fell into the seat across from where Andrew had been sitting, jostling the small table between them just enough to send the amber liquid over the rim of Andrew’s glass. “I do apologize for my tardiness. I had a quick stop before joining you.”
“I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep and hadn’t sent word you were not coming.” Andrew laughed, reclaiming his own seat. “I am glad to see you had a thrilling time at Sasha’s. Meet anyone interesting?”
Andrew mainly asked, hoping his friend would tell him he was distracted by a fresh pair of breasts, keeping his mind far from Lady Lorelei.
Benji signaled for a drink before answering. “The party was much the same as previous years—rousing fun, with lots of drinks and no sleep.”
“I gathered that from your…” Andrew paused, taking in his friend’s disheveled dress. “…less-than-stellar attire this evening.”
Benji looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time that his clothes were wrinkled and it looked as if mud clung to his white shirt, his neck cloth slightly askew.
“Mayhap a bath and clean clothes should have taken precedence over this dinner.”
“No, no.” Benji sat a bit taller. “We agreed to have dinner once I returned to town, and I find I’m overly curious about your time without me.”
Andrew had no intention of sharing more than he had to, no talk of flowers or where his mind actually lay. “This and that, all mundane things, I am afraid…but necessary nonetheless.”
He paused when a manservant delivered Benji’s drink and took their meal order.
With a fast tilt of the glass, Benji emptied it. “Another.”
“Are you sure you should not take some time to sleep,” Andrew asked. “Perhaps allow the spirits to leave your system?”
Benji eyed him. “When did you turn into my father?”
“It is just—”
“You have become quite rigid as of late.”
“I most certainly have not,” Andrew said defensively.
“Madame Sasha’s?”
“What about it?”
Benji accepted another drink, but took only a sip this time. “You never would have missed the opportunity before.”
“I told you, I had business matters to attend to.”
“Yes, yes.” Benji waved off his comment, leaning slightly in his chair. “Certainly something that could not be put off. I will say, I will never pass on the chance.”
There was something off about the way his friend spoke, almost as if his life of ease and debauchery had consumed him entirely. Either the man was past exhaustion, or he truly was as drunk as he appeared.
Andrew laughed, in hopes of lightening the dour mood that had settled on this conversation. “I assure you I will not disappoint you again.”
When their meal was set on the table between them, both men hurriedly picked up their silverware. Andrew was mainly focused on getting through the meal before Benji passed out. It was likely his friend hadn’t had time for a decent meal in days.
“Madame Sasha asked about you,” Benji said around a piece of meat in his mouth. “She is worried you have replaced her.”
“I most certainly have—”
“And I am inclined to agree.”
Andrew was at a loss for words. The tenor of their friendship had changed drastically over the last few years, and he seemed unable to alter its course. More and more he’d spent time alone or with his stewards. His evenings about town, visiting Craven House and such, had dwindled to only one or two per month. Frankly, he was shocked Benji hadn’t addressed his lack of attendance long before now.
“Perhaps I do not favor such encounters any longer.” Lorelei immediately sprang to his mind. He realized with something of a start that he would gladly spend every evening in her company for the rest of his years and be perfectly happy.
Benji stared at him as if he’d never seen him before. “That is absurd. What man does not favor an exquisite lady unclothed in his bed?”
Who did not, indeed?
But the only thing that ran through his mind was Lorelei, laid out naked on a bed he knew very well, smiling up at him as he lowered himself atop her.
“Hello?” Benji snapped his fingers before Andrew’s face. “I know I am the one in his cups here, but you seem overly preoccupied.”
“I am.” He shook his head, determined to not let every word remind him of her…and how he longed to see her again. “I should go. I fear I am not the best company tonight.”
“You will desert me?” Benji asked. “It is just as I thought.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You think I cannot tell what is on your mind?” Benji set his fork aside, his plate empty. “You are still thinking of her.”
“That is preposterous.” Andrew sat back, his own meal forgotten. “I have much more on my mind than a mere woman. And what is this talk of deserting you?”
