Lord Ruin (14 page)

“Lively, my sweet. Merely lively.” Again, his eyes swept her. “Honestly, of all the lovely bits here tonight, you are the morsel I should most love to sample.” He stood close. Far too close. Instinctively she put a hand on his midriff.

“You have drunk too much, my lord. You are not in your right mind.”

The boyish smile reappeared. “Oh, I dare say I am very much in my right mind.”

“Let me go.”

“There’s a love.” He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She reacted on instinct. Her palm connected sharply with his cheek, and his head snapped back. “Why, damn you!” He touched his face, red where her fingers had landed.

Now that it was too late to take it back, she wished she’d not done it. “Forgive me.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said, easing back, though not enough for her to walk away.

“As a matter of fact, sir, you did.” She tried to slide past him, but his hand shot out, grasping the nape of her neck and trapping her between him and the door. “My lord. Please. Let me pass.” She pushed again, but he didn’t budge. “Lord Wilberfoss!”

His fingers brushed over her breast. “Luscious.”

She rationalized what he was doing. He didn’t mean it. Or else he did not understand that she objected. Somehow, she’d not managed to make herself clear to him. “Please,” she said in her most reasonable tone. “Let me go. You must let me go.”

“I think not.” He pressed her hard against the door, hard enough that she felt his aroused state.

“Let me go,” she said, still not able to believe she might actually be in danger. “Please. You must let me go.”

“Don’t be difficult.” He addressed her bosom. “God, but I want a mouthful of you.” She shrieked when he kissed her there and pushed his shoulders hard enough and unexpectedly enough that he stumbled back. She darted past, but he swung around, stopping her with a hand on her wrist. He gave a good-natured grin and tightened his fingers. “God knows why he wants another woman when he’s got you.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“You make even her seem positively spindle-shanked.” He dragged her closer, and she could do nothing to stop him.

“My Lord Wilberfoss. I said, you’re hurting me.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Am I? Do forgive me.” His fingers dug into her wrist.

Under no illusion now of his bad intentions—whatever the motivation—she struggled to free herself before he overpowered her. He now held her so tightly that she bent slowly to the pain. Catching at her neckline, he said, “They’re the prettiest I’ve seen for ages.”

“My lord.” She tugged on her wrist. Fear shot through her when he thrust his fingers down the front of her gown. “Please. Stop.”

“Stand up.” He hauled her to her feet. She lifted a palm to slap him again, but this time he was prepared, and he caught her other wrist. With a forward lunge, he pinned her between him and the wall. “No more coy nonsense. I don’t like it. A husband’s got to expect these things when he neglects his lovely young bride.” Though she tried, she could not avoid his roving hands. Disbelief warred with outrage. She did not want to accept what Wilberfoss was doing, she kept thinking that any moment he would come to his senses and stop. But he didn’t. “Stop wriggling about. Damn me if you ain’t teasing me! I tell you, I don’t like it.”

“Stop this,” she cried. “Stop this moment.” Frantic, she struggled, but his grip on her tightened. Panic took over completely. She shouted. “Cynssyr!”

“What will you tell him if he comes?” Holding her tight against him, he brayed with laughter. “That you’re a deceitful little bitch?”

She tried to kick him but missed badly.

“Why, you little bit of skirt!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the closed door hard enough to dislodge a nearby painting from its mooring. Her head snapped back and hit the wall, stunning her. Drunk he surely was, but he still outweighed her, and Anne could do nothing to stop him. Reaching around her, he opened the door. The sudden lack of support unbalanced them both. She stumbled, but kept her feet. Wilberfoss fell hard.

Terror gave her speed she didn’t know she possessed. She bolted. But the blow to her head slowed her reflexes. He caught her only steps from the ballroom, spinning her around and holding her tightly, face to face. His hand over her mouth kept her from calling for help.

“Quiet!” he hissed. Drink was strong on his breath. “Someone will hear you. Do you want to rouse the household?”

She kicked out, and this time she connected with his shin. He was not, thank goodness, wearing boots that might have protected him.

“Damn you!”

His grip on her loosened, and she bolted again. Wilberfoss followed, letting out a shout of outrage. His fingers just caught her sleeve. She jerked. The fabric tore, and she was free and dashing into the ballroom. As luck would have it, she careened into Henry, the postilion who had, for the evening, been cast in the role of footman. For all his hulking size, Henry was the sweetest, gentlest man she knew. Fortunately, Wilberfoss didn’t know that.

