Page 6 of Provocation
The alcohol burns as it goes down. I don’t like it, but I don’t let myself gasp or choke. I just regard them both, my pleasant smile playing on my lips.
‘She’s so spirited, isn’t she?’ Marcus takes a step toward me, his lips curving menacingly.
‘Enough, Marcus. Why don’t you leave me and my beautiful bride-to-be alone for a moment? Go and…look at the French castle interior that John has had repurposed for his…house.’
Marcus snorts. ‘Fine. Take your time. That maid with the huge rack was eyeing me up over dinner anyway.’
He leaves the room, giving me a wink on his way out, and Joe Banderville regards me like a wolf sighting a rabbit. He draws a hand through his black hair as he stands slowly and comes over to me, taking the glass from my hand.
I stand my ground. He puts it on the tray gently and turns to face me, towering over me, his broad shoulders making me feel small despite my four-inch heels.
His nostrils flare as he looks down at me.
‘Would you turn around and walk to the window, please?’ he asks. ‘Tell me what you see outside?’
I blink up at him and do it, almost without thinking. I tell myself it’s because I want to be away from him and not because of some submissive obedience that The Heath’s rules instilled into me over a decade.
At the window, I look out over the garden that’s lit by strategically placed lights.
‘I see John’s tiered gardens. The hedge. The lights along the paths,’ I say.
I feel him come up behind me slowly and see his eyes roving over me in the reflection of the glass. He moves so quickly that I don’t register what he’s done until my body is up against the freezing glass and he’s holding me there with my skin pressed to the pane.
The glass is cold. Hard.
Skin burning.
My senses flicker, my brain stuck in a loop around the way the glass feels for a good few seconds.
I finally gasp and open my mouth to scream, but he puts his hand over it. ‘I wouldn’t bother. I was advised to make sure you knew your place by your father. No one will come, but they’ll know. It’ll be very embarrassing for you when you next see our fathers and they’re able to guess I had to punish you in here. We Bandervilles like to keep these unfortunate domestic necessities out of the spotlight and behind closed doors where they belong.’
‘John’s not my father,’ I grind out from behind his hand.
Joe lets out a short laugh as he moves it away and I feel his body pressing against mine.
‘You don’t know me or my family,’ he says, keeping me in place easily when I try to struggle.
I feel his fingers trace the collar of my dress at the back and I press myself into the freezing windowpane to escape his touch even though that’s its own brand of torture.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ he murmurs too close to my ear. ‘To be frank, your mentaldeficienciesaren’t what I would have chosen for myself. Not for the woman I marry and produce heirs with. John seems to believe that, if caught early enough, they can be punished out of our children though, and my father is set on the idea of a connection between our families.’ He chuckles. ‘So, I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it.’
His hands run down my sides and I cringe. The same as in the games room with his brother, I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen against the wintery glass in more ways than one.
‘The elusive Marguerite Novelle will be my wife,’ he murmurs almost to himself. ‘I’ve heard the stories. John said you’ve been taught how to exist in our circles without being an awkward social pariah and it seems that he was telling the truth if dinner was anything to go by. Not one faux pas. I suppose there’s that at least.’
He moves against me, trapping me between the glass with his body.
‘Tell me,’ he whispers. ‘What would you do if I grabbed you by the pussy right now?’ His hand snakes around to my abdomen and I flinch.
‘I killed someone for less!’ I blurt.
He freezes. ‘Iknewit was true,’ he says quietly.
His laugh is low as he finally moves away. ‘But who hasn’t, darling?’
I think it’s over, but as I push myself off the window, he grabs me by the scruff of the neck and throws me over the high back of the nearest couch. My legs flail, but even in my heels I can’t reach the floor. I’m stuck.
I squeal as I struggle to stand up, but before I can, he grips me by the back of the neck and pushes my face into the cushions. The backs of my thighs are struck by something hard. The pain makes me cry out in agony into the couch. He hits me again,this time on my ass and I pull forward, trying to escape him, involuntary tears flooding my eyes as I claw at the couch. He does it four more times and when he stops, I feel as if my legs are going to fail me. I’m sobbing, the sounds muffled.
