She’d been marched upstairs between Morton the butler and the gardener he’d had to fetch, a man of gigantic proportions and a dull, bovine expression, and she’d been unable to do anything about it. Struggling and trying to escape would have done no good and only deprived her of her dignity. So she’d had to comply, and now here she was, really quite frightened but determined not to give in to her fears and, above all, wondering what Sir Julian’s next move might be. That it would not be logical, she was sure.
In case he took it into his head to force himself on her, her first act had been to search the entire room for something she could use as a weapon. This had not been a fruitless act and she now had, clutched in her right hand, a letter opener she’d found in the top drawer of the secretaire by the window. There’d been other useful things in there as well, so she’d already written a note asking for help, secreted a penknife in the front of her riding habit and poked a selection of the longest sewing needles into her clothing in various useful spots. She also had a pair of scissors, sadly small ones only suitable for embroidery, secreted on the bed beneath the hat she’d worn to ride over, and a packet of pins she wasn’t sure what to do with. She was, in other words, comparatively well-armed and very determined that he would not get the better of her.
It was most frustrating being stuck in this bedroom, locked in with that large guard outside the door. And it was very quiet. Too quiet. She’d already gone to the window and looked to see if it presented any means of escape. It did not. Thornby Grange was high ceilinged throughout so being on the first floor meant she was a good fifteen feet from the ground which happened to be paved terrace withouteven a nice inviting bush to break her fall. The windows were of the sash variety so afforded plenty of room for an escape, just not anywhere to go. And beyond the terrace lay the expanse of the formal gardens, empty of anyone, because of course the gardener was standing guard on her bedroom.
If only this room overlooked the front of the house where if someone had called she could have shouted to them for help. Even a tradesman would have been something, and surely no man could stand by and not help a lady in distress?
She’d left the window open so she could be warned of anyone’s presence outside by hearing voices, but it was making the room quite chilly. At least she was in her nice warm riding habit. That was a bonus.
The room did not possess a clock of any kind, and she didn’t carry a fob watch. Time had never been that important to her. However, now it was. How long before she was missed? He’d said he would send a messenger to say she’d been taken ill, but surely the girls wouldn’t believe him? Surely they’d realize something had happened to her. And if they told Harry, he wasn’t so gullible as to believe Sir Julian’s faradiddle, was he?
She couldn’t sit still and just do nothing, so she got up and walked up and down the room. It was spacious, but not really big enough for decent activity and she had to spin round with some degree of aggression every ten paces to march back again.
As she walked, she surveyed the room. She’d heard the key turn in the door onto the upstairs corridor, but the second door, that she strongly suspected led to Sir Julian’s own bedroom, was also locked on the other side. Luckily on this side she’d found a robust bolt and drawn it across. There was no way she was letting him in here with her. She’d already decided that if he tried to importune her, she was going for his eyes with the letter opener. It didn’t have a sharp point but she felt sure that in desperate circumstances she could insert it with enoughstrength to put him out of commission.
If it was a question of defending her virtue, she could do it.
In fact, she’d rather face him right now and do that to him than sit here waiting and waiting. That was what was beating her down. The not knowing what was going on nor what was going to happen next. And with every extra minute she had to stay there, trying to work out how to fend him off, she could feel her bravery slowly crumbling and fear taking over.
She had to remind herself she was made of the stern stuff that had given birth three times to large babies, that as a child she’d fallen out of a tree and broken her arm and not cried one tear, that she’d fallen off horses on numerous occasion including once when she’d been bucked off and ignominiously landed on her backside. An impact that had hurt considerably more than the broken arm and necessitated sitting on a cushion for a week.
And she most definitely could say no to him. She’d been stupid not to say no to him weeks, no, months ago. Her mother was to blame for that. She’d foolishly smiled that sweet smile her mother had encouraged her to cultivate for gentlemen and let him think she liked him. And he’d taken that and sprinkled copious manure on it until it had grown out of all proportion.
She huffed in disgust at her own stupidity as her marching took her to the window for the umpteenth time. Still no one in the garden, and even if there had been someone, they’d have been in Sir Julian’s pay, so that would have done her no good. Look at how Morton had ignored her pleas for help. The servants here were all too afraid of Sir Julian to help her. She turned the letter opener over in her hand, savoring what she’d like to do with it. It would be really quite disappointing if she didn’t get the opportunity to use it.
