Page 8 of The Villain
“Of course, my lady,” she murmured.
Suffering through the rest of her toilette in silence, she remained still while Maeve loosened her braid and brushed her hair, leaving it hanging free down her back. Then, in an act that sent bile rising up in the back of her mouth, Maeve tied a length of ribbon around her neck in a makeshift choker, creating a saucy bow against her collarbone.
As if she were a cat to be adorned before presentation to her master.
The maid turned her to face an ornate mirror, standing behind her and beaming as if proud of her handiwork. The previous owner of the navy velvet gown she wore must have possessed a petite frame, for it fell a few inches short and hugged her body a bit too tightly. She supposed she ought to be grateful not to have a corset on, as the dress cinched in her waist quite a bit on its own, the neckline biting into her breasts. The plump flesh spilled from the bodice, and despite trying to pull the fabric up to cover herself, Daphne eventually gave up. The frock was too small, and no amount of tugging could change that.
She had to admit the choker Maeve had fashioned out of ribbon enhanced her neck, causing it to appear longer and slenderer. Its navy color—a match for her gown—caused the blue of her eyes to appear brighter and more vibrant.
“Perhaps a chignon,” she suggested, running a strand of hair between her fingers.
Maeve inclined her head. “The Master—”
“Has ordered that I wear it unbound,” Daphne finished for her with a sigh.
“Now you’re catching on, my lady,” Maeve replied with a giggle. “You will find him through that door, there.”
Following the maid’s pointing finger, Daphne spotted a door she had not noticed before—the wooden panel apparently leading to the aforementioned sitting room.
Turning to tidy up the bed, Maeve seemed content to pretend she was no longer in the room.
Daphne took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the door with resolute intent. Never one to cower or hide, she would face him and show no fear. He might have broken the men of her family, but Adam Callahan would not break her.
She opened the door to find herself in a drawing room with decor matching her bedroom. The same blue and silver paper covered the walls while oversized furniture in matching shades sat positioned to face the hearth. Across the room from her rested a table covered in a white cloth, adorned by silver candelabras and tapers dripping wax, laden with several platters of food.
It was here she found Adam, seated in one of the two chairs, his long legs crossed and angled so they did not hide beneath the table. A white linen napkin lay draped over his thigh, and he sipped tea from a china cup that appeared no larger than a thimble in his massive hand.
Her mouth went dry, and she faltered halfway across the room at the sight of him. Heavens, she had forgotten how large he was—his shoulders and arms bulging against the fabric of his coat, skintight breeches clinging to powerful thighs.
Clenching her hands and swallowing past the knot of anxiety in her throat, she raised her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
“Good morning,” he said without turning his head to look at her. “Come. Eat.”
His words fell on her like the curt commands they were, causing her to stiffen. Yet, she did as he said, having no intention of shunning a meal after having ridden through the night without dinner.
As she neared the table, a dark shadow peeled itself away from the corner and converged upon her. A strangled cry died in her throat as she recognized the butler—still shrouded in unrelenting black, still wearing an expression of disdain at the sight of her.
He remained silent and stone-faced as he approached the table, pulling out the empty chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sank into it and studied the platters spread out before her. For a moment, she simply stared at the various foods presented, overwhelmed by the choices.
After pouring a cup of tea for her from the silver tea service placed at the center of the table, the butler returned to his place in the corner.
“Help yourself to whatever you wish,” Adam said. “I certainly hope you are not one of those chits who insists upon pretending to have the appetite of a bird.”
Reaching for the dish of coddled eggs, she raised an eyebrow at him. “Many ladies eat that way in public because of the way our undergarments restrict our bellies. Though, during my time here, I suppose I shall not have that problem.”
He paused in buttering his toast and glanced up at her, humor dancing in his eyes, though his mouth remained a hard, unmoving line. She smirked, certain he had understood her subtle jibe. Good. She would ensure he knew how displeased she was at being forced to prance about without proper undergarments.
Returning to his breakfast, he declined to answer her. Her stomach had begun to ache from hunger, so she filled her plate with slices of ham and toast, then laced her tea with sugar and milk. As she ate, she snuck glances at the man seated across from her—the fiend who had savagely destroyed her family.
He had the sort of Corinthian frame the men of London used padding beneath their clothes to achieve and the ladies giggled over behind their fans. His clothing proved plain and unadorned, nor were they latest fashion, but they had been tailored to fit him perfectly and appeared to be of high quality.
Still hanging loose around his face, his dark brown locks gleamed with golden highlights in the glow of the candles. This morning, his eyes appeared dark brown, the golden and green flecks practically invisible. His expression offered no hint of his thoughts or mood, which Daphne found disconcerting. It made this man dangerous, more so than she had imagined before coming here.
Once she’d eaten enough to ease the hollow sensation yawning in her stomach, she took a sip of her tea and glanced up to find him watching her. He’d cleaned his plate and now leaned back in his chair, staring at her in a way that left her feeling like a mouse being stalked by a cat.
Prey. That was how he made her feel … like game to be devoured by a predator.
“Is there something on your mind, little dove?” he murmured, inclining his head.