“Simple. One woman comes along, and suddenly, you are canceling plans with me.” He picked up his fork and speared a piece of meat from Andrew’s plate. “The chit is not worth your time—nor my own, for sure.”
Andrew suppressed the instinct to come to Lorelei’s defense. “It did not seem that way the other evening,” he prodded. “Besides which, at some point our family obligations will overtake our friendship...even for you.”
“You foresee a time we will not be as we always have been? And I should not need to remind you that we are the only family either of us have.”
Andrew could not disagree with his friend, but the draw of something more—someone more—was strong. “You are correct. And it is best that we do not overextend ourselves where marriageable women are concerned.”
The men raised their glasses in salute and drank heavily.
“Besides, she would most certainly choose me.” Benji laughed.
“I highly doubt that, but it is good to know we are not in competition for this one.”
“Very true, I find I am uninterested in the girl. I have an aversion to women of a certain height.”
Now it was Andrew’s turn to laugh, the conversation close to old times between the pair. “Oh, you mean she nearly stands above you? I can see how that would be most off-putting for someone of your unnaturally modest stature.”
“It is not I who is short, but she who is exceedingly tall.” Benji kept the jest going. “But even if I do not care, that does not mean you can rush in for the taking.”
“And if I did decide to court Lady Lorelei?” Andrew asked, testing the waters.
“Then I fear it would only cause you upset.” Benji looked over Andrew’s shoulder when the bell above the door rang to welcome another guest. “Ah, I believe we have company that will prove just my point.”
Andrew turned in his seat, making eye contact with a middle-aged man.
He jumped to his feet and navigated the room to greet him. “Good eve, Sir St. Augustin,” Andrew said in greeting. “I do hope the night finds you well.”
The man hit him with a hard stare before responding. “Drake. I see not much has changed since our last encounter.” He nodded toward Benji, who practically lay across the back of the chair Andrew had vacated. “You still consort with the most unsavory characters.”
“Sir—”
“I have told you, do not approach me,” St. Augustin cut him short. “As far as anyone knows, we have never met, nor will we ever.”
“I only seek to learn if she is in good health.”
“You lost the right to ask long ago. Now, let me pass.” The man made to walk on, but Andrew laid his hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Unhand me.”
They stood thus, neither backing down.
When a quiet clapping sounded behind them, Andrew let his hand fall from the man’s shoulder, not wanting to create any more of a spectacle. St. Augustin had every right to despise him. Hell, if their places had been reversed, Andrew would have challenged the man to a duel.
“Drake.” The intensity in St. Augustin’s eyes dared Andrew to cross him once more. “Do not contact my wife or my child. You made your stance very clear years ago. They belong to me, a man worthy of their affection—not a drunken rakehell who gives little thought to others.”
Every word the man said was true, and Andrew could do naught but stand aside and allow him to continue on to his evening’s entertainments.
Lorelei slipped into her coat the moment she entered her waiting carriage. She wrapped the warm material about herself like a cocoon, covering the torn and mud-stained silk of her once-beloved gown. Her fingers touched her throat where her treasured strand of pearls had sat, nestled in the hollow of her neck. They’d been a rare gift from her father during a time of great joy.
Now, they were gone.
“Where to, my lady?” her coachman called from his seat atop the carriage.
“Home, thank you.” She kept her sob at bay long enough to utter the words. At the moment, there was no place farther from her home than her parent’s townhouse. She was unsure if she considered France home either, however.
The sound of the carriage wheels on the cobblestone drive drowned out her heart-wrenching cries as tears streamed down her face, soaking the collar of her fleece. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and sunk further into the velvet, wishing it would swallow her whole and transport her to another place and time.
Time.
Before arriving in England, Lorelei had a sense that life was nothing but time, endless days, months, and years. Enough to do her parents bidding and have a spot of fun playing the spy, with time to spare for a family of her own. Now, everything seemed all too real. She ached to settle in a place long enough to make it her home. And friends—how she wished for time to make genuine friends, people who knew and cared for her.
