Page 3 of When He Was Wicked
The soft contempt in his voice rattled her composure, and every touch of his eyes on her veil felt fraught with peril.
He took a drink, peering at her over the rim of the glass. After taking several sips, he said, "I do not care about the pretty little gossips you’ve heard about me in your drawing rooms and balls. And I cannot fathom why you believe I would help you to do anything as outlandish as learn tofight. Bloody hell. I am not even certain I gather your meaning or intention. I may not have mixed with your set long, but you are all about propriety and ridiculous exacting standards.”
He stood, and Verity rose, clasping her hands before her middle. The posture was a defensive one, but she couldn’t help it.
“I cannot help you. Now I will ask you to take your leave.”
“My lord…” At first, her plan had struck her as desperate and simpleminded. But the more she'd pondered the matter, the clearer her sense of purpose became. And she’d had five long days and nights to plan her next steps. She could not rely on her brother, the Earl of Sutcliffe, to be her defender and protector. Once she had loved him dearly, as a sister ought to love her brother, but he’d not seen her as more than a nuisance, a duty to discard. The wealthier the bidder the better, if he had his way. Nor did he believe in her and defended her honor when she’d needed him the most, instead, he had threatened to commit her to a mental institution.
How she wished she could walk over to the earl, take his hands, and press the tips of his fingers to her temple and have every thought flow from her mind to his. Four years ago, when she had been a silly, idealistic eighteen-year-old debutante, a lecherous snake had attacked her. The visions of grasping hands, punishing kisses, brutal fingers digging into her thighs, the rending of her clothes churned in her thoughts. As always, the memory made her gorge rise, and she fought to hide the reaction.
That man, Marquess Durham, had not managed to rape her, but he had hurt, humiliated, and frightened Verity terribly. For four years she had hidden away from the memory and the shame of it all in Bedfordshire, to her mother and brother’s relief. Somehow, she knew deep down, one of the steps in reclaiming herself was to know how to fight. It was outrageous, scandalous, bordered on the brink of madness, but she needed to do something.
Lord Maschelly set his glass down on the table with a softclinkand made to walk away.
“I dare because I do not want to be afraid anymore,” she said softly.
And she would see the very brute who had attacked her within society. A beast her brother called a friend. A blackguard society loved and respected. The heir to a respectable and powerful dukedom. The very awareness of it made her want to vomit.
The earl froze and his arresting gaze landed on her. “And of what are you afraid?”
Of being helpless again, of having no one believe me or to defend my pride and honor. When she had fled to her brother, her clothes torn, her cheeks bruised and her lips bloodied, he hadn't demanded her attacker’s name to make the man pay for his crimes. Albert had asked one question with her mother looking on with tears in her eyes.
Can we force him to marry you?
As if what had happened had been a case of a compromising situation.
Her soul had recoiled at the repugnant notion. She’d answered no with all honesty for Durham had been recently married. They had not asked for her attacker’s identity, and she had been too afraid to give it, believing his conduct to be her fault. Once she’d wanted a whirlwind courtship, a handsome beau who would woo her most ardently and then propose. She had wished for it, desired it, and hoped endlessly. Suddenly all her dreams had vanished like smoke in the wind, buried under shame, doubt, and fear.
When the marquess had attacked Verity, somehow, he’d stolen her confidence and dreams, left her guilt-ridden, and it infuriated her knowing that she had allowed it for four long years. And though her brother wanted her off his hands, it had been convenient for the family to agree for Verity to remain in the country to help nurse Aunt Imogen who had been feeling poorly for some time.No more. One of the steps in reclaiming herself was to be able to defend herself. Even if she would neveruse the knowledge, the fact that shecould, perhaps then she would no longer scream at shadows.
“What are you afraid of?” he repeated, his tone low and curious.
“Someone…someone hurt me.” It took so much to admit that when her family had made her feel at fault. “There are consequences to youthful exuberance,” her mother had cried at one point.
Taking a deep breath, Verity repeated it, only stronger this time. “Someone hurt me.”
The earl faltered into remarkable stillness, a dark expression crossing his face before his mien shuttered.
She waited in pained silence for his response.
Finally, he asked, “Do I need to summon a doctor?”
“No,” she said, clearing her throat delicately. “It was some years ago.”
His curious expression didn’t change, and it was making her uncomfortable. “Then it is no concern of mine, lady.”
How remarkably disinterested he sounded. The notion he would have aided her had been wild and farfetched. In the realms of possibilities, it was along the same ideas of dragons being real. Yet the disappointment that lodged against her stomach felt like a massive boulder, pushing her into the carpeted floor.
“I…I heard a story of how you helped Lady Morton with a delicate problem she had, and Miss Cecily Bateman. You broke Lady Morton’s husband’s arm for beating her most severely, and Miss Cecily's blackmailer had been persuaded to direct his nefarious attentions elsewhere. From your expression, I am assuming there is some veracity to those stories. I was hoping you would help me too.Please.” And everyone knew that a lord had slapped his servant at Tattersall last week and Maschellyhad intervened. Despite everything, he was kind. “I gambled my reputation in coming to see you.”
“I am sorry you undertook the disagreeable task of coming here this late for nothing. I cannot help you.”
Verity felt tears prick behind her lids, and she lifted her chin, grateful he could not see that she was on the verge of crumbling. She had been so hopeful. “May I tell you a story before I leave?”
He stared at her, a peculiar expression on his face. “Go on,” he urged softly.
“Five years and eleven months ago, a young lady met a lord, a friend of her brother’s, whom she believed to be good-natured and amiable. Being eighteen years at the time, she was hopeful, and wistful with dreams of a prince charming, an unmatched love, and marriage and family. So…she foolishly allowed the lord to kiss her.” The memory unsettled Verity sufficiently to make her press a hand over her mouth through the veil, even though she recounted the experience from an out of body perspective.
