Page 133 of Pride: The Rogue
“Extremely generous,” the viscount confirmed. “The duchess settled a sum no man could turn his nose up at; and certainly not a fellow in debt like me, could afford to.”
As Lord Forfar approached, Livian inched towards the hearth, until the fireplace tools were within reach.
They stopped.
In a bid to distract the lech, Livian continued talking. “You do realize, nothing you do will compel me to marry you.”
Forfar smirked. “Oh, I believe I can think of something that might.”
“Rape,” she said bluntly, trying to throw him off.
So close. The George III, gilt-metal poker was nearly in reach.
“Come now, Miss Lovelace, I heard your lusty cries and pleas earlier. You might put up a show because you crave darker pleasures than a real lady, but you will enjoy my attention, immensely.” He smiled. “With the way Latimer and the duchess were pawing at one another in public for all to see before I came in search of you, you’re in need of a new lover.”
That vicious painting he’d made for Livian sent a jolt of misery throughout her body.
The viscount’s astute gaze went to Livian’s trembling fingers and the fire tools she was so close to.
Livian made a desperate grab.
In one swift lunge, he was upon Livian and caught her wrist in a large, punishing grip that pulled a pained gasp from her.
“Let me go, you bastard,” she hissed, wrenching her arms in a bid to escape his hold.
“Tsk. Tsk.” Amusement danced in his soulless blue eyes. “Only one of us is a bastard, and we both know it is not me.”
Livian dragged her knee up quick and caught the viscount square between the legs.
Pain ravaged his features.
A long gust of air hissed from between his teeth.
As she’d intended, Forfar lost the firm grip he had on her. Groaning, he pressed his spare hand over his injured ballocks.
This time, Livian managed to wrestle her arm free.
She punched him hard in the cheek with such force, Forfar’s head snapped back.
He stumbled and tripped, and just managed to catch himself.
Livian bolted.
The viscount shot his leg out, tripping Livian.
Crying, Livian stumbled and went flying.
Shoving his palm hard against her back, Forfar hastened Livian’s collision with the floor.
Flecks dotted her vision, and blackness pulled at the fringes of her eyes. Livian battled unconsciousness, knowing if she didn’t win, the viscount would use her in ways she’d only given herself freely and lovingly to Lachlan.
Lachlan, who’d never used violence against her and never would, not on any woman.
Forcing herself up onto her elbows, Livian dragged herself slowly backward, retreating like the cornered animal the viscount had turned her into.
Lord Forfar roared with sick, twisted amusement. “You are a bloodthirsty wench,” he praised. “Look at the fight in you. I’ve never had a baseborn bitch, but between your spirit, the dowry the duchess fixed on you, and the show you and Latimer put on earlier, I find myself looking forward to tupping you daily.”
“I will never marry you,” Livian spat, the cadence of her breathing harsh and uncontrollable.