Now she wondered if there would ever be enough hours, days, years to make herself whole again—pull together what little was left of herself and live: enjoy the sunrise, bask in the glow of the sunset, breathe in clean, fresh air, or feel the grass of a sparse grove beneath her bare feet.
She straightened in the seat, pushing her thoughts of self-pity deep, and brought her hands to her hair. It must look a fright. The drive from Covent Gardens to her townhouse was not more than ten minutes. How long had she pondered fleeing London and leaving her parents behind—along with the weight of the obligations forced upon her by De Pez?
Once again, time was not her friend.
She wiped the condensation from the windowpane and looked out at the passing street.
Two blocks remained.
Which left her precious moments to pull herself together—and prepare to slip unnoticed into the townhouse, same as she’d left earlier. With luck, her parents would still be out for the evening. She need only hold in her misery until she reached the safety of her rooms, then she would give in to her emotions. Her cloak would cover the disaster beneath and hide the dirt that clung to her arms and legs. Her hair could be blamed on Lord Chastain’s eager hands during a sweet farewell kiss.
Her stomach lurched at the thought, recalling his horrid breath and viselike grip on her body. The image of his body pressed against hers for what seemed like an eternity soured her stomach, but could have been no more than mere moments before he’d been frightened off by the passing men. Those mere moments, however, could translate into her failed mission and her family’s certain punishment. If this led to their failure and subsequent penance, then she would never forgive herself.
The moisture of his sickly sweat upon her was a cruel reminder—though she hadn’t forgotten—that she’d tempted a beast, and now must live with the consequences.
Lorelei knew her sacrifices could not be in vain, as if she—her body, her mind, her very soul—did not matter.
Though her virtue was still intact, rage coursed through her at the intended injustice Chastain had planned for her. Why she’d thought meeting him without her parent’s knowledge was a good idea, she did not know.
The carriage door opened, revealing only the hand of the coachman to assist her down. “My lady, we have arrived.”
As she extended her hand to allow the man to help, Lorelei saw the dirt caked under her once well-groomed nails and the smudge of filth marring the back of her delicate hand.
Appalled, she quickly pulled her hand back. “Thank you,” she stuttered, shaken by the sight of herself. “Please precede me in and make sure my maid has prepared my room while I gather my things. I have misplaced my favorite gloves.”
“Of course, my lady.” Without hesitation, he turned from her and moved to the front entrance. The door was opened with a flourish, as only a true English butler could do, and the coachman conferred with the man before returning to his driving box.
The coachman cleared his throat, signaling his desire to depart round to the livery and be done for the evening.
Oh, how she wished unhitching the mares and brushing the sweat from their coats would mark an end to this terrible evening.
But pity was not something she felt for others, and especially did not extend to her own circumstances.
Lorelei raised her hood to cover her mussed hair and departed the carriage, pulling her cloak about her and digging her shaking hands into the deep confines of her fur-lined pockets to hide any further evidence of her disastrous liaison.
She held her head high—she would never hang her head in shame for anyone to see—and took the steps into the thankfully empty grand foyer.
Lorelei breathed a deep sigh of relief the moment she closed the door solidly behind her.
Sending word ahead to Isabelle had been shrewd. Not a soul would intrude upon her until first light on the morrow.
The first thing that greeted her upon entering her bedchamber was the last thing she wanted to see: the beautiful bouquet of flowers from the marquis.
They symbolized everything that would never—could never—be hers. The thought of a husband chosen out of mutual affection, a life full to brimming with the laughter of children, and most of all, a home, a stable place with an open hearth where their peace was never disturbed.
That was never to be.
The shrill pitch of the words in her head should have been enough to force the flowers from their perch on her dressing stand, but they stood still, unaware of the turmoil within the room—within her.
Before she knew what she was doing, she held the large, heavy display in her hands. Her fingers traced the etched glass of the crystal vase. There was little doubt that delicate hands had crafted the vessel.
