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Overture
Women are whores. They’re born that way. Such is the fault of their original mother. Eve was the one who tempted Adam into eating that forbidden fruit. That’s what women do. They tempt. That we men cannot resist temptation is not our fault. The fault lies with the women.
My own mother was the empress of the whores. She fed us by lying on her back, letting men stuff their cocks into her dirty cunt while I kept my brothers quiet in the next room. I have no idea who my father was, and I doubt any of my brothers were my true full-blooded brothers. Every year or so, another brother came along. Mother never gave birth to girls. Just as well. I’d have to see that the dirty little hussies were fed.
Man after man filtered through our small shack, sometimes tossing a biscuit to my brothers and me. We’d scramble to see who could get it first. Usually, I let Liam have the biggest piece. He was small and weak for his age.
“I’m hungry, Brian,” he used to whine.
“I know, lad,” I’d say, my heart breaking.
That little boy was the only thing I ever loved in my life.
Until…
Liam died when he was six. Mother laid him outside in the gutter among the piss and shit. Eventually his little grey body disappeared.
I didn’t cry for Liam.
I don’t cry. Crying is for filthy women cunts.
I never thought I’d find a woman who wasn’t a dirty whore.
Until her.
Lady Sophie MacIntyre.
She is quiet, reserved. A cross or profane word never leaves her rosy lips. She is the opposite of her bitch sister. She is perfection, an angel, with long blond hair and beautiful green-gold eyes. She sings to herself, and when I can, I sneak into the conservatory and listen to her.
A young man used to visit her, but I made quick work of him. Finding a common harlot to seduce him and pretend she was with child was almost too simple.
She will be mine soon. The day of reckoning comes.
My graceful Sophie now sits in the conservatory, her fingers dancing over the piano keys.
Sing for me, Sophie.
But she does not. Her elegant face is in turmoil as she plunks out random notes on the pianoforte. Something disturbs her, but what?
I will kill whatever it is.
I’ve only killed once in my life—my own hussy of a mother. I left her in the street as she had left Liam, among the human and animal waste. She was no better than filth, after all. Then I took my brothers to orphanages and workhouses. I found work at the townhome of an English lord and quickly made myself indispensable to the family. Years later I moved to their estate in the country and worked like a dog, renting a small dwelling at the edge of the estate for my brother Harry—the only one of my brothers I could find after searching, a giant who wasn’t right in the head—to live in.
I never killed again. Oh, I’ve wanted to, but I’ve held my desires back. What good would rotting in Newgate do me?
For Sophie, I would kill.
I have watched her from afar for so long now, and she never leaves my thoughts, tormenting me, haunting me. I dream of her day and night.
When I claim her, I will keep her safe from the outside world. She needs to be kept, secluded, locked up, so nothing will spoil her perfection. I will take care of her.
Always.
ACT I
Chapter ONE
Brighton Estate, Wiltshire, England
April 1854
Was it possible for one’s heart to fill to bursting yet break at the same time? For that was what Lady Sophie MacIntyre felt as she held her cousin’s infant. In her arms cooed Morgan Daniel Charles Crispin Farnsworth, Marquess of Gordonshire and heir to the Lybrook dukedom. Morgan’s mother was Sophie’s cousin, Lily Jameson Farnsworth, the Duchess of Lybrook. The tiny marquess was beautiful, with his mother’s dark hair, and blue eyes that had begun to turn an exotic emerald green, just like his father’s. His little fist clasped Sophie’s pinky finger, and her womb skipped a beat.
Such a splendid feeling, holding a baby. Holding one’s own baby would be even sweeter, but that would probably never be. Sophie’s sister, Lady Alexandra Xavier, was large with a child of her own, and Lily’s other cousin, Rose Jameson Price-Adams, held her infant daughter, Lady Joy Lily Price-Adams, who had bright blue eyes and the coal-black hair of her father, Cameron Price-Adams, the Earl of Thornton and heir to the Marquess of Denbigh.
Alexandra’s baby was sure to be just as fair as her cousins’. Ally’s chestnut hair and golden-brown eyes combined with her husband’s wheat-blond hair and warm brown eyes would surely produce a handsome or beautiful young nephew or niece for Sophie.
Alas, a baby was not in Sophie’s future. The only man who had paid her any attention in the last several years was Lord Marshall Van Arden, and even he had never formally courted her. After several months of visits, during which she’d allowed no liberties at all, Van Arden had broken off their friendship and married a commoner.
“Goodness gracious, Lily,” Ally was saying, “the poor child will grow ill from all those names.”
Lily smiled, her brown eyes shining. “We didn’t want to leave anyone out. This is the future duke, after all. In fact, I suggested five names, adding Thomas.”
“I’m sure our brother will understand why you didn’t include him in the mix,” Rose said, cuddling baby Joy.
“Yes, he did,” Lily replied. “In fact, he forbade me giving the child five names. So we settled on four.” She let out a chuckle.
