The Love List (2 page)

She glanced up.  The marquess was a handsome man, in a hard way.  Tight and controlled, he boasted a trim figure and a full head of dark hair.  Tonight he wore it slicked back from his face.  A mistake, she thought.  The harsh style served to emphasize the only soft thing about him; the first, slight sign of heavy jowls, emerging from the deeply rutted lines bracketing his mouth.  She wondered if this one weakness vexed him, when he gazed in the mirror every morning. 

The thought of her every morning spent in his company brought her mind back around to Lady Tillney’s words.  “My lord,” she asked suddenly.  “What is your opinion on women and charitable pursuits?”

He sighed.  Just an infinitesimal exhalation, really, but somehow she knew it contained all the exasperation of one of Lady Tillney’s tirades.  “Since you ask, I’m assuming it means more to you than a means to agitate your chaperone.”  He did not look at her as he spoke.  “Your father encourages such activity, I understand, but after we wed you will have little time for that sort of thing.”

There were several shocks contained in that short answer.  She chose the obvious one to address first.  “Why won’t I?” she asked.

Marstoke stopped in front of a pair of heavily carved doors.  “Your life will be very different.  Your first duty will lie with me.”  He pushed the doors open.  “In here,” he ordered.

It was a library, only dimly lit.  The marquess dropped Brynne’s arm and crossed to a well-stocked side table.  After sorting through several decanters he poured himself a drink.  He did not offer to pour one for her.

“I wish to speak with you about Lady Hertford’s gathering,” he said without preamble.  “There is something I wish you to do for me.”

Indignation began to outweigh Brynne’s nerves.  “Actually, I thought to attend Mrs. Montague’s musicale, instead.  With so many of the
ton
heading for Paris, she’ll be lacking donors.  I—”

“No.”

Brynne blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“No.  You’ll attend Lady Hertford’s.”  He still had not looked directly at her.  Taking his drink, he crossed to the window and rocked back on his heels.  “Listen closely.  When you are presented to Catherine, the Grand Duchess, I want you to turn the conversation to the sad plight of the Princess of Wales.  Spin the tragic tale of her husband’s neglect, of his persecution of her in the papers, of her limited access to her daughter, and her near isolation.”

She could feel the color climbing into her cheeks.  Fleetingly, she wished she were one of those ladies who looked stormy and ravishing when they grew angry.  She only got blotchy—but at this moment she didn’t give a damn.  Through the rush of blood pounding in her ear, she heard her mother’s lilting voice. 
Begin as you mean to go on
.

She raised her chin.  “I’m sorry,” she said to Marstoke’s back.  “I’ve made a promise.  I mean to keep it.  I shall go to Mrs. Montague’s.”

He stiffened.  With calm precision he set down his drink and turned to face her.  The unyielding set of his jaw made her question her mother’s wisdom.  She was struck with the sudden fear that perhaps Lord Marstoke’s mother had taught him the same lesson.

“You little fool.”  He said it with mild amusement, an adult indulging the antics of a child.  “You will do as you are told.  And I am telling you to turn the conversation to the Princess.  How misused and neglected she has been at the hands of her husband, how all the sympathy of the people lies with her . . .”

He continued, and his eyes burned into hers, still strangely empty and faraway.  She couldn’t look away.  Yet neither could she just give in.  “I’m not a child.  I won’t be ordered about.”

And there it was; the first trace of true emotion she’d caught him in.  A hint of excitement, made ugly by the glint in his eye and the slow stretch of a malicious smile over his face.  “Of course you will.  Do you not understand your role in this game, my dear?” 

“I wasn’t aware that we were engaged in a
game
.”

The smile grew.  “Oh, but we are.  All of us.  But you are not to worry.  You are not yet fit to be a player.  Right now you are a mere commodity.  Goods—bought and paid for.  Mine in every way, to do with as I wish.”

Brynne had to fight the urge to run, as far and as fast as her legs could carry her, away from the marquess—and this betrothal.  But some instinct told that that retreat would be the worst move she could make.  Instead, she narrowed her eyes.  “What is it that you wish?  Beyond my attendance at Lady Hertford’s, of course.”