Delicate hands…
Lorelei once again looked to her own hands. Hands that were once as delicate as those of any London lady, born and raised to be the center of every room they entered. Yet, now she recognized them for what they truly were—cold, mercenary hands that belonged solely to her crown, never herself. They would do any and all that her crown demanded of her.
No part of her was hers to command. But this moment—with the flowers held securely in her hands—was hers.
Rage. Anger. Disappointment. Alienation. Loneliness. Fury. Shame.
She allowed her emotions to take full control and roll through her. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and she hoped numbness to it all would follow.
With little effort—born mostly of her pounding heart and aching soul—the vase flew through the air at the wall above the fireplace that warmed her room. It fell short and shattered when it hit the floor.
Deep down, she knew what her crown would demand of her:
Destroy. Conquer. Accept no resistance.
Glass splinters flew in every direction. The glow from the many candles placed around the room glinted off shards of razor-sharp crystal.
Her legs grew weak beneath her when the intense emotions continued to course through her, having not been dispelled as easily as she had hoped.
How dare the Marquis of Drake offer her any hope of a future—especially the future she dreamed of.
Warm tears streamed from her eyes and seeped into the earth around her. Her body begged to cry out at the injustice almost completed against her person, but she feared drawing attention to herself once more. Though the men who had happened upon them deserved her thanks, for Chastain would have surely finished the deed had he not feared discovery.
Instead, she remained quiet.
With a curt bow in her direction, the duke turned and headed back down the path in the direction they’d come. She watched his boots as they moved farther from her. Oddly, they remained clean and unsullied by the mud that clung to her so willingly. It was as if filth did not even want to be associated with the likes of him.
She’d highly misjudged the man with whom she was expected to become more closely acquainted. He was no more a proper English lord than she.
Chapter 6
Andrew swirled the liquid in his tumbler—exactly what he’d been doing for the last hour as he awaited Benji’s arrival. He’d spent the hour before that playing billiards with Lord Storr and chatting horses with Sir Ryker.
At first he’d wondered if he had misread Benji’s note requesting his company for dinner at White’s. His interest in hearing tales of Madame Sasha’s country party was minimal, but he could not turn down his friend’s invitation.
Standing, Andrew walked about the room, leaving his half-empty glass behind. In the previous days, he’d had little drive to drink, which was a welcome change from the norm. The days had been spent in the company of his solicitor, planning future improvements to his properties, horse purchases for his stables, and negotiations about a new sea venture. All completely legitimate business dealings, yet they could have waited until after Sasha’s party.
At last, Benji entered White’s, blinking several times and shading his eyes from the bright lights. It figured that his friend was still in his cups after his time at Madame Sasha’s, where the barkeep was as generous as the women.
“Andrew.” Benji fell into the seat across from where Andrew had been sitting, jostling the small table between them just enough to send the amber liquid over the rim of Andrew’s glass. “I do apologize for my tardiness. I had a quick stop before joining you.”
“I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep and hadn’t sent word you were not coming.” Andrew laughed, reclaiming his own seat. “I am glad to see you had a thrilling time at Sasha’s. Meet anyone interesting?”
Andrew mainly asked, hoping his friend would tell him he was distracted by a fresh pair of breasts, keeping his mind far from Lady Lorelei.
Benji signaled for a drink before answering. “The party was much the same as previous years—rousing fun, with lots of drinks and no sleep.”
“I gathered that from your…” Andrew paused, taking in his friend’s disheveled dress. “…less-than-stellar attire this evening.”
Benji looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time that his clothes were wrinkled and it looked as if mud clung to his white shirt, his neck cloth slightly askew.
“Mayhap a bath and clean clothes should have taken precedence over this dinner.”
“No, no.” Benji sat a bit taller. “We agreed to have dinner once I returned to town, and I find I’m overly curious about your time without me.”