The footman caught her shoulders but released her as if he’d been burned. “Here now, Madam Duchess!”

“Henry.” Her heart pounded and though her knees felt like water she wanted to run and keep running. She glanced behind her. Wilberfoss took three steps more, saw Henry and skidded to a stop. She turned back and grabbed the servant’s hand. “Have you seen the duke?” In her moment of terror, when she’d believed Wilberfoss would overpower her, she’d called for Cynssyr. That fact stayed in her head and refused to leave.

“Yes, Madam Duchess.” Henry essayed a bow as he pulled at his forelock, or where his forelock would have been had he not been wearing a powdered wig.

“Where?”

“The French Parlor, Madam Duchess.”

“Show me the way, if you please.”

“Such a large house, Madam Duchess,” he said, taking such deliberate and careful steps she wanted to scream for him to hurry. It wasn’t a royal procession, for heaven’s sake. “It’s no wonder a body gets lost. Why, I once was lost nearly a week ‘tween the kitchen and the scullery. Here we are.”

“Thank you.”

Blocking her way, Henry harrumphed loudly and tapped on the door. “Your grace?” he called out.

Anne reached around him and opened the door, walking in without waiting for an answer to Henry’s announcement. This was one of the more intimate parlors, her favorite because of the shades of damask rose and heather. Lord, she was shaking still from her encounter with Wilberfoss. Please, she thought, let Cynssyr be there. She wanted him to hold her. To tell her all was well. She needed him.

He stood by the sofa, straightening his coat. She had the impression he had just risen.

“Anne.”

“A word, sir.”

Cynssyr nodded toward the door. “You may go, Henry.”

Now that she stood confronted with her stern, too somber husband, she didn’t know how to start, how to tell him that Wilberfoss had frightened her, or how badly she wanted him to reassure her, like one of those armor-clad ancestors of his might once have done for his lady.

His eyebrows shot up. “Yes?”

She took a steadying breath against tears. “Do not think for one moment, sir—” She covered a sob with a breathless hiccup. “Do not think my sister will ever marry Lord Wilberfoss.” She wished she had her spectacles. Not being able to see put her at a serious disadvantage.

“Doubtless you are right.”

She recalled the viscount’s groping hands on her, the stink of alcohol on his breath. “I will do everything I can to prevent it.”

“We will talk of this later, Anne.”

She moved toward him because she wasn’t close enough to see his face, coming farther in so as to stand between him and the sofa. She got herself under control. “He’s a drunkard, sir,” she said in a low, fierce voice mercifully free of quaver, “who I have had the misfortune to discover becomes violent when under the influence of spirits.” On the verge of tears, she stood clenching her hands and then lost the fight not to throw herself into his arms. She stepped toward him. Someone coughed. She turned.

Mrs. Forrest reclined on the sofa, one pretty foot dangling toward the floor, looking very much like a woman who has just enjoyed the embrace of her lover.

Anne backed away from the sofa. “Forgive me, Cynssyr. I did not know you had company.” She had every reason to expect this of Cynssyr, so she didn’t understand why the sight of them together felt like a dagger to the heart.

“Perhaps in future you will wait for an invitation to enter,” he said irritably. Nothing in his expression betrayed the slightest guilt for being closeted with another woman. This woman. One of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen in her life.

Eyes on Cynssyr, Mrs. Forrest stroked the rubies around her throat, awaiting her cue. Anne understood now why Thrale had refused to introduce her. He’d tried to warn her. What must everyone think to see Cynssyr’s mistress here? At a ball in honor of his bride. Cynssyr’s arms remained crossed over his chest. What he thought was anybody’s guess.

Mrs. Forrest laughed, a sound of tinkling crystal, pure and insufferably delicate. “Cyn was just telling me how highly he thinks of you, Duchess.” Slowly, she sat, making a great show of rearranging her gown. She had the grace to look at least a little uncomfortable. “Had I known an ability to do sums would so impress him, I would have paid more attention to my governess.”

“Katie.”

She’d counted on finding him alone, on being able to tell him what had happened, on having his advice. Perhaps even his sympathy. Instead, he was vexed, and she was humiliated. Emotion threatened to choke her. She, stupid, besotted woman that she was, had refused to hear anyone’s warnings. “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” Anne said, backing away. Oh, good gracious. She was going to be ill. She looked around for one of Merchant’s basins, praying she would not embarrass herself further. The basin sat discreetly in a corner, and Cynssyr stood between her and complete disgrace.

