Nothing But Scandal (12 page)

Elizabeth watched as the hazy figures of her uncle, mother, and sister drifted from the room, until she and Harold were the only ones remaining.

Her toady suitor moved closer, taking the seat next to her. “Finish your wine, Elizabeth.” He held out the glass.

She shook her head, and the room spun. Bad idea. “No, Harold. I believe I’ve had enough. Why did you wish to speak with me?”

Funny. Her words were slurred, and the room seemed to waver in her vision. She blinked to clear it, then blinked again.

“We’ll talk,” Harold said. “But first I propose a toast. To us?”

Warning bells warred with her already pounding head. “There is no ‘us,’ Harold,” she informed him. Or thought she did. She couldn’t be sure, for the room gave a great lurch, and the table rose up to meet her.

She was dreaming again. She knew it, but couldn’t seem to lift the thick sea of fog that held her down.

They were traveling. Occasionally a rough bump jostled her into consciousness, enough to recognize she lay on the floor of a moving vehicle, probably a carriage, her arms positioned awkwardly behind her.
Tied
. Her tongue felt thick, her throat dry. Once, maybe twice, someone held a flask to her lips, and she drank thirstily.

Inevitably, the fog would descend again, and carry her back to unsettling dreams.

This time, it carried her back to the night of her father’s death. She whimpered, knowing the events that were about to unfold, but unable to stop them.

She watched herself—another, more innocent self—descend the stairs, glance outside at the night storm, and move into the kitchen for a late snack.

And then she
was
the other self, and it ceased to be a dream.

“Bloody hell, Fuston, what’s happened?”

Never in her life had Elizabeth Medford heard the relentlessly formal butler use such language. Silently, she crept into a shadowed corner of the back hallway.

A shaft of moonlight from a small window fell on Fuston, the coachman, who trembled in his torn and stained livery. “Accident. Was naught I could do. The horses—they took a fright—” he stammered, eyes darting everywhere. “A creature, wolf, mebbe, ran out on the road…but the horses…out of control…went off in the ravine. I only just jumped clear before the carriage overturned. The master was—was—” Fuston swallowed audibly, unable to continue.

Icy dread flooded Elizabeth, but she dared not reveal herself before knowing what had happened to her father.

“How bad?” Even in his just-awakened state, the butler sounded imposing.

Fuston shook his head and wrung his hands, looking terrified.

Elizabeth’s breath left her and she sank to her knees, imagining the worst. The biscuit she’d nabbed for a midnight repast fell unheeded from her fingers, landing with a tiny
thump
on the floorboards.

Both men stopped and looked around at the noise, but the shadows kept Elizabeth hidden. Blood pounded in her ears as she strained to hear more.

“Did you fetch a physician?”

“There was no need,” the coachman whispered.

Growing dizzy, Elizabeth pressed her knuckles to her lips, muffling the tiny moan that escaped at the coachman’s words.

The butler sucked in his breath. “We’ll need to inform the baroness at once. She departed in Lady Jameson’s coach this evening, without leaving word of her actual destination. We can start at the Jameson residence.”

Elizabeth doubted they would find her mother there…
Lady Jameson played whist with her mother often enough, but Lord Jameson did not approve, so the all-night games were hosted by others. She was on the verge of interrupting when the butler spoke again.

“There will need to be arrangements made. Where is the master’s body?”

Elizabeth’s insides seemed to hollow out at the blunt mention of her father’s mortal remains.

Fuston, however, looked truly panicked. Beads of perspiration pearled and ran down his face. “Here. But there’s a bit of a problem…”

He looked around, and Elizabeth pressed herself farther into the shadows. Finally he pulled the butler in close and whispered something she could not hear. The shaft of moonlight fell on both men now, and she saw astonishment on the older man’s usually masklike features before he turned and rushed out the door, dragging poor Fuston behind him.

Elizabeth remained in place, limbs numb, unable to absorb the conversation she’d just heard. Her father…He couldn’t be…She could not fathom a world without his reassuring presence. Her mind screamed for her to run after the two servants, beg them to tell her it wasn’t true. But they’d mentioned a body. Her heart and mind refused to reconcile this news with the only reality she’d ever known.