Andrew had no intention of sharing more than he had to, no talk of flowers or where his mind actually lay. “This and that, all mundane things, I am afraid…but necessary nonetheless.”
He paused when a manservant delivered Benji’s drink and took their meal order.
With a fast tilt of the glass, Benji emptied it. “Another.”
“Are you sure you should not take some time to sleep,” Andrew asked. “Perhaps allow the spirits to leave your system?”
Benji eyed him. “When did you turn into my father?”
“It is just—”
“You have become quite rigid as of late.”
“I most certainly have not,” Andrew said defensively.
“Madame Sasha’s?”
“What about it?”
Benji accepted another drink, but took only a sip this time. “You never would have missed the opportunity before.”
“I told you, I had business matters to attend to.”
“Yes, yes.” Benji waved off his comment, leaning slightly in his chair. “Certainly something that could not be put off. I will say, I will never pass on the chance.”
There was something off about the way his friend spoke, almost as if his life of ease and debauchery had consumed him entirely. Either the man was past exhaustion, or he truly was as drunk as he appeared.
Andrew laughed, in hopes of lightening the dour mood that had settled on this conversation. “I assure you I will not disappoint you again.”
When their meal was set on the table between them, both men hurriedly picked up their silverware. Andrew was mainly focused on getting through the meal before Benji passed out. It was likely his friend hadn’t had time for a decent meal in days.
“Madame Sasha asked about you,” Benji said around a piece of meat in his mouth. “She is worried you have replaced her.”
“I most certainly have—”
“And I am inclined to agree.”
Andrew was at a loss for words. The tenor of their friendship had changed drastically over the last few years, and he seemed unable to alter its course. More and more he’d spent time alone or with his stewards. His evenings about town, visiting Craven House and such, had dwindled to only one or two per month. Frankly, he was shocked Benji hadn’t addressed his lack of attendance long before now.
“Perhaps I do not favor such encounters any longer.” Lorelei immediately sprang to his mind. He realized with something of a start that he would gladly spend every evening in her company for the rest of his years and be perfectly happy.
Benji stared at him as if he’d never seen him before. “That is absurd. What man does not favor an exquisite lady unclothed in his bed?”
Who did not, indeed?
But the only thing that ran through his mind was Lorelei, laid out naked on a bed he knew very well, smiling up at him as he lowered himself atop her.
“Hello?” Benji snapped his fingers before Andrew’s face. “I know I am the one in his cups here, but you seem overly preoccupied.”
“I am.” He shook his head, determined to not let every word remind him of her…and how he longed to see her again. “I should go. I fear I am not the best company tonight.”
“You will desert me?” Benji asked. “It is just as I thought.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You think I cannot tell what is on your mind?” Benji set his fork aside, his plate empty. “You are still thinking of her.”
“That is preposterous.” Andrew sat back, his own meal forgotten. “I have much more on my mind than a mere woman. And what is this talk of deserting you?”
“Simple. One woman comes along, and suddenly, you are canceling plans with me.” He picked up his fork and speared a piece of meat from Andrew’s plate. “The chit is not worth your time—nor my own, for sure.”
Andrew suppressed the instinct to come to Lorelei’s defense. “It did not seem that way the other evening,” he prodded. “Besides which, at some point our family obligations will overtake our friendship...even for you.”
“You foresee a time we will not be as we always have been? And I should not need to remind you that we are the only family either of us have.”
Andrew could not disagree with his friend, but the draw of something more—someone more—was strong. “You are correct. And it is best that we do not overextend ourselves where marriageable women are concerned.”
The men raised their glasses in salute and drank heavily.
“Besides, she would most certainly choose me.” Benji laughed.
“I highly doubt that, but it is good to know we are not in competition for this one.”
“Very true, I find I am uninterested in the girl. I have an aversion to women of a certain height.”
Now it was Andrew’s turn to laugh, the conversation close to old times between the pair. “Oh, you mean she nearly stands above you? I can see how that would be most off-putting for someone of your unnaturally modest stature.”