He paused.  It was clear that her impudence pulled him between annoyance and approval.  At last, he chuckled.  “I wish to train you up, child.  Make a player of you.  I shall be your guide, but you have much to learn before you are ready to enter this particular game.”  He indulged in a leisurely perusal of her person that set her to shivering.  “You will resist at first.”  His voice sounded light, eager.  “But I see the greatest potential in you.  You have a different sort of mind, my dear.  Your father may be a fool, but he did well with you.  Not many girls are taught to see the greater picture.”

Brynne took a short step back.  The picture she was beginning to see here was not a pretty one.

But Marstoke was still speaking, almost to himself now, it seemed.  “Oh, and I shall show you worlds upon worlds that you have never seen, never dreamed existed.  You must go through the forge first, of course.”  He lifted his drink again.  She could see his fingers tightening around the glass.  “Only through fire and flames are great weapons made—and you shall be the most splendid of my creations.  Such grand scheming, I foresee, and it sets me aflame.”  His breath hitched.  “And in the meantime . . . ” He paused, and Brynne saw the effort he made to pull back into his usual detachment.  “No, no.  It’s too soon for that.”

“For what?” she asked, suddenly afraid.  The hubbub—and safety—of the ballroom felt very far away.

But he had raised his glass high.  “Or is it?” he asked.  For a long moment, he stood, staring at the liquor as if it held the answer to his question.  His voice had gone distant, his eyes unfocused.  It was clear that he was not addressing her. 

“It would be different, would it not?” he mused.  “And delicious.  What if the innocent did know—this one time—what her future held?”  His gaze pierced her, unseeing.  “What would she feel, standing in the church, at the altar,
knowing
that she was selling her soul?”  His breath began to come a little faster.  “Yes,” he breathed.  “This is the culmination of all that came before.  It deserves something special.  I like the notion.  Both of us, side by side before God, fully aware of what lies in store for her.”

He blinked and suddenly focused on her.  Brynne’s heartbeat ratcheted. 

“Very well,” he said briskly.  “We shall make adjustments.”  He moved away from her, stopping to stand next to a padded leather chair.  “The first thing you must know is that your father is as thoroughly mine as you are.” 

She frowned.  “Excuse me?”

He shot her an unpleasant grin.  “It was simple enough.  I have swallowed his past sins for him and showed him the path to the shining future he craves.”

She shook her head, took a step backwards.  “You speak in riddles.  What are you talking about?”

“Only one irrefutable fact—you are a caged bird, my dear, with nowhere to fly.  And the second thing you must learn is that you are not to question, but only to obey.”  He beckoned, pointing to the spot in front of the chair.  “Come here.”

She stared.  He met her gaze easily, his own gone dark.  She couldn’t see what he meant to do and she couldn’t coax her voice above a whisper.  “I’m returning to Lady Tillney now.”  She turned to flee for the door.

He was on her before she’d taken more than a couple of steps, his cruel fingers biting into her arm.  “You will obey the first time, every time,” he exhaled harshly in her ear.  Dragging her to the spot he’d indicated, he let her loose and positioned himself between her and the chair.  “Take down your bodice and remove your stays,” he ordered.  “I wish to see what I’ve purchased.”

Brynne gasped and stepped back.  “If you meant to scare me, my lord, then you’ve done so.  I wish to return to my chaperone.”

His arm was a blur of motion, the slap a cruel shock that came from nowhere.  The force of it sent Brynne stumbling.  She nearly fell to her knees.

“You will do as you are told.”  The ugly exhilaration was back, alive in the shine of his eyes.

Brynne cradled her aching jaw with one hand and fisted the other.  An odd sense of unreality drifted over her.  Surely this was not happening.  “You’ve gone mad,” she whispered.

Marstoke smiled.

It woke her up, that smile.  She was gone before he reached for her.  His first swipe missed, but he was quickly after her.  This time she nearly made it to the door. 

“You will be my greatest experiment, my most thorough victory over innocence.”  His harsh breath bathed her neck as he embraced her from behind.  “Disrobing is the least what you will do for me.”  His pinched her breast cruelly, then brushed his hand lower, over her belly and beyond.  “You will spread your legs when I ask, where I ask.  Noncompliance will be met with the greatest pain and humiliation.  There will be others, in my bed and yours, and if you are very well behaved then you may be allowed to strike instead of being struck.” 

“Let me go!”  Her frantic sobs echoed in the empty silence of the room.  He wrapped one arm tightly around her; the other gripped the shallow bodice of her gown.  The sudden rending noise of ripped fabric joined the sound of her tears.

