His wizened butler, Baltus, appeared at the door. “Welcome back, sir.”
Blankenship only growled and stamped past him into the hall. He shrugged out of his coat and threw it at the footman who waited by the stairs.
“Bring me brandy in my study, Baltus.”
The dimly-lit study reflected the remainder of the house. Years of grime coated the windows and fireplace. Dust layered the books on the shelves and ink stains splotched the worn carpet beneath his desk. He had more than enough money to keep his house clean and in good repair, but he rather liked the symbolic decay of his living quarters. It reminded him of his own life, and urged him to fight harder to claim what he desired. Emily Parr.
Blankenship threw himself into his chair and closedhis eyes. His anger was a living, breathing creature, burrowed deep in his chest. Its bloody claws raked his insides and its beady black eyes fixed on his soul. He challenged the beast, pinning it inside the dark place in his head. He still had control, for a while yet.
The butler entered with a decanter of brandy and poured a glass, setting it on the counter.
“Will there be anything else?” Baltus wheezed.
“No.”
Blankenship wrapped a fist around the crystal and swirled the amber contents around. The rich color was like Emily’s hair. His thoughts drifted back to the girl. He had to possess her. Her mother had escaped his grasp, but Emily would not.
Nineteen years ago, when he’d been in his late thirties, he’d still made social rounds in pursuit of a bride. The simpering, delicate flowers of thetonhadn’t impressed him until he met Clara.
Clara Belarmy. Witty, intelligent and a true diamond of the first water. With auburn gold hair, eyes the color of succulent plums. She was an original.
He had loved her, like every other man. He spent a fortune in bouquets on her, danced more than one of those dreadful quadrilles with her. Yet she never turned her gaze his way. She always slipped off in the middle of balls to be with that young, idealistic fool, Robert Parr.
Yet Blankenship had held out hope she might consider him for a husband, given his wealth. He’d shown up on her doorstop, his mother’s ring fitted just for her. Clara hadn’t been available for visitors, and the butler turned him away. As he passed the window thatfaced the street, he caught a glimpse of Clara tucked in Robert’s arms, kissing him with wild abandon.
He knew what sort of woman gave her charms to the first willing man. A harlot.
After that he abandoned London’s ballrooms altogether. He focused on his business deals and harmed any investments Robert Parr made, forcing the young wedded couple to relocate to the country, where living expenses weren’t so high.
But it hadn’t been enough. He needed to wound Clara as much as she’d wounded him.
The news of her and Robert’s deaths left him cold inside. He ground his teeth at the memory. Without the fires of hatred to fuel him, he’d kept a loaded pistol in his study, ready to fill his mouth.
Then he learned of Emily.
How Clara kept the girl a secret he didn’t know. But, once he heard the girl had moved in with her uncle, he had to see her.
He began to visit Albert at his club, talking him into taking loans for investment opportunities. It was only too easy to convince Albert to invest with him and even easier to see that such schemes failed miserably. Parr had been forced to offer Emily up as a potential bride in order to settle debts. In a matter of days he secured an invitation to Parr’s residence.
Finally, Blankenship caught a glimpse of her, seated at a table in the small library, her hair undressed so that it hung in riotous waves the color of evening sunlight about her shoulders. She looked every inch the wanton creature he craved beneath him in his bed.
For a second, his youthful longing flared up, like a distant star, before night fell heavy in his hardened heart.
She was just like her mother. A tease.
Women like her belonged on their knees.
In his study, Blankenship’s lips curved in a lazy smile. Soon she would be his. Emily would wear the loveliest gowns, the most expensive jewels. Thetonwould know he was her master, and with her by his side, he would put those aristocrats in their place.
Each night, he would rip the clothes from Emily’s body, bend her over the nearest hard surface and plow her until she begged for mercy. He’d let her maintain a fiery spirit, just to keep things interesting. Punishing her rebelliousness would be intensely arousing. Having Emily under his control would ease the ache of losing her mother. It was only fair.
He palmed his aching arousal, groaning at the thought of digging his hands into Emily’s hair to force himself into her mouth. Her body would be a haven for his own longings and would make up for the years of dissatisfaction he’d had with other women when all he’d wanted had been Clara. If he pretended hard enough, Emily would be Clara, Clara would be Emily, they would be one and the same and his hunger for pleasure and for Clara would be sated.
Visions of Clara still haunted his closed eyes. He hadn’t always craved to hurt, to punish. If only he’d had Clara for his own, he would have been gentle, taken care of her. But she’d refused him, married that young buck, and dashed every dream Blankenship had.
Emily was the price of revenge for his shattered dreams. She would pay for her mother’s betrayal. She would bear his brats, secure his line and curry favor with thetonso that he could line his pockets with their wealth.
He sipped his glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair.
