She was so pale. Michael held her hand in his and kneaded her palm, her fingers, her wrist. At his touch, she eventually relaxed into the sofa. Once her hand had warmed up, he took the other and massaged it.
“Lilly,” he whispered.
She’d apparently fallen asleep. Her head had tilted to the side, and her lips parted. Soft breaths came slow and even. Studying her hand in his, a deluge of emotion rushed over him. He lifted it to his lips and held it there.
A breeze caused the drapes to flutter and sway. It was still early spring, and a chill, if not a downright frostiness, hung in the air. Michael tucked her hand onto her lap and located a crocheted blanket. Arranging it over her, it struck him she might be more vulnerable than she would admit to.
At seventeen, she had been brave and daring. Now she carried with her a frailty that was new. When they courted, long ago, the world had been her oyster. She now seemed as though she carried it on her shoulders.
Michael kneeled on the floor and removed her well-worn half boots. He then lifted her feet onto the loveseat and tucked her skirts around her cozily. Standing up, he decided he had best make his leave. He would have Jarvis send for a maid, so that she would not be alone.
He turned to leave but then paused.
Unable to help himself, he leaned down and placed his lipsupon her forehead. At the same time, Miss Fussy jumped back up to burrow in with her mistress.
At least he was leaving her in good hands.
Lilly’s wedding night,1815
She was dreaming.
With her back pressed against the stone wall, she stood in the cave, behind the waterfall, and Michael was kissing her. But the kisses were wrong.
The lips scratched her, harshly demanding something she did not wish to give. Her teeth ground into her own gums, and she tasted blood. Blood?
Her eyes flew open in panic.
Enough moonlight flooded the room that she could see that it was Lord Beauchamp!
Her new husband had apparently decided, after all, to claim his marital rights. Surprised, angered, and a little frightened by his treatment, she pushed him away. “That hurts. Please, stop. You are hurting me.” His breath reeked of spirits as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She tried turning her head away, but he would not allow it.
It was just light enough that she could see his eyes. They were clouded with, not desire, but some form of hysterical lasciviousness.
“Rose.”
His hands went to pull her nightgown up. His own weight hampered his effort so he had to tug at the offending garment a second time, ripping the material as he did so.
This was not right.
This felt horrible. Horrible and degrading. His frenzied hands moved over her body with what felt like a bruising intent.
She began to feel very afraid.
Although not a large man, Lord Beauchamp was considerably stronger than Lilly. She tried pushing him off, but he thwarted her efforts. He seemed disoriented, even to himself.
“Rose.” He said it again.
Did he think Lilly was some apparition of her sister? And yet she knew he’d never treated Rose this way. Rose would never have allowed it.
There was no tenderness. There were no sweet kisses or whispered endearments.
Only this…attack!
And then all hope left her.
The very small amount of optimism Lilly had grasped at for this marriage shattered when he entered her. He took her rudely, showing no care or feeling for her has a woman, or a person even.
What was she supposed to do? He was her husband, and yet, his rough treatment caused her to whimper in pain. At the sound of her crying, he paused. An acute awareness filled his eyes, followed by disgust.