“It is not I who is short, but she who is exceedingly tall.” Benji kept the jest going. “But even if I do not care, that does not mean you can rush in for the taking.”
“And if I did decide to court Lady Lorelei?” Andrew asked, testing the waters.
“Then I fear it would only cause you upset.” Benji looked over Andrew’s shoulder when the bell above the door rang to welcome another guest. “Ah, I believe we have company that will prove just my point.”
Andrew turned in his seat, making eye contact with a middle-aged man.
He jumped to his feet and navigated the room to greet him. “Good eve, Sir St. Augustin,” Andrew said in greeting. “I do hope the night finds you well.”
The man hit him with a hard stare before responding. “Drake. I see not much has changed since our last encounter.” He nodded toward Benji, who practically lay across the back of the chair Andrew had vacated. “You still consort with the most unsavory characters.”
“Sir—”
“I have told you, do not approach me,” St. Augustin cut him short. “As far as anyone knows, we have never met, nor will we ever.”
“I only seek to learn if she is in good health.”
“You lost the right to ask long ago. Now, let me pass.” The man made to walk on, but Andrew laid his hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Unhand me.”
They stood thus, neither backing down.
When a quiet clapping sounded behind them, Andrew let his hand fall from the man’s shoulder, not wanting to create any more of a spectacle. St. Augustin had every right to despise him. Hell, if their places had been reversed, Andrew would have challenged the man to a duel.
“Drake.” The intensity in St. Augustin’s eyes dared Andrew to cross him once more. “Do not contact my wife or my child. You made your stance very clear years ago. They belong to me, a man worthy of their affection—not a drunken rakehell who gives little thought to others.”
Every word the man said was true, and Andrew could do naught but stand aside and allow him to continue on to his evening’s entertainments.
Lorelei slipped into her coat the moment she entered her waiting carriage. She wrapped the warm material about herself like a cocoon, covering the torn and mud-stained silk of her once-beloved gown. Her fingers touched her throat where her treasured strand of pearls had sat, nestled in the hollow of her neck. They’d been a rare gift from her father during a time of great joy.
Now, they were gone.
“Where to, my lady?” her coachman called from his seat atop the carriage.
“Home, thank you.” She kept her sob at bay long enough to utter the words. At the moment, there was no place farther from her home than her parent’s townhouse. She was unsure if she considered France home either, however.
The sound of the carriage wheels on the cobblestone drive drowned out her heart-wrenching cries as tears streamed down her face, soaking the collar of her fleece. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and sunk further into the velvet, wishing it would swallow her whole and transport her to another place and time.
Time.
Before arriving in England, Lorelei had a sense that life was nothing but time, endless days, months, and years. Enough to do her parents bidding and have a spot of fun playing the spy, with time to spare for a family of her own. Now, everything seemed all too real. She ached to settle in a place long enough to make it her home. And friends—how she wished for time to make genuine friends, people who knew and cared for her.
Now she wondered if there would ever be enough hours, days, years to make herself whole again—pull together what little was left of herself and live: enjoy the sunrise, bask in the glow of the sunset, breathe in clean, fresh air, or feel the grass of a sparse grove beneath her bare feet.
She straightened in the seat, pushing her thoughts of self-pity deep, and brought her hands to her hair. It must look a fright. The drive from Covent Gardens to her townhouse was not more than ten minutes. How long had she pondered fleeing London and leaving her parents behind—along with the weight of the obligations forced upon her by De Pez?
Once again, time was not her friend.
She wiped the condensation from the windowpane and looked out at the passing street.
Two blocks remained.
Which left her precious moments to pull herself together—and prepare to slip unnoticed into the townhouse, same as she’d left earlier. With luck, her parents would still be out for the evening. She need only hold in her misery until she reached the safety of her rooms, then she would give in to her emotions. Her cloak would cover the disaster beneath and hide the dirt that clung to her arms and legs. Her hair could be blamed on Lord Chastain’s eager hands during a sweet farewell kiss.
