“Shopping is a lady’s art,” her mother snapped in an uncharacteristic show of ire. “I despair of ever making a proper lady of you, Frederica. When you become Lady Willingham and assume all the duties associated with that noble title, you will understand just how trivial and foolish your old yearnings were. Nothing shall make you happier than being a wife and mother. It is your greatest obligation in life.”
Frederica knew she ought to refrain from pursuing the matter further, as arguments with the Duchess of Westlake were akin to spinning in a circle too many times. It made one terribly dizzy. “Are you happy, Mother? Is that why you spend most of your days buying fans and creams and gewgaws?”
Her mother’s gaze was inscrutable. Her shoulders stiffened, the feather on her turban bobbing comically. “Of course I am happy.”
“Perhaps I want to seek my own happiness,” she said softly. “If Father would only grant me my dowry—”
“His Grace will not countenance such folly,” her mother interrupted coldly. “You will marry, or you will become a companion to Lady Ogden.”
Of course.She was more than familiar with the threats issued by her father and upheld by her mother. Frederica was to marry the odious Lord Willingham or languish in the country with no prospects and no hope of ever completingThe Silent Baronor seeing it published. How unfair life was for a female. Had she been a male, she could have made something of herself like Duncan Kirkwood had. At the least, she would have been taken seriously. She would have had a choice in her future.
Just then, their butler, Elmwood, appeared to announce the arrival of the Earl of Willingham. Dread unfurled within Frederica as her mother instructed Elmwood they were at home and would be happy to receive his lordship.
The earl appeared, dressed in a claret waistcoat and buff breeches that was not as garish as his ordinary mode of dress. His cravat made up for it, a jarring cerulean tied in the Mathematical style. He bowed as Frederica found herself once again comparing the earl to Duncan. Mr. Kirkwood as she must think of him now, for she had used the last of her visits to his strange, exhilarating world.
Where one man blazed with vitality and sensual charm, owning any chamber with his presence, the other merely filled the room with his pomposity. Lord Willingham thought himself a catch, and he made no secret of it. Frederica knew precisely why he had settled upon her—Willingham’s father was rumored to have beggared his estates by gambling away nearly everything he had. The earl wanted Federica’s dowry, and she did not fool herself for a moment into believing he had more innocent motivation.
He was exchanging pleasantries with Mother, and Frederica scarcely paid them any heed until it was too late. He turned to her, offering his arm. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said smoothly to her mother. “A turn about the gardens will be ideal on this fine day. Come along, won’t you my lady?”
Willingham did not even wait for her response before leading her reluctantly to the small walled garden in the rear of the townhouse. The day was unseasonably warm, but Frederica could not stifle either her shiver or her misery as she walked alongside the earl in silence, her slippers crunching in the gravel along with his boots. She supposed he would go riding today, and for a moment, the most ridiculous urge to see Mr. Kirkwood atop a horse struck her.
She squelched it, knowing she did herself no favors in continuing to think of him. The man at her side was her future. They stopped before the hedges in the center of the garden, which had been trimmed into a perfect square. At its center was an assortment of long grasses, Sweet William, peony, and white Mignonette.
“You are radiant this morning, my lady,” he said with a remarkable lack of passion.
“Thank you,” she said, staring at the bold flowers and proud blades of grass swaying in the gentle breeze. Here were flowers she could appreciate, planted in the soil, roots dug into dirt, standing resilient day after day beneath the sun and moon. They would not be removed by the hands of a diligent servant in two days’ time, never to be thought of again.
“I will speak to your father tomorrow, Lady Frederica. It will be my honor to make you my countess.” Willingham’s voice was low in a pleasant enough sense, though it possessed none of the velvet suggestion laden in Duncan’s.
She turned to him at last, looking up into his rigid countenance. He was so proper, so foppish, so at odds with everything she wanted but could not have. “My lord, I have a confession to make. I am in the midst of writing a novel.”
“A novel, my lady?” His brows rose in question, disbelief evident in his tone and expression both. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not.” She did not flinch, continuing to meet his gaze. “I wish to see it published. As my husband, will you object to such an endeavor?”
“My dear Lady Frederica.” He laughed as though she had made a sally. “As the Countess of Willingham, you will find more than enough duties to occupy you. The woman’s place is as mother and wife. You shall be so fulfilled, I expect you will forget all about such childish fancies.”
Her future loomed before her, inviting as a grave. The earl would take her dowry and her body, owning her. She would provide him an heir, and he would strip her of everything she valued. It was entirely possible he would forbid her to write, and how would she gainsay him? What rights would she have as his chattel?
None.
She did not want to be the cut lilies, scentless and pure, untouched by the wildness of nature, never ruffled in a wind or soaked in the violence of a lashing rainstorm. She wanted to be the flowers thriving in the dirt.
She could not marry Willingham.
“I expect your countess would,” she told him. And the smile curving her lips had nothing to do with the earl and everything to do with the plan that had begun to blossom in her mind. “It is such a lovely day, my lord, but I do think we ought to return to my mother lest she suspect us of challenging propriety. I would so hate for my pristine reputation to bear a mark so soon to our nuptials.”
“Have patience, Lady Frederica,” he ordered, his tone clipped, his hands on her upper arms sudden and unexpected as they gripped her, biting into her tender flesh. “Before you flee, I would have what I have come for.”
Frederica did not have time to defend herself from the inevitable onslaught of his mouth, rough and wet. His tongue speared between her lips, aggressively darting into her mouth. He tasted bitter and unpleasant. His hands on her arms tightened painfully until she was sure the morrow would bring more bruising, and he made a low sound in his throat, as if he was enjoying this forced, unskilled meeting of lips. She held her breath and remained still, hoping he would stop.
But oddly, her indifference only served as encouragement. He kissed her harder, one of his hands going to her waist and then sliding higher, cupping her breast, his fingers biting into her flesh and sending a jolt of pain through her. Unlike Duncan’s skilled, masterful caresses, Willingham’s painful fervor made her cold. His tongue plowed deeper into her mouth. She reacted instinctively, biting it.
He released her at last, staring down at her with a new gleam in his eyes that sent a tremor through her. “I look forward to making you my wife, Lady Frederica. You will learn me, my dear. I will take great pleasure teaching you.”
She vowed it would never happen. As he escorted her back to her mother, she began to formulate a plan. It would either end in her ruin or her salvation. But in either case, she would never be the Countess of Willingham, and she would never have to suffer his kiss or his punishing touch again.
*