She couldn’t get away.  Panic swamped her, and a terrible fury.  Her arms were pinned.  She turned her head and bit down as hard as she could, sinking her teeth through layers of fabric, praying she could reach the flesh of his upper arm. 

He let out a curse and cuffed her a great blow on the side of her head.  Ringing filled her ears.  The edges of her vision blurred and began to fade.

* * *

Nathan Alexander Wardham Russell—better known as the reclusive Duke of Aldmere to the houseful of Lady Dalton’s guests—wound his way impatiently through the throng.  He was in no mood for frivolity tonight, and he was never in the mood for the sort of bootlicking he invariably encountered at events like these.  He felt at once worn down and riled up—and he wished like hell that he were in his study right now, ensconced before a warm fire with a strong drink.

But it was not to be.  Aldmere fought his way through the close-packed jungle of muslin and silk, cursing the Marquess of Marstoke for being difficult to find and his own brother for being difficult in general—and for adding
nursemaid
to his already substantial list of duties.

He was making his way to the library, a location he’d had to drag from a footman, and one given with much eye rolling and facial twitching.  Whatever Marstoke was up to, news of it had reached the servants’ network of gossip.

His pace slowed as he headed toward the back of the house.  This damned situation was sticky enough.  If Marstoke had come back here for a tryst, interrupting it wasn’t going to help his cause.  At the pair of ornate doors, he paused.  Good God.  He breathed deep and reached for patience. 

Every man-jack at the party behind him likely envied him his title, his money and his position.  He wasn’t a fool.  He understood what a privilege it was to possess so much power and wealth and security.  But he hadn’t been born to it, and it hadn’t been given freely.  Just once he’d like to shock the hell out of them; to stand up and enumerate all the things he’d had to give up in exchange. 

He pushed open the door.  The large room was barely lit.  Shadows pushed in from the corners, but a few objects stood out from the gloom; a row of sparkling decanters, the dull shine of the frame holding a massive globe—and the Marquess of Marstoke, entwined around an obviously unwilling girl.

Disgust twisted in his gut.  From behind him drifted the faint, happy sounds of the ball, but this room only echoed with harsh whispers and increasingly desperate sobs.  He’d heard a few rumors about the marquess, spoken among men when they were alone, but this . . .  He stepped forward as the girl twisted frantically in her effort to escape.  Suddenly Marstoke reached up and struck her hard upon the side of her head.

Aldmere deliberately pushed the door hard, letting it swing back until it struck a small table with a resounding thud.  “I do hope I’m interrupting.”

Both figures froze.

“Stop playing with the girl, Marstoke.”  He made it into a dispassionate order that filled the vastness of the library.  “We’ve business to discuss.”

Surprise unsettled the marquess but for a second—and the girl took full advantage.  She jerked free and bolted for the door, head down and moving at top speed.  She hit him at a dead run—and nearly bounced off of him at impact.  He reached out to steady her.

And dropped his hands quickly, like he’d touched fire.  This was no hapless serving girl that Marstoke was molesting, but a young lady of quality.

Her hair gleamed, blacker than the darkest night collected in the corners of the room, but somehow also outshining the glittering embroidery of her gown.  Flushed and a little damp, she panted heavily while glaring at him out of shockingly light green eyes. 

Aldmere opened his palm, stretched his fingers, expecting a burn after the sacrilege of laying his hands on a girl like this.  He wondered at Marstoke even as he admired the young lady’s spirit. 

All of the balances of power shifted in the room, the ripples almost visible in the air as the three of them stood frozen.  Aldmere entertained the fleeting thought of retreat, of rallying for a more advantageous moment, but they caught him, those eyes.  He was held in check while she breathed fury and contempt at him.  A dozen sorts of trouble, this one—and each one cloaked in beauty.

“Easy,” he whispered, because she needed soothing, and reassurance.  He reached for her again.  “It’s fine.  You’re safe now.”

She stepped back, clearly afraid—but defiant as well.  “Don’t touch me,” she snarled. 

He shifted, uncomfortable.  There was something wrong with a world that caused a mouth like that to twist so.  A small mouth, but lush and perfectly shaped.  It was a kiss waiting to happen.  Or so he might be tempted to think, under less tawdry circumstances