Seeing the direction of Anne’s gaze, his eyebrows lifted. “Perhaps, Katie, you will give me a moment alone with my wife.”

“Of course.”

Anne’s stomach turned inside-out. Only Cynssyr’s quick reaction saved the lovely carpet. “Poor wee wren,” he whispered.

“So,” came the woman’s soft voice.

She felt him stroking her back while she bent over the basin, embarrassed, ashamed and too sick to care. Her stomach heaved again. “Darling,” he said gently. Not to her, to Mrs. Forrest. “Ring for a servant.”

Silk rustled, then all was quiet but for the sound of Anne sniffling.

“Congratulations, Ruan.”

“Thank you. Leave us now.”

The servant came, saw immediately the problem and took away the basin without a word. Anne sat on a chair, miserable to her core while Ruan went to the door. He returned with a glass of punch. “A sip only.”

She pushed away the glass when she’d had enough to wash out the taste of bile. “Thank you, sir.” She wanted to scream. To scratch out his eyes. She wanted to run away and never see anyone again. Of course she did none of those things.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“Now, Anne,” he said gently. “Exactly what did you mean with that outburst about Wilberfoss?”

“She’s in love with you.”

He replied with a shrug that could have meant anything at all. He knew. He didn’t know. Or he just didn’t care.

“She’s so small. Fragile and beautiful. It’s a wonder you don’t worry you’ll break her.” She left her chair because Cynssyr was too close, and she could not concentrate on anything but him. A book lay on a small cherry table, and she opened it, flipping pages. None of the words made any sense. Her husband and his mistress. “I had no idea. She must think me a perfect fool, walking in on you like that, and you, too. Everyone must. I’m not used to how things are done in society. What a fool I am. I just wouldn’t see it.” Oh, for heaven’s sake. The book was in Latin. No wonder she couldn’t make sense of it.

Ruan gave her an odd look. “She has her congé from me, Anne.”

Out of habit, she touched her nose. Her spectacles were not there which briefly disconcerted her. “What on earth for?”

“She has bored me, and I dismissed her.”

“Her? Bored you?” Tension coiled heavily in her chest, a threat of tears, but she ignored it. It was never very pleasant to know one’s been made to look foolish. “That hardly seems possible.”

“Nevertheless.”

She looked into his face, that lovely, beautifully masculine face and remembered what Thrale had told her. “It’s all right.” But it wasn’t. Not really. “I understand you need a diversion from everyday dullness.”

“Diversion?” One mahogany eyebrow arched. “No. Not a diversion this time.”

“It’s all right. Honestly, it is.” Her heart contracted. She told herself to be grateful for the reaction, for it meant she would be protected in the future. Better a mild hurt now than a worse one later.

“Mrs. Forrest is in my past, Anne. And there she shall stay.” He sighed. “I should like to know why you came in here.” He went to her and took her by the shoulders. The contact rocked her, for she felt the difference between what happened to her when Cynssyr touched her and when it was Wilberfoss. That same shivery apprehension, but with her husband, it wasn’t sick-making. The feeling still frightened her, but not at all in the same way as with the viscount. With effort, she reined in the reaction.

“What did Wilberfoss do or say to disturb you? The truth, for I know you would not be angry or upset without cause.” He thought that damn dress of hers fit too well. It hugged her bosom, clung to her thighs and knees, and distracted him from what she was telling him.

“He . . . he, he is no fit husband for Emily.”

Ruan frowned. Normally, Anne kept iron control of her emotions, but now he sensed a crack. Tempered steel taken beyond that metal’s endurance. Even considering she’d just been ill, she was too pale. Her fingers worked nervously at a seam of her gown. Undoubtedly, something had happened, and she was keeping it bottled up inside like she did so much else. “If you wish me to keep Emily and Wilberfoss apart, I will.”

Her chin lifted and a bit of her spirit flashed in her eyes. “Would you do such a thing? Could you?”

“Yes.”

Anger tightened her mouth. “Then do it. Do whatever it takes.”

He nodded. “Consider it done. But, Anne, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask why.”

“No,” she whispered, looking at the floor. Her fingers resumed their worrying of the seam. “It’s not.”