It could be hours yet before her mother returned, but Elizabeth had little interest in finding and offering solace to the cold baroness. Nor could she remain crouched in the hallway forever.

The fabric of her dressing gown
whooshed
softly in the now-empty hall as she stood, trembling, and went to wake her sister.

Where was Charity?

Elizabeth shifted restlessly. A sudden lurch shook her from the terrifying memory.

The carriage had stopped.

Feebly, she tried to push herself up. But her arms, tied behind her for so long, were too numb. She forced her eyes open.

The fleshy form of Harold Wetherby wavered before her eyes as he lifted her from the vehicle. A wave of nausea rolled over her as he tossed her over his shoulder and strode toward an unfamiliar house. She shut her eyes again.

Elizabeth sat bolt upright. She’d been dreaming. This time, she’d been back at one of last Season’s balls.

Her mother, admonishing her that a lady must always be polite to a gentleman, had nearly shoved her toward her pudgy, self-indulgent cousin. He’d led her onto the balcony, ostensibly for a breath of air…She could feel his fleshy fingers pressing into her rib cage…

No.

Better not to remember.

But as she blinked and looked about the unfamiliar bedroom, an awful feeling of unease settled in her gut. Her mind was groggy. Why couldn’t she remember where she was? Or anything of how she got here?

Last she could remember, she’d been at home, sitting through an unpleasant dinner with her mother, Uncle George, and Harold. She’d drunk more wine than usual but surely not enough to muddle her head this much.

No. That wasn’t right. She had vague memories of traveling, of being horribly uncomfortable, but unable to move. Where
was
she?

The room she was in was small, the window shuttered. It was daytime, for cracks of light filtered in.

Elizabeth eased herself from the bed, using a small table to steady herself as an onslaught of dizziness struck her. She opened the shutter and breathed in damp country air. Frowning, she turned again to the room. It was decorated in pale blue, the bed and furniture adequate but not lavish.

She was certain she’d never seen any of it before.

Footsteps pounded outside the door. Someone was climbing a set of stairs. The door opened to reveal her cousin, a tea tray in one hand, his heavy face flushed with the effort of the climb. He’d changed clothing, she noted, though the absurdly embroidered waistcoat did nothing to improve his features. But the change of clothing proved one thing. He’d
planned
this.

He gave her an arrogant grin. She didn’t return it. “Harold.”

“Miss Medford.” His tone dripped with sarcasm at the formality. “I see you’ve survived the night.”

“Where am I? What have you done?” She hated the fear in her voice.

“Relax, Elizabeth. I thought it best if I took my fiancée somewhere quiet where we might renew our acquaintance.”

“I’ve no wish to renew your acquaintance. And I’m not your fiancée.” Anger, indignation, filtered through her fear.

“My, my.” He set the tray down on a side table, then leaned indolently against the door frame. “I see I was correct when I told your uncle you might need some time to adjust to the idea. But you are, indeed, my fiancée. We signed the betrothal two nights ago.”

“And where was I? Am I to have no say in the matter?”

“You were…resting.” He did not meet her eyes.

“Drugged, you mean. You
drugged
me.” Blood began to pulse at her temples as she realized what he’d done.

“It was for your own good. What with your abominable behavior these last months, we could hardly expect you to see reason.”

“Reason?” she screeched. “You think this passes for reason? Drugging a woman you intend to marry and hauling her off to…where am I, anyway? And what day is it?”

“Today is Thursday. Your location is…somewhere private.”

“Somewhere I can’t escape, you mean.” She shook with anger, with humiliation.

“It’s only until you adjust.”

“Adjust? To what?”

He pushed off the door frame and walked toward her. His large hand cupped her chin, forced her gaze to his. “To marrying me. To being obedient. To placing my pleasure,
my
will, above your own. As a woman should.”

She yanked her chin away. “You’re mad.”

He stepped closer, his features twisted in a sneer. “I assure you I am not. You
will
learn obedience, if I must beat it into you. It would be better for you to accept that.”

The wall behind her cut off her retreat. Elizabeth turned her head rather than face him.

Her mind was still muddled from the aftereffects of whatever potion he’d used on her, but she struggled to think her way out of this.

“An obedient and proper woman would not countenance staying alone with a man she thought to marry,” she declared, shoulders squared.

