Only Marriage Will Do (30 page)

He set the glass down, then turned back to her. He cupped her face, wiped away a tear she had not realized she shed. “Do not fear me, petite. I am well skilled in the arts of love and I can be kind. Do you want me to be kind, Juliet?”

She gazed up at him, unable to acknowledge or answer.

He drew her head toward him and though she tried to resist, there was no contest. As she had told Amiable, he was deceptively strong. His lips brushed hers, the barest touch of skin, but still it sent an overwhelming disgust through her.

To her relief he stepped back, his head cocked to one side, considering her. The cruel smile had returned, she noted, and her stomach did a sickening twist. She waited. Dreading.

“So, ma petite, your husband wishes to see his bride, adorned as nature made her.” He spoke in that horrible soft voice, his gaze everywhere on her.

Her stomach twisted. He wanted to see her without…She shook her head and tried to cover herself as though her clothes had already vanished. “No, Philippe. You cannot ask me…”

“I do not ask
chérie
. I command. And it is a wife’s duty to obey,
n’est pas
?”

She could see how much he enjoyed her reluctance. “No, Philippe,” she said, firmer this time. “I will not disrobe…”

The right side of her face exploded in pain. The force of the blow sent her stumbling into the bed. She gasped at the fiery ache and clutched her cheek and jaw. With deliberate movements she got to her feet and turned warily back to St. Cyr.

He stood in the same position, the cruel smile even wider. “The next blow will be to your belly, Juliet. Are your clothes truly so important?”

Every ounce of fight drained out of her. She shook her head and swiftly unpinned her bodice, tears trickling down her face. Ignoring them, she tossed the stomacher on the floor and slid the arms of her gown off her shoulders. She must protect Amiable’s child at all costs. Whatever Philippe wanted her to do, she would do to survive. As long as her child did.

The gown dropped to the floor and she stood before him in stays, hoops, and shift. She gazed at him and found triumph and desire mingled in his eyes. She sighed and bent her head to release the hoop petticoat. When it dropped she raised her head. “You will have to unlace the stays.” Her voice sounded odd to her ears, matter of fact. “The strings are at the back.”

“Of course,
ma petite
. It will be my pleasure.”

She turned her back to him, trying not to cringe as he unlaced her. The corset, lightly laced in consideration of her pregnancy, loosened with one tug of the strings. Before it could slide down over her belly, his hands came around her, cupping her breasts through her shift. She gasped and swallowed hard, fighting the nausea his touch produced.

Even worse, to her horror, her body played traitor. As Philippe stroked and rolled her nipples, they hardened into tight peaks, uncontrollable and wanton. The first betrayal of Amiable. Tears rolled faster, wetting her cheeks.

“Ah, Juliet. Now I begin to see what I have been deprived of,
chérie
.” He pushed his hips against her, his hard shaft prodding between her buttocks. He grazed her neck with his lips and squeezed her nipples until she bit back a moan of pain and misery.

“Continue now,
petite
. I cannot wait to see you gloriously
naturelle
.” He removed his hands and stepped away from her.

Her stays had dropped away, so nothing remained but her shift and stockings to cover her. She raised her head, drawing on an inner strength she had never tapped before. To allow him to see her agony would only feed his pleasure. That she refused to do. Desolate but determined, Juliet tugged the drawstring at the neckline loose and pushed the garment off her shoulders. She turned to face him, her heart racing, the soft linen clutched to her breasts.

“Release it,
ma chère
. Show your husband your ultimate beauty.”

Head high, with a defiant toss, she opened her hand and the garment slithered to the floor. She fought the urge to cover herself and met his gaze. Pray God she radiated cold.

A leap of fire flared in his dark eyes. Unmistakable desire followed as his gaze swept her body from her small leather slippers to her hot face.

He stepped in close, stroking her bare flesh, raising goose bumps wherever his fingers wandered, as though her skin wanted to crawl off her body. Shoulders, breasts, waist, hips. His hands claimed every vulnerable part of her. Except her belly. Small consolation, but she rejoiced that the child she carried had not been sullied by his touch.