He saw the torn lace of her sleeve and did not at all like the way the puzzle came together. Not a small tear such as one might easily get by accident, but practically a rend. He felt himself go dead inside. “Did he make an advance?” He needed that deadness to keep the rage from overwhelming him. Had he ever been so murderously angry in his life? Indeed, how long had it been since he’d felt anything as deeply as this?

She kept her head bowed, refusing to look at him.

“Did he?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?” He put a hand to her chin and lifted her head, waiting patiently until she met his gaze. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but he could see the effort it took her to maintain her composure. “He’s a boy,” he growled. “A harmless boy. Damnation, Anne. Tell me what happened.” Her inability to see herself as the object of a man’s lust made her vulnerable to the wolves constantly on the prowl for a new amusement. If Wilberfoss had so much as laid a hand on her, he would pay. Dearly.

Cynssyr’s flat, chill eyes made her shudder. Carefully, she blocked off her emotions until she felt just like her husband’s eyes. Chips of green ice. Arctic. “With all the dancing and, and the excitement, and, well, you know I am so tired, Cynssyr. I wished to sit down. I left the ballroom. He followed me. Lord Wilberfoss, I mean. And he seemed to think I wanted to be alone with him, but I didn’t. I didn’t at all.”

“Did he touch you?” Speaking casually took effort. He dared not let her see the rage. She must at all costs think her answer was of no great consequence. But her luminous eyes reflected a battle between giving him an answer that would exonerate the viscount and the truth. Whatever she said now, he already knew the truth. “Did he?”

Her eyes were huge in her too-pale face, but she spoke serenely. “Yes.”

Cynssyr went absolutely still. Anne’s lungs refused to draw air. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself as if that would protect her from his anger.

“I was frightened. He frightened me. He was mean, and awful and I don’t understand why he—I couldn’t bear to have him near me. Even though he was drunk, he was bigger and stronger, and I couldn’t get away.” She stopped, appalled that she’d resorted to excuses. Best come at the thing straight on. “I struck him, sir, and then he tried to push me into the room, but he stumbled and, and I didn’t. I ran, and he ran after me, and I wanted so badly to find you I just kept running until I found Henry and I made him take me to you.” She let go of her waist and stood again, drawing herself up with a terrifying control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s got me so upset. How ridiculous I am tonight. I assure you, I am not usually so excitable.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, and he felt her flinch. “I am not your father, scolding and disapproving at every turn.” Studying her, he said, “You aren’t concerned about having struck him, are you? You defended yourself. It was brave of you.”

“Ruan.” Devon’s voice, a low, velvet utterance.

“Christ!” Ruan whirled. “Am I to have no privacy whatever?”

Ben coughed into his hand and hung back while Devon walked straight in.

“What do you want?” Cynssyr barked. His tone of voice was definitely dangerous. He meant it to be, but neither Devon nor Ben took heed.

“It’s about what happened at Marylebone Gardens,” Ben said, strolling past him and Anne. He exchanged a look with her, then sat.

“What about it?”

Anne moved away, but Ruan’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. All this time he’d been worrying about Julian Durling, and it was Wilberfoss who had actually tried something. “I’ve not done with you, Madam.” Fury bubbled up. Not at Anne. Never her. At Wilberfoss having the gall to put his hands on her. At himself for not protecting her from the sod. At Thomas Sinclair for coming so damn close to breaking his daughter’s spirit.

“Last night,” Devon supplied.

Ben stood to his full height. “Let her go, Cyn. You’re hurting her.”

Cynssyr glanced down and saw his fingers tight around Anne’s wrist and then saw her face. He was hurting her. Abruptly, he released her. “My apologies.”

“I was not hurt, Aldreth.” The way she rubbed her wrist revealed the lie.

Ruan found himself the object of two malevolent glances from Ben and Devon. They blamed him for Anne’s pallor and her tension. Not knowing how often she was ill nor that her early pregnancy was the most immediate reason for her chalky complexion, nor that Wilberfoss had laid hands on her, no wonder they put him down as the cause. Particularly since the effects of her encounter with Wilberfoss showed plain in her face and eyes. “Will the woman’s father let me see her?” he asked.

Both Ben and Devon looked at Anne and remained silent.

“I don’t think it’s Durling,” Devon said too carefully. “Thrale’s our man.”

“Thrale?” Anne repeated, guessing immediately what they meant. Ruan silently applauded her quickness of understanding. “Surely not,” Anne said. “He couldn’t be.”