Page 1 of When the Laird Claims
1
Have I always looked like this?
The woman in the mirror was not one that Victoria Bolton recognized, a blank-eyed ghost draped in the pretty shell of a wedding dress, fake rosiness dusted onto her cheeks and lips to give the impression of a blushing bride.
A maid yanked a satin glove up her forearm, bringing a hiss of pain to Victoria’s lips.
“It can’t be helped.” The maid grimaced. “These gloves need to go on, one way or the other.”
It had been over an hour since the maids had untied Victoria from where she was held captive, shackled to the bare floor, so she could not even have the comfort of sleeping on the bed. She could look at it, long for it, literally ache for that soft mattress, all part of the games her sadistic husband-to-be liked to play.
“Get on with it,” she whispered, closing her tired eyes.
I do not care anymore. At least if I am in pain, it means I am alive.
Her fingers were still partially numb from the tightness of her bonds, the marred skin of her wrists itching ferociously, making it impossible to think about anything else. That had its benefit too, she supposed, for if she was thinking about her scars, she would not have to dwell on the lifetime of cruelty that she would undoubtedly receive.
“You should have left her hands bound; I told you. If the Earl sees her free like this…” an older maid whispered to the first, tutting under her breath. They were speaking to one another as if Victoria were not there. Though with how detached she looked right now, perhaps that was a reasonable mistake to make.
“And how was I supposed to get the gloves on, hmm? It’s hard enough as it is, with all this… weeping skin. Besides, I could not just stand there and dress her while she was tied up like some… dog! It would be inhumane,” the other, younger than the first, replied.
“Yes, but do you know what the Earl will do to us if he finds out that she was untied?”
The younger glared at the older. “He will not find out, so it hardly matters.”
Victoria could just barely make out their expressions from the corner of her vision. She wanted to thank them for having even the smallest shred of decency, but she could not seem to bring herself to speak again. Her throat was still raw and uncomfortable from screaming and crying the night before. If she could have mustered the strength, she would have attempted to reassure them both that she had no intention of ever speaking to the Earl if she could help it, least of all to repay their small kindness with the betrayal of telling on them.
“He will send us away!” the older maid hissed.
“Surely he would not do something like that over something so trivial.”
“You have no idea what that man is capable of.”
“He is an earl, not the bloody king of England!”
“You want to try telling him that?!”
The maids seemed to remember that they were in the middle of readying Victoria, and that they were not actually alone. Their gazes cut to her reflection in the mirror, and all that Victoria could do as a way of acknowledging them was to blink slowly as she continued to rub at her wrists. If she did not manage to stop herself soon, the white gloves were going to have red rings showing right through the fabric. Would that not be a sight?
I look as if I am going to my own funeral.Her tall figure stood rigid, her pale face flinching as the two maids continued to flit around her, primping and preening her for the walk down the aisle to a man that she abhorred.
How pitiful it was that she, the eldest daughter of the Marquess of Barrington, Diamond of the season, celebrated by society, had found herself reduced to such a state. She had always thought her wedding day would be such a pleasant occasion. Tolerable, at least. She tried to summon the image of her sister to mind—the reason that she was still putting herself through all of this torment. She would not have ever allowed this mistreatment for any less worthy reason.
A knock at the bedroom door sent the two women attending to her into a tizzy.
“Who is it?” hissed one.
“How should I know?” hissed the other.
Victoria, however, knew who it was before the door opened, and her betrothed invited himself into a space thatshouldhave been private, for her use only. Was that not the very purpose of a bedchamber, to be somewhere one could find the smallest modicum of peace? But, of course, he could not allow that. He could not allow the illusion of control to be broken for even the smallest second.
It was getting harder and harder to be defiant.
I will not allow this weasel of a man to break me. I simply will not.
With the last vestiges of dignity that she could muster, she rolled her shoulders back just as the maids around her bowed their heads and removed their meddling hands from her person. They stood just off to the side as Charles Rowley, the Earl of Ashbrook, walked further into the room, further toward her. Honestly, it was a travesty that he was considered handsome. Such an eligible bachelor—that was what everybody in thetonsaid. It was a perfect match from the outside, the Diamond of the Season and the most handsome bachelor… at least that was what all the papers had published about their union.
Little did they know the truth about the vile man, the devil that lurked beneath the attractive mask, which was nothing more than a lure to draw in his next victim.
