Page 43 of The Villain
She wondered how he knew the light bothered her eyes, but then realized it must be because she’d turned her face into his chest, burrowing there to escape it.
“Master, is she—”
“She’s fine,” he snapped, cutting off the voice she recognized as Maeve’s. “But, perhaps a hot bath would be welcomed.”
“Yes, Master,” the maid said quickly, her footsteps taking her out of the room.
She felt him lowering her onto the bed, the soft mattress a sharp juxtaposition to his hard body. He stood over her, staring down at her with that inscrutable expression he always wore just before saying something he knew would hurt her. The sunlight revealed his exhaustion—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the haggard lines etching his face.
“Do not ever seek to offer me your useless platitudes again,” he murmured, though the silence of the room magnified his voice like a cannon’s blast. “In the end, they mean nothing to me …youmean nothing to me.”
Her eyes stung as she turned away from him and curled into herself, uncertain why his words should flay her open so viciously, like the lash of a whip. Of course she meant nothing to him—and why should she? Yet, his cruel words were like a dagger to her chest, the resounding pain echoing and mingling with the throbbing between her legs. As if he had turned her inside out, exposing all her nerve endings to the elements.
His eyes burned into her back, searing her through layers of satin and damask, as if he could see the stains of his seed and her blood through them. She curled herself tighter, hugging her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. Tears warmed her face, but she held her breath to contain the sobs. He had hurt her, and he knew it … but she would not give him the satisfaction of breaking. Not now when he could see and hear her.
Before long, a flurry of motion told her servants had arrived with the tub and hot water. She lay and stared numbly at the wall, uncertain how she knew he’d left the room. His presence simply melted away, and when Maeve came to coax her from the bed, she turned to find him gone.
CHAPTER TEN
aphne slept for what remained of the morning, waking hours after Maeve had tucked her into bed. The maid had flitted about the chamber as she’d soaked in the steaming tub, washing her hair and combing out the snarls, soothing her face with a warm, damp cloth, tending to her wounded neck again once she’d left the water.
“You must forgive the Master for his ill temper,” Maeve had insisted while slathering the gouge marks with more of the ointment. “It’s just … Livvie’s condition torments him, you see. He thinks it's all his fault.”
She’d surfaced from the muddled haze submerging her mind at that, turning to glance at the maid over her shoulder. “He does?”
And here she’d thought he cast all the blame upon Bertram.
“He does,” Maeve replied, closing the ointment jar and wiping her hands clean on her apron. “He and Niall … they take care of her in hopes she’ll find her way back to them someday.”
As the woman had begun pulling her hair into a single braid, Daphne had stared into the vanity mirror, studying the reflection of the maid. Her eyes had been downcast, her hands trembling as she worked Daphne’s damp hair.
“Who is she to him?” she’d prodded, hoping the maid would pity her enough to tell her something … anything. “He told me he loved her.”
“We all love her,” Maeve had whispered, her voice low and hoarse as if she fought back tears.
Then, glancing up to meet her reflection in the mirror, she had paused, her hands tangled in Daphne’s hair.
“Please, ask me no more,” she’d pleaded. “I’ve already said too much. The Master will not be pleased to know I’ve spoken of her to you at all.”
Nodding in understanding, Daphne had let the matter drop, not wanting to invite Adam’s wrath onto the innocent maid. Recognition niggled the back of her mind every time she thought of the mysterious Livvie, and she felt certain if she thought on it long enough, she might remember where she’d seen her before. Things had happened so suddenly last night, she’d hardly gotten a good look at the woman’s face.
She stared silently at her reflection while Maeve finished her hair, the picture that confronted her one she hardly recognized. Her skin had gone pale, causing her eyes to look larger and darker and the red lines from where she’d been scratched to appear meaner. Turning her head slightly, she cringed at the evidence of Adam’s sensual assault, purple bruises beginning to form along her throat where he’d suckled and bitten. Maeve had changed her into a new nightgown—this one an apricot silk with a low-cut bodice that displayed more of the marks along her collarbone and the swell of one breast.
Her cunt contracted, the liquid heat of desire combining with soreness to make her head spin and her stomach lurch. How could seeing the evidence of what had just transpired in the music room affect her this way? She should be sobbing with regret over her lost maidenhead, over the painful invasion that had stolen her innocence, the callous words he’d spewed at her once he’d finished with her. Instead, she found herself clenching her thighs together to stifle the feeling, to smother the longing opening in the pit of her womb.
She’d lain in bed for countless minutes trying to forget, closing her eyes and searching for the sleep that had eluded her the night before. Exhaustion had finally dragged her under, and she’d slept deeply for hours—though her rest had hardly been peaceful. Adam haunted her dreams; the feral glint of his eyes, the flash of white teeth, the sting of his bite, and the searing burn of his cock entering her for the first time.
She came awake gasping and panting, her nightgown clinging to her body, her limbs trembling uncontrollably.
Easing herself from the bed, she opted to freshen up on her own, not wanting to ring for Maeve and have the maid see her in such a state. Approaching the washstand, she peeled the damp nightgown from her body and quickly dipped a scrap of linen into the bowl of fresh rosewater that had been left there. It had long gone cold, but it brought her relief as she bathed the sweat from her skin. She winced when the cloth touched her mons, the tender flesh still swollen and aching. There was no more blood, however, so she supposed she ought to be grateful for that. Despite having bathed the bloodstains from her thighs, she scrubbed them again, certain she might never feel completely clean, as if those stains had sunk in deep, becoming a part of her, a permanent scar that would brand itself indelibly upon her soul.
Crossing to the armoire where her clothing had been hung, she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her throat looked worse now—the purple stains already beginning to take on a yellowish hue. Tearing her gaze away, she swiftly selected a simple white muslin morning gown, a pair of stockings, and garters. As she slid her feet into a pair of slippers, her stomach growled, hunger beginning to gnaw upon her insides.
She left the room and headed straight for the dining room, knowing an afternoon meal would be available on the sideboard this time of day. Relieved to find the corridors empty save for a few chambermaids dusting the wall sconces, she ducked into the large, airy room, happy to find an array of cold foods that appeared to have been recently laid out. Filling a plate and taking a seat, she thanked the footman who appeared at her elbow with a glass of lemonade.
As she ate, staring out at the picturesque view framed by the dining room’s parted drapes, she could almost pretend to be somewhere else. A beautiful, tranquil place far removed from London, her family, and the other things she would rather outrun than confront.
For instance, the truth that Adam had unearthed concerning the reason for her state of spinsterhood, of the countless marriage offers she had refused. She had wanted love, she’d told herself, and would not settle for anything less.