Her stomach lurched at the thought, recalling his horrid breath and viselike grip on her body. The image of his body pressed against hers for what seemed like an eternity soured her stomach, but could have been no more than mere moments before he’d been frightened off by the passing men. Those mere moments, however, could translate into her failed mission and her family’s certain punishment. If this led to their failure and subsequent penance, then she would never forgive herself.
The moisture of his sickly sweat upon her was a cruel reminder—though she hadn’t forgotten—that she’d tempted a beast, and now must live with the consequences.
Lorelei knew her sacrifices could not be in vain, as if she—her body, her mind, her very soul—did not matter.
Though her virtue was still intact, rage coursed through her at the intended injustice Chastain had planned for her. Why she’d thought meeting him without her parent’s knowledge was a good idea, she did not know.
The carriage door opened, revealing only the hand of the coachman to assist her down. “My lady, we have arrived.”
As she extended her hand to allow the man to help, Lorelei saw the dirt caked under her once well-groomed nails and the smudge of filth marring the back of her delicate hand.
Appalled, she quickly pulled her hand back. “Thank you,” she stuttered, shaken by the sight of herself. “Please precede me in and make sure my maid has prepared my room while I gather my things. I have misplaced my favorite gloves.”
“Of course, my lady.” Without hesitation, he turned from her and moved to the front entrance. The door was opened with a flourish, as only a true English butler could do, and the coachman conferred with the man before returning to his driving box.
The coachman cleared his throat, signaling his desire to depart round to the livery and be done for the evening.
Oh, how she wished unhitching the mares and brushing the sweat from their coats would mark an end to this terrible evening.
But pity was not something she felt for others, and especially did not extend to her own circumstances.
Lorelei raised her hood to cover her mussed hair and departed the carriage, pulling her cloak about her and digging her shaking hands into the deep confines of her fur-lined pockets to hide any further evidence of her disastrous liaison.
She held her head high—she would never hang her head in shame for anyone to see—and took the steps into the thankfully empty grand foyer.
Lorelei breathed a deep sigh of relief the moment she closed the door solidly behind her.
Sending word ahead to Isabelle had been shrewd. Not a soul would intrude upon her until first light on the morrow.
The first thing that greeted her upon entering her bedchamber was the last thing she wanted to see: the beautiful bouquet of flowers from the marquis.
They symbolized everything that would never—could never—be hers. The thought of a husband chosen out of mutual affection, a life full to brimming with the laughter of children, and most of all, a home, a stable place with an open hearth where their peace was never disturbed.
That was never to be.
The shrill pitch of the words in her head should have been enough to force the flowers from their perch on her dressing stand, but they stood still, unaware of the turmoil within the room—within her.
Before she knew what she was doing, she held the large, heavy display in her hands. Her fingers traced the etched glass of the crystal vase. There was little doubt that delicate hands had crafted the vessel.
Delicate hands…
Lorelei once again looked to her own hands. Hands that were once as delicate as those of any London lady, born and raised to be the center of every room they entered. Yet, now she recognized them for what they truly were—cold, mercenary hands that belonged solely to her crown, never herself. They would do any and all that her crown demanded of her.
No part of her was hers to command. But this moment—with the flowers held securely in her hands—was hers.
Rage. Anger. Disappointment. Alienation. Loneliness. Fury. Shame.
She allowed her emotions to take full control and roll through her. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and she hoped numbness to it all would follow.
With little effort—born mostly of her pounding heart and aching soul—the vase flew through the air at the wall above the fireplace that warmed her room. It fell short and shattered when it hit the floor.
Deep down, she knew what her crown would demand of her:
Destroy. Conquer. Accept no resistance.
Glass splinters flew in every direction. The glow from the many candles placed around the room glinted off shards of razor-sharp crystal.
Her legs grew weak beneath her when the intense emotions continued to course through her, having not been dispelled as easily as she had hoped.
How dare the Marquis of Drake offer her any hope of a future—especially the future she dreamed of.
