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He squeezed her jaw hard enough that she had no doubt there would be bruising there on the morrow. “Yes you are.”
“No,” she managed to choke out past the pain and the fear. “I am not. You cannot force me to marry you.”
His lip curled. “I will not have to force you, my dear. When you consider the choices before you, you will beg to be my wife.”
Finally, her rage and hatred for him overcame all else. A rebellious surge rushed through her. She was not the girl he had cowed. She was nearly five-and-twenty. She had l
ived on her own, in secret, for almost seven years. She had earned her living and worked desperately hard just to be free of him. She would not surrender to this madman now!
Persephone spit in his face.
His reaction was almost instant. He slapped her so viciously, her teeth clacked together, and she bit her tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears, but she refused to blink and allow a single one of them to fall.
Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, Cousin Bartholomew reached into his waistcoat and extracted an embroidered handkerchief. Like the rest of his clothing, it looked impossibly expensive, and she had no doubt she had paid for it.
Holding her gaze, he wiped the spittle from his lips and cheek. “That was badly done of you, my dear. In time, you will grow to learn that I am a fair man. If you obey me and seek to please me as a proper wife ought, I will be kind to you in return. If, however, you are disobedient, I will be left with no choice but to punish you.”
She remembered how much he liked punishment. Just how much it pleased him. Once, as a child, she had unintentionally spied him punishing a chambermaid with a riding crop while she had begged and pleaded with him to stop. Each denial had earned another slap. Sick to her stomach, Persephone had run, too terrified to ask the poor maid what had happened when later their paths had crossed. When she had grown older, she had come to understand there was something unnatural about him. That he enjoyed the pain of others.
Much as he was enjoying hers now.
His hand still gloved, he stroked her cheek in a feathery caress, his gaze on the tingling skin he had abused. “How ruddy your skin becomes after it has been struck. Such a pretty flush. I have a suspicion I shall be seeing more of it when you defy me.”
He meant to beat her. And he would find pleasure in every moment of it.
“I will not marry you,” she said. “You cannot force me into a marriage.”
But even as she issued the denial, she knew how weak it was. Cousin Bartholomew was a powerful man with powerful friends, capable of any depravity, willing to commit any sin to further his cause. That was why she had run seven years ago rather than remain at Silwood Manor. It was a miracle she had eluded him for this long.
He’d had control of her fortune from the time her father had died when she had been but nine years old. And he had been determined to do anything and everything in his power to keep her inheritance in his greedy claws.
“If you refuse, I will have your rookeries-born ruffian rat killed.”
The dull pulse of dread which had been her constant companion since his arrival in her shabby little room tightened into a cold knot of fear. Surely he could not be speaking of Rafe. There was no way he would know she had formed an attachment with him, that he was the man she loved.
She stiffened. “Mr. Jasper Sutton was my employer, Cousin. He did nothing more than provide me with shelter and fair recompense in return for my labor. He is a fine man and undeserving of your wrath.”
“It is not Mr. Jasper Sutton I speak of, my dear.” His grin was pure evil, utterly triumphant. “I am referring to his younger brother, Mr. Rafael Sutton. It is he who attacked Lord Gregson.”
She bit her inner lip, willing her face to remain an expressionless mask. Refusing to give him any satisfaction or proof he was right.
“Silent, my dear?” Again, one of his cutting laughs. Strange how viciousness could cloak mirth and become so ominous.
If anything were to happen to Rafe because of her, she would never forgive herself.
“Very well,” she said. “I will go with you.”
Her portmanteau was already packed.
* * *
“Are you going to spend the rest of your life rattling Saint Hugh’s bones and drowning your bloody arse in jackey?” his younger brother Hart asked grimly at Rafe’s side.
The interior of The Devil’s Spawn was swirling around the edges of his blurred vision, a state that was likely partially caused by the fact that he could not recall when last he had slept and partly thanks to the gin he’d been drinking all evening.
“Rolling dice is a good fucking distraction,” he informed Hart crudely, wondering why he had allowed the arsehole to accompany him this evening.
Hell, had Hart even asked permission? Rafe struggled to sift through the murky shadows of his mind and could not recall how he had come to be here, sitting at the green baize and wagering half his blunt away on what would have once been enemy territory. Their families had been forever joined when Rafe’s sister Caro had wed Gavin Winter, putting an end to the feud that had once divided Winters and Suttons.
