Page 8 of A Private Wager
Lucy wasn’t a fool. Not by any stretch of the imagination. So why the sudden desire to marry when he’d previously shown no inclination toward such a state? It wasn’t simply that he’d decided. If that was the case, then it would have been put out by the gossips long before any of them had left London. When a peer decided to marry, society mamas knew so before the man ever did!
A set of approaching footsteps prompted her to look up. But it was not the viscount who stood between the heavy arches of the false ruins. It was his cousin, Mr. Barton Warfield. A frisson of unease snaked down Lucy’s spine. He was not a man to be trusted, after all. Whatever the viscount’s motives, she knew that if she asked him not to touch her, he would comply. She had the feeling that his cousin simply did not hear the wordno, regardless of how loudly or how forcefully it might be shouted at him.
“Miss Dawes,” he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here. I do not think we have had nearly enough time to acquaint ourselves with one another.”
“I hardly think this is the time, Mr. Warfield. We are barely acquainted, as you said,” she stated firmly. “We shall chat in the drawing room…with an appropriate chaperone.”
He smiled, his expression quite reptilian. “Nonsense, Miss Dawes. There is no time like the present, after all. What is it you are reading?”
She had been attempting to read some hideous, gothic novel about a hero who suddenly seemed quite villainous, given that his behavior was so very similar to that of the man before her. The book was thoroughly ruined for her at that point. “It’s of no consequence. In fact, I think I am finished reading for the day. The air is much cooler that I had anticipated, and I should return to the house.”
“If you permit me, Miss Dawes, I would certainly help to keep you warm,” he offered.
There was no mistaking his offer as anything more than innuendo. His intent was perfectly clear—as hers would be. “A return to the house will provide all the warmth I wish for.”
His smile faded, and when he spoke, there was a snap to his voice that had not been there previously. “Perhaps, Miss Dawes, it isn’t the air that is cold.” There would be no further attempts at charm. It was clear that he was angry and that his temper was directed at her.
Rather than engage in verbal sparring, Lucy snapped her book closed and rose to her feet. “I’m certain my aunt will be wondering where I’ve been.” That was a lie. Her aunt had taken a sleeping draught the night before, pleading terrible megrims and fatigue. In her opinion, the sleeping draughts were thecause of the megrims and fatigue. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Warfield.”
Her intent was to sweep past him and return to the house, subsequently missing her assignation with the viscount. But he stood up, no longer leaning nonchalantly in the arch. Now, he blocked it entirely, preventing her passage. “We have more to discuss, Miss Dawes.”
“No,” Lucy replied. “We do not. Let me pass.”
“My cousin has been paying particular attention to you. Would you like to know why?”
Yes.She did want to know, but could she trust anything he said to her? The answer was obviously no. “Let me pass,” she stated again, more firmly this time.
“It was a wager, you see? My Craddock Hall against his Stonecrest. If he could win your hand by the end of this house party, both would be his.”
Oh, how it stung. It hurt the most because she could see the truth in it. “As I have no intention of marrying anyone, that hardly signifies one way or another. Again, let me pass!”
“I can’t risk it,” he said. “I need Stonecrest. Craddock Hall is profitable, but it’s such a small estate that it will never bring me more than a pittance. Of course, Stonecrest neighbors it. If I had both estates… Well, you see, Miss Dawes, I need them. Of course, if I had your dowry to go along with it, I’d never have to worry about being poor again. As an added benefit, if my cousin loses Stonecrest, then he will be too poor to marry. Even a viscountcy cannot alleviate the stain of that sort of pauperdom.”
“How does his poverty benefit you?” Lucy was at the end of her patience with him.
“No wife means no heir, and eventually, the title would be mine,” Warfield explained. “So, you see, Miss Dawes, your little trysts with my cousin cannot continue.”
“I am having trysts, as you put it, with no one! And even if I were, Mr. Warfield, you have no right to dictate any aspect of my behavior,” she said, her temper piqued by his arrogance and high handedness.
“I will soon enough, because I mean to be certain, Miss Dawes, that you do not marry my cousin. The best way to do that is to marry you myself!”
She laughed bitterly. “As if I would ever agree.”
“As if I would give you a choice!”
That statement was her only warning. He snatched her close to him, hauling her against his chest as he pressed his mouth to hers. It was not at all the sort of kiss she’d received from the viscount. This was violent and ugly, bruising her lips as they were mashed against her teeth. And, struggle as she might, she could not break free of his hold.
It was a terrifying experience for her. No one had ever touched her against her will. She was alone, and it was still some time before the viscount was due to meet her. And it was quickly becoming clear to her that she was physically no match for Mr. Warfield. He had already overpowered her. But Lucy didn’t have it in her to simply give in. She fought as hard as she could, struggling against him—kicking, clawing, and biting.
When her nails sank into the tender flesh of his neck just above his stock and cravat, he jerked away from her. He bit out an ugly curse as he clapped one hand over the wound. But it was not the opportunity for escape that she had hoped. His other hand came up and then flew forcefully in her direction. The backhanded slap sent her sprawling to the leave-strewn floor of the folly. The sleeve of her morning dress snagged on the jagged edge of a rock, ripping it even as the stone gouged her skin and drew blood.
Before she could scramble to her feet and get away, he was on her, pressing her down onto the stone floor, bits of dirt and leaves biting into her skin.
“Bitch!” he hissed at her.
Lucy saw him draw back his hand once more, his intent clear. Her ears were still ringing from the first slap, her entire face aching from the force of it. She feared that if he struck her again, she might well lose consciousness—then he would be able to do whatever he wished. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact. But the blow never came. His weight was simply gone from her. And when she managed to open her eyes, she knew why. The viscount had come for her earlier than anticipated, and whatever else he might have done, she was beyond grateful to see him in that moment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
