“There will be no audience with my wife,” he snapped. No chance for the blighter to punish Daisy. No chance for him to harm her ever again. “You will speak before me or no one.”
Vanreid’s lip curled into a sneer. “Who do you think you are? I could have you arrested for your conduct! Pawing at her in a public place, abducting her for a secret wedding. Good God, I haven’t even any proof this marriage is valid.”
Sebastian took a menacing step forward, bringing Daisy with him. The desire to plant his fist directly into Vanreid’s nose was overwhelmingly strong. “Our marriage is legal, binding, and consummated. You will speak to my wife before me or you will not speak to her at all. Furthermore, you will address her with courtesy. You will give her the respect she is due as the Duchess of Trent. If you dare to say a word against her, I’ll have you removed at once.”
Daisy’s hand, resting in the crook of his elbow for support, tightened on him then in unspoken gratitude. But he didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted her freedom. Their marriage was complex, their circumstances even more so. Of one thing, however, he was certain, and it was that he never again wanted to see Daisy Vanreid cower to filth like her father.
“Leave now, Father,” Daisy said, finally using her voice and reclaiming the power that had so long been denied her. “I don’t wish to speak to you.”
Vanreid had eyes only for his daughter, and Sebastian didn’t like what he read within the sinister depths. “You betrayed me. I paid handsomely to garner you a husband, and you disgraced yourself, acting the trollop. I always knew you had your mother’s sinful nature.”
Daisy blanched, her fingers biting into Sebastian’s flesh. “You paid to have me do your bidding, to marry me off to a decrepit scoundrel whose cruelty matches your own. I did what I needed to in order to secure my freedom from such an appalling union. As for my mother, you aren’t worthy of speaking her name. Leave now, and never return.”
“You will depart of your own accord,” he ground out when the bastard hesitated, looking as if he wished to spew more acidic rage, “or be forcibly removed, Vanreid. The choice is yours.”
Vanreid’s dark eyes glinted the obsidian of the harshest, darkest night as he stared down first Daisy and then Sebastian. “I will go. But mark my words. This shall be your greatest regret.”
Sebastian had faced far more worthy opponents than a ruddy-faced tyrant with a penchant for abusing his innocent daughter. But even so, something about Vanreid’s countenance chilled his blood.
Keeping his expression carefully rigid, he called out for Giles, who had strayed far enough for propriety but not too far. The butler appeared, two burly footmen at the ready.
“Your Grace?”
“See Mr. Vanreid to the door, if you please,” Sebastian instructed Giles, careful to keep his tone languid. His training had been stamped into his marrow.Show no weakness. Bend to no one.Offer no mercy.“I shouldn’t think he’ll be returning.”
“You will regret this,” Vanreid hissed, his tone as dark as his expression. Those dark, devil’s eyes of his focused on Daisy alone. “Mark my words. One day, you’ll regret this, but by then it will be far, far too late to save yourself.”
Daisy swayed into Sebastian, and he steadied her with ease. It was a natural gesture, instinctive reaction, being her support. Something deep inside him wanted to tear out Vanreid’s throat. To beat him to a bloody pulp for daring to harm the woman at his side. For daring to attempt to control her and foist her lush, vibrant beauty and mind off on an old lecher for his own benefit.
“Go to hell,” Sebastian growled as the footmen—who were in truth far more than mere footmen—crowded Vanreid, prodding him to begin his retreat.
“You’ll join me there one day, Trent,” Vanreid swore before turning on his heel and stalking away.
Daisy’s father disappeared from view in the great hall. So too the footmen and the ever-vigilant Giles. The moment he was gone, Daisy tore herself from Sebastian. He felt the abrupt departure as if some part of himself had been suddenly removed.
“He is gone now,” he said to his wife, unnecessarily. And because the silence between them was awkward and because he was acutely aware that he’d spent their wedding night tippling whisky and because he knew she was displeased with him.
It didn’t matter that he didn’t know who Daisy Vanreid truly was. That she was a cipher to him. A woman he was warned against, and yet ordered to keep close. A woman who could be capable of incredible deceit and depravity if the information he’d received about her was to be believed. A woman he was drawn to more than anyone else before her, against all good judgment and certainly against all reason.
She faced him, as august as the queen. “You never returned last night.”
He clasped his wrists behind his back, unapologetic because he could not afford to be. Feeling like a cad anyway. “No.”
“You smell of spirits,” she accused. “Tell me, Your Grace. I would hope that our marriage could at least begin in honesty. Do you have a mistress? Is that where you spent the night?”
He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Ladies weren’t meant to be so forthright. His father had kept his position in the Special League from his mother for the entirety of their union. He had also kept a mistress for fifteen years. His mother had never been aware of either fact.
But Sebastian had. His mother had been a good woman, kindhearted and gentle. She’d deserved far more than his father’s callous deception. Sebastian had thought it then, and he thought it now. The only difference was that now he understood what it was like to bear the onerous burden of membership in the League.
It fostered deception. It took a man’s life from his own hands.
“I do not,” he answered Daisy truthfully.Not that it is any of your concern.“This is not the sort of dialogue we ought to have here.”
Not with the servants about. Not when he was still half in his cups, head still pounding like the devil’s blacksmith himself was using his cranium as an anvil. Better yet, it was a conversation they ought never to have, for what could he say?
How was he to explain himself to her when he could not? When he could not even trust her? When she was his bloody wife, and there was nothing he wanted more than to strip her from her layers and lose himself inside her softness, but he could not touch her? Yesterday had been a mistake. He had no right to touch her, to kiss her, to long for more. Today was a mistake. Standing here, now, in the same space as her, breathing in her exotic scent, was a grievous error.
Misery slithered through him. He wasn’t meant to feel anything for her. She was a means to an end. So why the hell did her stricken, pale face rattle him? Why did seeing her so vulnerable make him want to take her into his arms?