“You make me hungry,
ma petite
.” He growled in her ear and she flinched. “Very hungry.” His lips slid silkily along her shoulder and up her neck. “Climb onto the bed and I will join you in a moment.” She hesitated but a second and the command returned to his voice. “Now, Juliet.”

Steeling herself for the rest of this ordeal, she kicked off her shoes and climbed up the two steps to the high bed. From her position on the brown silk comforter, she watched him disrobe. Willed herself to find a detachment to allow her to submit to him. She must submit or risk her child.

He’d already stripped down to his shirt and breeches. She could understand, perhaps, how she had wanted him two years ago. His manners, his dress, his continental elegance had been seductive. As seductive as his body had been, well defined and muscular, not fat or flabby. If only he had not hurt her before. If only there had not been Amiable.

No. She closed her eyes and forced his image out of her head. She could not bear to think of Amiable and endure whatever indignities Philippe had in store for her. With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Philippe had removed his breeches. She braced herself so she would not appear shocked at the sight of his naked body. Very male and very aroused. A sight she could have done without.

He grinned at her apparent interest and sauntered over to the bed. He climbed up beside her, stroked her cheek with one finger. “You see,
petite
, marriage to me will not be so bad. We will find pleasure in each other.” His finger strayed down her shoulder and over her breast. “As long as you do what I say. Remember that and you will soon forget everything else.
Oui, ma petite
?”

His mouth pressed hers again and he thrust his tongue inside, stroking her tongue. She forced herself to lay passive. Let him do what he would. It was the only way to survive. For the baby. For their baby. For Amiable’s baby. Perhaps this litany would help her endure him. She did not have the strength or the will to refuse him, not if in turn he would harm her child. There were worse things he could do to her, she persuaded herself as he rose above her. He slid his hand down the seam of her thighs, pushed it between them to part her legs. Tears wetted her cheeks again.

Surely there were worse things.

The doorframe of Morehouse pressed into his gut, keeping Amiable upright as St. Cyr’s carriage disappeared into the darkness. Anguish ripped through him, body and soul pulsing with the torment. Would he never see Juliet again? Never gaze into her beautiful face? Or that of their child?

No. He could not accept such a cruel fate. She belonged to him and no one else. Especially not Viscount St. Cyr. He straightened and rushed back into Morehouse. Battle mode rose to the fore. First order—track her, a skill he had honed in the colonies.

“George, Thomas, John.” He shouted and his footmen came running. “George. Out the door now, follow the carriage. Don’t let it out of your sight but don’t let them see you. Now, man.”

The lanky fellow asked no questions but flew out the door.

“Thomas, John. Follow George. Thomas, catch up to him. When the carriage stops, tell George to stay there. Find out the address and then you double back. I’ll meet you along the way and you can give me the direction.” He turned to the last footman as Thomas scurried after George, “John, whenever you come to a crossroads, drop several of these on the street where the carriage turned.” Amiable seized a plateful of small cakes from a refreshment table and thrust them at the footmen. “Now go, find George.”

He looked around for another servant to send to the stable.

Dalbury materialized and pulled him back into the small receiving room. The marquess’s face seemed like a death mask. He had furrowed his brows into a deep V and drawn his mouth into a tight white-lipped line. The three scars on his cheek stood in starker relief than usual, now angry red slashes that pulsed with each step he took. He paced the length of the room, a tumbler of brandy in his hand.

Before Amiable could utter a word, Katarina entered.

“I’ve had them saddle your horse. They’re bringing him around now.”

“You’d have made a grand lieutenant, Katarina.” He embraced her in a fierce, brief hug, then fell into step with his brother-in-law. “Is everyone leaving?”

“God, no.” Katarina shook her head and took Amiable’s arm. “The hint of a scandal will keep them here for hours.” Her brow puckered. “Do you think you will find her?”

“I will. I’ve used this method before. If the footmen are quick enough, I’ll be able to track her. Once I find her, the challenge begins, however. I’ve nowhere to hide her until we can get that blasted marriage annulled. I suppose if worse came to worse I could take her abroad.”

“You can take my ship.” Dalbury’s face lit with excitement then fell. “Except the crew has been dismissed. Damn. But you could take passage on another.”

