Soft colors of countryside blurred out the rain-streaked window, more from tears than the motion of the carriage. The quivers in her stomach increased.
She would have done anything in the world not to lose a moment so tender.
But if she had given him what he asked, she would have doubtless lost it anyway.
The man was a demon.
Bowles lifted his glass goblet to his lips and sipped at the fortified wine. The liquid burned as it slid down his throat—almost as much as it burned to watch such a ridiculous fool move his fingers along the twenty-seven strings of such an instrument.
The harp was perfect and meant for perfection. Not inept abilities. Situated in the corner of the ballroom with the eleven musicians, the gilt body and soundboard reflected light from the chandeliers. Vines and a cherub motif were engraved in the wood in testament to its power, elegance, and beauty.
No one appreciated beauty more than he did.
Or elegance.
Or power.
Downing the rest of his Madeira, he forced his gaze to travel the rest of the room. Gentlemen were already nudging for invitations to the ladies. Mammas were already giggling and whispering to their unattached daughters. Guests were pouring in and disrupting the arabesque-patterned chalk art on the wooden floor.
And then her.
He knew more from her face—the same innocent eyes and curls—than the fact that she entered the room on Felton Northwood’s arm. Miss Eliza Gillingham. A child turned woman, no thanks to him.
Woman, indeed.
He smiled despite himself, as the shawl slid off her shoulders and slender arms became visible between glove and sleeve. He wondered if there were still scars. Or if she remembered. Or if she ever flinched at the sight of a knife.
The music all died in the memory of her screams. My, how she’d screamed. The sound was elating. He was used to the grunts of men—the curses, the husky pleas, the shouts of pain as their mercy ran out.
But a child was different.Shewas different. The way she’d looked at him and succumbed to him and feared him had been more helpless than anything he’d ever witnessed in his life.
More pleasing too. Infinitely more pleasing.
Leaving his empty goblet on a footman’s tray, Bowles spared the glorious harp one last look before he made his exit from the ballroom. His absence would doubtless be unnoticed, and there were too many chances the child would recognize him, even after all these years.
’Twas good, even so, he had come. Like the harp, some things were too beautiful to be touched by inept hands.
If anyone killed Eliza Gillingham, it would be him.
Something was amiss.
Felton tugged Eliza back an inch or two as an overly round couple squeezed by them. He caught their faint murmurs—“The audacity of showing his face …”
“Upon my word, are we without scruples? To allow them residence in our village…all of us knowing that the father…scandalous to say the least …”
Indignation started low in his gut as the couple wandered too far away for him to hear.
Other eyes flicked their way. Faces half disappeared behind ivory fans, as they leaned close to each other and whispered. The room was on fire, smoldering with judgment and rumors and self-righteous assumptions.
And he was the burning sacrifice.
He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He should have known. He should have expected the womanly slap of revenge, the pride so hurt it must hurt his in return. Didn’t she know he had suffered enough?
Eliza’s fingers tightened around his arm. She glanced up at him, questions in her eyes, questions to which he had no words to answer.
Dash them.
Dash them all.
