Page 57 of The Villain
“Bathe, dress, and join me in the bedroom. We will take dinner here.”
With that, he turned and left the washroom, closing the door behind her.
Heaving a sigh, she laid her head against the edge of the tub and tried to make sense of the things he had not said.
Another tear slid down her cheek, this one for Adam. For a man who seemed emotionless, but who felt things far more deeply than she’d realized. She did not want to endure the things he’d made her feel, nor did she want to pity him. Yet, she did. He made her want to soothe him, to make right everything her father, William, and Bertram had done.
How she would go about that, she was not sure. All she had to offer him was her body, and while he seemed to take pleasure in it, she realized it did not account for much. In truth, she had nothing, and when this had all ended, she wouldbenothing … no more than a tool he had used to exact his final revenge.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
or the next sennight, Daphne spent her every hour—both waking and sleeping—with Adam. She slept in his bed and ate her meals at the little table near a window overlooking the countryside. She joined him in the gallery each morning to watch him and Niall practice their fencing, after which he always engaged her in a few bouts. Those times proved enjoyable, learning more about her opponent, and besting him more easily than she had when she’d lost their wager. It became more like a dance between them than a duel, each knowing the moves of the other with an uncanny foresight. After that, they would take their morning ride. They would gallop for hours, across the meadows and through the trees ringing his property.
Then, he was all business, bringing her into his study while he attended to his day’s work. The first few days, he had forced her to sit upon the floor at his feet—a position that had made her spine bristle with indignation. Yet, she grew accustomed to it, indulging in reading or drawing—even though she was abominable at it. He often gazed down at her from where he sat, his face inscrutable, but his eyes swirling with good humor and amusement. Did he enjoy seeing her like this—docile at his feet?
On the third day, she had come into the study to find the harp sitting in the midst of the room, the low stool resting before it. When she’d raised her eyebrows at him in surprise, he’d simply told her to play for him. And play, she had. She’d played for hours, losing herself in the music while he worked, practicing every concerto she knew by memory, then asking for sheet music so she could learn new ones.
In the evening, there was dinner, and often time spent in the music room where Adam would play. Not for her … as he seemed barely cognizant of her presence once he began. He played for himself, seeming to pour all of his anger and grief onto the keys. She heard it in every note, felt it in the energy that permeated the air as he unleashed it in the only way he seemed capable.
And, of course, he made use of her body frequently and in just about every way he could imagine. He threw her up on his desk and fucked her from behind; he threw her to the gallery floor and fucked her after fencing; he lifted her skirts on the floor of the music room. Their mating was frenzied, desperate … crude. He pulled her hair hard enough to make her eyes water, but it only made her moan louder. He squeezed her throat until her vision grew hazy, but that only made her climaxes stronger. He pounded her mercilessly, leaving the insides of her thighs sore in the following hours, but she urged him on, wrapping her legs around him and compelling him to take her harder, faster. He did other things she enjoyed—things that made her question her own sanity. Like tying her legs to opposite bed posts to open her wide and expose her secret flesh. Or spanking her while fucking her from behind, until she could not separate the pain from pleasure. Or leaving his fingerprints and bite marks in places no one could see, but that she felt for days after his claiming. She liked to touch the sore spots, press down on them and close her eyes, remembering the blissful torment of being claimed by him.
In truth, he was supposed to be about her ruination, but it began to feel as if he had set about her liberation. The more he used her, teaching her what her body was capable of and subjecting her to the sort of pleasure that ought to bring her shame, the more she reveled in her own wantonness, in the power that came with being desired and inspiring lust. She had grown accustomed to going without undergarments, prepared to be taken at any moment, in any place. Her days held a sort of excitement she had never known, a thrill she could not get from riding hell for leather or sneaking an erotic novel.
She rarely encountered anyone aside from Adam, Niall maintaining his distance and doing a better job of keeping both Olivia and Serena out of her sight. While she wished to inquire about them, she refrained, not wanting to provoke Adam. He might not let her back in if she tempted him to toss her out again. She forced herself to accept that Adam did not want his sister or niece to have anything to do with Daphne or her family. After all the Fairchilds had done to them, she felt obligated to respect his wishes.
On the seventh day, she became acutely aware of preparations being made for a party. It began with the dressmaker, who arrived to take her measurements. Shop girls helped drape her in navy blue satin, rolling out spools of decadent black lace and gasping over how the colors made her hair appear redder and her eyes a more vibrant shade of blue.
Then, she noticed maids coming and going throughout the castle with freshly laundered tablecloths, polished silver candelabras, and fine china. Remembering the invitations she had seen when rifling through Adam’s desk, she realized he had invited guests to Dunnottar … guests he would parade her in front of. In the days that passed with several more fittings and talk amongst servants of the rich cuisine being prepared for the event, Daphne grew more anxious over the inevitable humiliation.
It would be Adam’s coup de grace … the final blow to her reputation, and by proxy, that of her family. They’d never be able to show their faces in public again without receiving the cut direct.
The party would take place on her last evening at Dunnottar, ending her stay in the same way it had begun—with humiliation.
On the night before the party, she sat on the edge of Adam’s bed, picking at a loose thread on her dressing gown and waiting for him to emerge from the washroom. She’d bathed and donned the robe with nothing underneath—fully expecting him to strip it from her when he entered the room.
Instead, he halted at the foot of the bed and studied her with a furrowed brow. “Is something wrong?”
Shaking her head, she stood and untied the belt of her robe. “Of course not. I am ready.”
He approached, eyeing the bare skin she revealed with her open robe. She held her breath as he reached toward her, bracing herself for the first touch. It never failed to send her blood rushing through her veins and goose bumps rippling over her skin.
However, he did not touch her except to close the open sides of the robe and tie the belt loosely at her waist. “Do not lie to me, little dove. I don’t relish taking a sulking woman to bed. Tell me what is bothering you.”
Sighing, she shrugged one shoulder and tried not to show him how terrified the impending party made her. “Tomorrow. I have an idea of what will happen, but knowing hardly eases my mind.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “It is only a dinner party, little dove … hardly anything to distress yourself over. Besides, I have not even told you who our guests will be.”
She snorted. “Does it matter? You would not invite anyone unimportant. Whoever comes will see me here unchaperoned and know … they will know …”
“That I’ve fucked you,” he offered with an amused smirk. “Aye. They’ll know we fucked and will likely see that you enjoyed it. They’ll see you dressed in finery I provided, and think—”
“They will think me a whore.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you care if they do? In fact, why do you care what they think of you at all? As you’ve recently learned, most people are not what they seem. The people who would condemn you for what you’ve done have their share of secrets.”
“Yes, but their secrets will not be exposed to the entireton,” she countered. “And I … Idon’tcare what they think of me.”
He gave her a knowing glance. “Tell yourself what you must, but I can see the fear in your eyes … fear of judgment and scorn. Fear that someone might see you as what you truly are.”
