Page 104 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke
“Lord Barwicke,” Veronica gasped, standing up from the bench, ready to run.
“Oh, Duchess. Do not stand onmyaccount.” His voice was as nasal as she remembered, a sly sound that dripped with as much revulsion as he caused in her. “I was hoping to enjoy your company on such a beautiful night. Do sit.”
Veronica did not. His mocking pleasantries faltered. He expected her to do as he said.
“How did you get into my home?” she demanded.
He laughed at her, his head tipping back. “Workers are rather easy to tip off when you know who to pick out.”
His cruel smile went through Veronica. She backed up a step as he advanced on her.
“You see, it was very easy to gain entry when one speaks highly of the Earl of Grantham and how it would aterrible shameto miss out on congratulating his return.” He laughed darkly. “Your workers would not want to risk denying entry to a nobleman such as myself, lest I have them fired.”
“Leave, Lord Barwicke,” Veronica ordered.
“No. No, I do not think I will, Veronica. We are well enough acquainted that I may call you that, are we not?”
“No,” she whispered. “We are not.”
“Shame.” He shrugged. “Regardless, Your Grace, I am not leaving until I get what I am owed.”
She drew back. “Owed? Lord Barwicke, my mother and I do not owe you any more money. Our debt to you has been paid.”
“My, my, Veronica, you have grown fiery in your spirits. It is rather refreshing.” He licked his lips at her, and her stomach recoiled. “I am not talking about money but revenge. Did you truly think you could get away from me so easily?”
“I am not afraid of you anymore,” she said, forcing strength into her voice.
Forcing herself not to glance in the ballroom, Veronica resisted looking to see if anybody had noticed her missing. Henry, least of all.
His laugh pierced the night, leering and mocking, and she fought against the feeling of being small. She was not—this washerhome, and he did not get to order her around in it.
“Grant me my revenge, Veronica, and I shall not go ahead with my plan. Or resist me, and I shall leak the entire deal I had with theinnocentLady Grantham and tell everybody in every sordid little detail what an eager whore your mother was.”
Veronica’s anger spiked. He could threaten her but not her mother.
“I will not go with you, Lord Barwicke,” Veronica hissed, hoping her hands did not tremble as much as they felt as though they did. “You will not say anything against my mother, and you shall not get away with this. My husband will hear about this, and it shall be your own life leaked across theton. You shall never walk down the street without shame ever again.”
“I do not care what you think you can hold over me,” he said, sounding bored. “However, I truly do have plenty over your mother, and the infamous Duke of Westley. See, I heard that he killed his own father!”
Veronica’s heart stopped.
No… No, if Lord Barwicke released such false, incriminating things…
She could not let that happen.
“My silence can be bought, Veronica,” he sing-songed at her. “Not with money but withyou. Save your Duke and your mother in one go by walking away with me right now. After all, if your husband cared so much for you, why were you out here crying alone?”
His words threatened to unravel her, but she stood strong. “Leave, Lord Barwicke. I will never go with you.”
“Then perhaps we should ask the Duke what he would think of everyone in thetonseeing him as a murderer.” Lord Barwickepaused, leering at her up and down. “But first I wish to sample you. I am not opposed to damaged goods, but it depends on how damaged the Duke has made you.”
Veronica had only a moment to begin running back when the man launched himself at her, knocking her to the ground. His hands were flitting over her skirt, her waist, yanking in her hair, and she screamed out, struggling. He was heavy and vengeful, and Veronica tried to jam an elbow back to knock him off.
“Get off my wife, you bastard.” The low seething command did not need volume to carry the threat, and suddenly the weight pinning Veronica lifted, followed by the sound of a punch.
She scrabbled up to her feet, turning to see Henry kneeling over Lord Barwicke, fisting his shirt, his other hand raised in a punch ready to strike.
Henry did not hesitate. His fist slammed into Lord Barwicke’s face, and his expression was one of pure white-hot rage as Henry continued raining blows upon the man.