“Proper?” He gave an ugly laugh. “Do not toss that term at me, for all of Society is gossiping over your behavior. Your uncle thinks I don’t know, but I am not a fool, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth wasn’t about to give in, even if it meant acceding, at least on the surface, to his statements about her character. “Is it not my behavior you wish to change? Perhaps it would be best to start by setting a proper model.”

“Regrettably, we must forgo that aspect of propriety.” He gave her a leer that suggested he didn’t find the situation regrettable at all. “You’ve proven yourself untrustworthy and unpredictable, and I believe matters between us are best settled apart from others.

“Besides, a stay alone with me will, in the eyes of the church, only hasten the need for marriage.” His hands encircled her waist, then snaked up to her rib cage, his thumbs pressing at the underside of her breasts.

“Stop it.” She jerked back, but the wall stood firm behind her.

He squeezed lightly, panting.

“Your touch makes me ill. If you do not release me, I shall cast up my accounts upon your shoes.”

Harold stepped back quickly with a glance at his overpolished shoes, the leer of moments before replaced by the flush of anger. “Don’t think this is over, Elizabeth. The world already knows you’re a slut, so you can’t put me off with talk of propriety. I intend to have that delectable little body of yours. Maybe not now, but soon enough. I’m in charge here. If you wish to have your freedom again, or a visit with your sister, perhaps, you’ll learn to please and obey me.”

“I’d sooner perish,” she spat.

He gave her a pitying smile. “I’m sure you’ll come to rethink that position.” He turned and left the room, picking up the tray of tea and bread and taking it with him. Only when she heard him fumble with the latch did Elizabeth realize he’d locked her in.

Bastard. Harold’s actions, though despicable, did not surprise her. They were right in line with his character. But the fact that her uncle, at least, must have agreed to the plan…Elizabeth hated them both so much her hands shook.

Well, she would not be subdued that easily.

She went again to the window. Outside she saw a small yard, then rolling green fields, then forest. The morning mist still lay in the hollows between hills. No road, no village. But perhaps her window simply faced the wrong direction to see them.

Or else Harold had taken her some place very remote indeed.

Between the house and the forest, there was no place to hide. She would have to be quick. The room that imprisoned her was on the second story. A thick hedge grew beneath. She bit her lip, considering. If she hung from the ledge, the hedge would break her fall—though the landing would likely be unpleasant. But not so unpleasant as waiting helplessly in the room for a rescue that might never come.

She could do this. Elizabeth looked again, but there was no sign of Harold. She slowly eased out of the window and lowered herself until she hung by her fingertips. Holding her breath, she let go.

Fabric tore as her skirt caught on a peg, but other than that, she landed unharmed.

As soon as her legs were under her, she ran for the forest.

It was farther than it had looked from the window. Her lungs burned. She dared not slow until she’d reached the cover of the forest.

Finally, the open field was behind her. Slipping around the trunk of a tall tree, she leaned against the rough bark to catch her breath. The dew had soaked her slippers and the hem of her skirts. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on for dinner back in London. They were hardly made for rough travel.

Slowly the sound of her heart pounding receded, and all she heard were water droplets dripping from the leaves. Everything seemed unnaturally still.

From the slight chill in the air, and the surrounding trees, she guessed Harold had taken her north. Though where, exactly, she had no idea.

She peeked from behind the tree trunk. No one in sight. Without a particular destination in mind, she slipped from the tree that hid her to the next, and the next, keeping the fields in sight so she wouldn’t lose her way. If only she could find a road, or a cottage—anywhere she might ask for help.

Hooves thundered toward the edge of the forest.

Elizabeth ran for deeper cover, but it was too late.

Harold’s gloved hand swooped down and struck her to the ground as he pulled his horse to a sudden halt.

She landed hard, the wind knocked from her lungs. Desperately she scrambled backward, gaping like a fish as she struggled for breath.

Harold’s face was purple with fury.

“Foolish slut! Did you honestly think I wouldn’t guess you’d try the window?” He leapt from his horse with surprising agility, considering his heft. He grabbed her arm and hauled her toward him, bending her over his knee like a misbehaved child.

His hand came down hard on her backside. Suddenly she could breathe again. The blow hurt, but Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from whimpering.