“Takes too much time to arrange.” Katarina shook her head. “As will any travel plans to a destination outside the city for a woman who is increasing. You need a safe haven close by.” She stood still, her eyes with a faraway look to them.

Dalbury snatched Amiable’s arm out of her grasp and propelled him toward the front door. “Ride swiftly if you want to save my sister from that fiend. I don’t trust him not to hurt her, pregnant or not.”

Amiable’s strides took him outside into the damp cold in three paces. “Where is my blasted horse?” He peered into the darkness. “Do you know where St. Cyr lives?”

“No, I have never been able to discover his lodgings. He may change them frequently. It’s very easy to lose oneself in London if one does not wish to be found.” Dalbury scowled. “I thought I might as well ask tonight, but of course he wouldn’t reveal that information at such a crucial time. Here is your Vociferous now.” He nodded toward the sound of crunching gravel.

Thank God. Amiable jumped into the saddle, ready to set his heel into the horse’s flank but checked his headlong flight as Katarina ran out into the driveway.

“I’ve thought of a place, Amiable. A place she will be safe and hidden and no one will know.”

He leaned down from the horse.

She whispered in his ear. “Send her here.”

He straightened in the saddle and looked at her quizzically. The address meant nothing to him.

“Trust me. And tell her to give them this.” She thrust a folded note sealed with blue wax into his hands.

No time to lose. He tucked it into his pocket and nodded, still bewildered, then spurred the big stallion into the darkness of the London night.

“Find her, Amiable,” his brother-in-law called. “We will await word here.”

Amiable had to circle the inky streets outside Morehouse twice to find the first cakes, but spied them at last at the corner of Wigmore Street. By the direction of the string of pastries, the carriage must have headed north along Gloucester Place.

He tapped Vociferous and they shot down the darkened road to the left, searching for more crumbs that would lead him to Juliet. It seemed an age until he spotted another one.

The carriage had turned onto Marleybone.

A touch of his heel and the horse veered to the right. He growled with impatience as the streets twisted throughout the city of London. Time was the enemy. Visions of St. Cyr and Juliet, alone, in a bedchamber played in his head like a Drury Street tragedy.

If—no, no—when he found her, what if it was too late? Amiable steeled himself for the inevitability. He had no illusions that St. Cyr would not claim his rights as husband as soon as possible. So the viscount would have to die.

Preoccupied with these thoughts of vengeance, he almost passed the two footmen before one of them hailed him. Amiable pulled his mount up too sharply and the horse reared and sidled. He brought the animal under control and called out, “Ho, what news?”

The footmen kept their distance from the prancing horse but Thomas managed to relay his message. “The carriage stopped at 18 Fenchurch Street, my lord.”

“Excellent, lad. Do you know how far from here? Where’s here?” Amiable peered around him, but the dark residential housing and lack of traffic on the streets told him nothing.

John spoke up, still clutching the remaining cakes. “The carriage turned east onto Holborn Street from here, Mr. Morley. I don’t think Fenchurch Street is far from here. Me sister went into service in Cheapside an’ that’s right next to Fenchurch. Just keep on this road, sir. An’ good luck.”

Amiable sped away down the narrow, dark lane. The clock in a nearby church tolled the hour—twelve chimes proclaimed it Christmas Day. Pray God it turned into a happy one.

The lack of traffic persuaded him to greater speed, so he flew through Cheapside, urged on by gruesome thoughts of what might be transpiring with Juliet. He pulled his mount up when he spied George, stationed at the turn into Fenchurch Street. Amiable motioned him to lead him to the house. He might have use of the lad.

The two-story house at 18 Fenchurch Street seemed typical for the neighborhood with one exception. All the neighboring houses were dark. At number 18, however, a bright light shone in a room on the second story overlooking the alleyway to the side of the house. With caution, Amiable scouted the residence, leaving the horse in the care of the footman with instructions to keep him quiet.

Stealthily, he approached the back entry, tried the door, but found it locked. Stifling a curse, he moved to the adjacent window that overlooked the back stoop. A soft prayer of thanksgiving escaped his lips as the sash moved. He eased it open and crawled through.