Seven
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - MARCH 4, 1814
JULIET
I was determinedto pay them no notice. Lady Charlotte and her admirers would not ruin my enjoyment of the evening. Kate had decorated the ballroom so beautifully, it was a turnout to be proud of, and all remarked on the food. My dance with His Grace, while not the magical moment Kate had predicted, was very nice.
I thought I had done well with the dress. It was one of the last ones my stepmother ever had created—a dark rose pink chiffon with gathering on the bust and rosettes on the hem, neckline, and sleeves. Sophie was smaller than me, and I had difficulty finding the right lace to add to lengthen the hem. There had not been enough excess to let it down, and the rosettes had made the process more difficult. True, I could not locate the jewels she typically paired it with, but the effect was more than passible.
Still, I should have known Charlotte would find fault with my work. She found fault in my every move since my betrothal was announced. She had set her cap at His Grace several seasons prior. Kate told me their courtship was abruptly dropped. She had not been able to discern the reason. But Charlotte was left to wed a plain baron of no notable means in lieu of a handsome duke of considerable fortune.
Eventually, the rumormongers abandoned me in search of other victims. My pride finally allowed a retreat. I slipped into the corridor, down the long halls toward the library. Kate would not mind my escape; she all but offered it as a refuge when I first arrived tonight. She would not begrudge me a novel.
The hall grew quiet the farther I journeyed from the ballroom. I pulled open one of the double doors to the library—my second home. Scents of vanilla, dust, parchment, and aged paste welcomed me. I left the door ajar for light rather than secure a candle. I knew my way around.
I set my evening gloves on the cloth-covered table between the windows. Thumbing titles quietly in the slip of light from the hall, I explored, more than one novel sparking interest.
Distracted as I was, the jangle of the secondary door opening startled me. In the months I had been calling here, no one had ever been in the library but Kate.
I could not explain the panic that flooded me. My perusal could hardly be offensive to anyone. Without conscious decision, I threw myself under the table. Crouching beneath the delicate draping, I pressed my hands tight to my mouth, covering my harsh breaths.
Now that I had made the undignified choice to hide like a thief, I was trapped until the intruder left. I could only hope their visit was a short one. I flopped indecorously to my rear, silent in my endeavor.
My breathing was harsh in my ears. Over the top of it, I could hear heavy masculine footsteps. The panic was rising, one… two… three… inhale. Exhale. I had to pull my hand away to quiet the sound, it was harsh against my skin.
There was an indiscriminate tap, tap, tap of a finger dragging against the spines of hardbound tomes. Each step, each tap, brought him closer to my table. No more than a foot from me, he made a selection, the whisper of leather against leather severe in the silence. The spine cracked open, tight from disuse. Pages sighed, brushing against one another as he flipped through them with disinterest. The book sang with his perusal.
The peace was interrupted by a new cacophony coming from the direction of the hall. The jarring sound of muffled voices, discordant in the quiet, joined the melody. My heart dropped with understanding, blood frozen in my extremities.
I was alone.
With a man.
In a darkened library.
Soon to be full of witnesses.
I was ruined. His Grace would never have me. No one would have me. I would be a burden to my father forever. He would turn me out, and I would wander the streets as a beggar. Or worse still, live in that house, wraithlike, until his temper consumed me the way it had Sophie.
Just when I was convinced this situation could not be more disastrous, my captor leaned back against the table. It was not such a large table that I could move away. One misstep, and he would kick me. I pressed both hands tightly to my mouth to suppress the terrified squeak that fought to escape.
Through the gauzy fabric, I made out a pair of fine boots, imposing in their size. The quality was excellent, leather soft as butter. They were clearly well-maintained, polished, and shined to a mirror finish. But care could not hide the worn soles; these were well-loved. Thick, masculine calves peeked out just at the top into satin breeches, black. It was difficult to discern the quality of the fabric through the haze of tablecloth, but the fit was exceptional.
The hall entry clanged open farther, banging against the opposite wall. I winced, reminded of my ever worsening, ever more scandalous, completely ruinous position. There was a stumble, feet tripping across the carpet. Feet that were attached to a gentleman; heavier than a lady’s, by the sound of it. He stumbled to a halt before my unknowing captor.
“Just talk, remember.” A sturdy, honeyed voice warned from the hall. Terror found a home inside me once more. Some poor man had been thrown to my jailor for threats?
The hall doors clattered closed, shrouding the room in darkness. We were alone. My captor, his victim, and myself. The only remaining light streamed from the open study door, wavering in the low-burning fire. It left a masculine silhouette through my cloth—the prisoner.
“Dalton,” a silvery voice drawled above me, filled with barely checked distaste.
My breathing ceased entirely. Caught. My joints, frozen in terror, ceased to obey commands as I tried to control my panicked breathing.
“Wayland.”
My stomach sank through the floor with that single word, that familiar voice. I bit back a hysterical sob. I would recognize that venomous hiss anywhere—my father. The man was threatening my father. I had not been caught out. But this monster had my father. For better or worse, the only family I had in the world.
“You’ve been dodging me.”
