Page 2 of Devil at the Gates
“Thank you, Redmond… I…,” Millicent started, but her words died as Redmond stared at her.
“Don’t,” he warned before she could say another word. Redmond stalked from the room. He could not stand to listen to her thank him for letting her break his heart.
He didn’t go back to bed. There would be no sleeping now. He headed to his study and sat in the moonlit room as he retrieved a bottle of scotch from his liquor tray by his desk. He didn’t bother with the glasses. He simply drank from the bottle until his stomach revolted and he choked on the liquid. Then he leaned back in his chair and stared out the tall bay window overlooking the road that led to the cliffs. The sea would be harsh this time of year, the fall winds giving way to icy winter. He could simply go, walk out into the night and head to the cliffs. No one would see. No one would stop him. No one would care.
Thomas would become the Duke of Frostmore, and all would be well. Thomas had always been the favorite, the more handsome, more charming, more likable brother. He’d heard the whispers all his life: Why couldn’t Thomas have been born the first son? Even his own parents had preferred Thomas. Redmond was quiet, intense, gruff at times, and not everyone understood him. Now it had cost him what little happiness he had carved out for himself.
Why had he ever thought Millicent would choose him when Thomas was at his side? From the moment he’d met the girl, her laughs had been for Thomas, her smiles, even her cries of passion. Redmond had never stood a chance.
Because I wanted to be loved, fool that I am.
He stared out at the cliffs a long time before he made a decision. A divorced man would have few options—no decent woman would ever be enticed by his title to become a second duchess after such a scandal broke. There was only one way to end this. He rose from his chair and grasped the bottle of scotch, taking another long, burning swallow.
“I never wished to be a bloody duke anyway,” he muttered as he walked unsteadily out the door of Frostmore, his ancestral home. “Good riddance.”
He stumbled a little but kept walking toward the cliffs until he could hear the crashing sound of the waves. There was nothing more beautiful or haunting than the sea when she was angry. Rain lashed his face and blinded his eyes to all but the lightning splitting the skies overhead. He moved numbly across the cold grass until he felt the rocky ledge was beneath his feet, and he wavered at the edge, his breath coming fast and his head spinning from grief and alcohol. All he wanted in that moment was for it to be over, to lose himself in the dark violence of the sea below. Then he took that final step toward the craggy abyss…
1
Faversham, England - Seven Years Later
The bedchamber in Thursley Manor was dark except for a few lit oil lamps. The wind whistled clearly through the cracks in the mortar in between the stones. Harriet Russell tried to ignore the storm outside as she clutched her mother’s hand. This old house, with its creaks and groans in the night, had never been a home to either of them, yet Harriet feared it would be her mother’s last resting place.
“Harriet.” Her mother moaned her name. Pain soaked each syllable as her mother coughed. The raspy sound tore at Harriet’s heart.
Harriet brushed her other hand over her mother’s forehead. “Rest, Mama.” Beneath the oil lamp’s glow, her mother’s face was pale, and sweat dewed upon her skin as fever raged throughout her body.
“So little time,” her mother said with a sigh. “I must tell you…” Harriet watched her mother struggle for words and the breath to speak. “Soon… You will be twenty. Your father…”
Harriet didn’t correct her, but George Halifax had never been her father. No, the man who held that title had died when she was fourteen. Edward Russell had been a famous fencing master, both in England and on the continent. He’d also been a loving man with laughing eyes and a quick wit whom she missed with her whole heart.
“Yes, Mama?” She desperately needed to hear what her mother had to say.
“George is your guardian, but on your birthday, you will be free to live your life as you choose.”
Free. What an amazing notion. How desperately she longed for that day to come. George was a vile man who made her skin crawl whenever she was in the same room as him, and she wished every day that her mother hadn’t been desperate enough to accept his offer of marriage. But fencing masters, even the greatest ones, did not make a living that could sustain a widow and a small daughter.
“Mama, you will get better.” Harriet dipped a fresh cloth in clean water and placed it over her mother’s brow.
“No, child. I won’t.” The weary certainty in her mother’s voice tore at her heart. But they both knew that consumption left few survivors. It had claimed her father’s laugh six years before, and now it would take her mother from her as well.
The bedchamber door opened, and Harriet turned, expecting to see one of the maids who had been checking on them every few hours to see if they needed anything. But her stepfather stood there. George Halifax was a tall man, with bulk and muscle in equal measures. The very sight of him chilled her blood. She’d spent the last six years trying to avoid his attentions, even locking her door every night just to be sure. She may be only nineteen, but she had grown up quickly under this man’s roof and learned to fear what men desired of her.
“Ah…my dearest wife and daughter.” George’s tone sounded outwardly sincere, but there was the barest hint of mocking beneath it. He moved into the room, boots thudding hard on the stone. He was so different from her father. Edward had been tall and lithe, moving soundlessly with the grace of his profession in every step.
“Mother needs to rest.” Harriet looked at her mother, not George, as she spoke. Whenever she met his gaze, it made her entire body seize with panic, and her instincts urged her to run.
“Then perhaps you want to leave her to rest?” George challenged softly.
Harriet raised hateful eyes to his. “I won’t leave. She needs someone to look after her.”
“Yes, you will leave, daughter.” He stepped deeper into the room, fists clenched.
“I’m not your daughter,” Harriet said defiantly. His lecherous gaze swept over her body.
“You’re right. You could be so…much…more.” He paused between the last three words, emphasizing what she knew he had wanted for years.
“George…,” her mother, Emmeline, gasped. “No, please…”
