Chapter 4
Hannah sat in the parlor, a book drooping from her fingertips as she stared out the window toward the garden behind the house. It had not even been twenty-four hours since she left her mysterious masked lover at the Donville Masquerade. It felt like forever. It felt like a moment.
It felt like she’d made a mistake.
Not in going to the bed with the man. That didn’t feel wrong at all. But since she had done so, since she had returned to her father’s home with the breezy lie that she had spent an evening at the theatre with Sophie and Rowan, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d refused.
He’d wanted her to stay. She should have stayed. She should have revealed herself to him, run away with him if he asked. Done anything to keep that feeling he’d created in her. Because she knew it would never be repeated.
“Hannah.”
She jumped, for she hadn’t heard the parlor door open in her distraction. She turned toward the door to find her father standing there. He was dressed very formally and his expression was serious and severe.
“Papa,” she said, good thoughts of the previous night disappearing, replaced with anxiety. Something was about to happen. She knew what it was. She wasn’t ready, even with the secret she was carrying.
“Stand up, girl,” he said, waving at her as if he could will her from the settee.
She set her book aside and did as she had been told. She could scarcely hear over the pounding of her heart. She folded her shaking hands before her and forced a false smile on her face. “What is it?”
“You know I have long been working to make a match for you.”
Her lips parted. How she hated to be right. “Y-yes, Father. You have not made that a secret to anyone.”
He pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed in cold anger. “Some young ladies would fall at their father’s feet to have him so involved.”
“I’m certain you are right,” she said. “Do you have news on that score?”
“Yesterday afternoon I signed a marriage contract on our behalf,” he said.
Her knees buckled and she reached back to steady herself on the settee arm behind her. It was funny to feel the world slip out from under her. After all, she had known this was about to happen. But to hear that he had only just signed the agreement. To hear that she had almost missed her opportunity to fight it…
God, she hoped she could fight it.
She straightened her spine. “I had guessed you might be close to doing so. Father, I do not wish to marry this man.”
He wrinkled his brow. “You do notwish.”
“No,” she said. “I understand you somehow think you are doing the right thing for me, that you have, I hope, done all this out of some twisted thought that it would protect me. But this is wrong. You must know it.”
“Protect you?” he repeated. “Christ, you have been reading too many books. I should have nipped that in the bud years ago. Hannah, this is not for you, though you will benefit from the arrangements. I have no sons. You were a failure in that sense. I had no choice but to bargain with what little I was given. This marriage will link me to a family of great power. Your wishes are meaningless.”
She flinched at the bluntly stated sentiment she’d always known. Always hoped away. “Very well. If my desires do not matter, then perhaps my outright refusal will. I will not marry this man, Father.”
He moved on her, a long step that closed the distance so quickly she could not back away. He caught her arm and yanked, digging his fingers into her flesh as he swung his face in close. “Like bloody hell you won’t.”
“Mr. Duncan Cavendish, Mr. Blankenship,” their butler, Reed, intoned from behind them.
Her father shook her arm once, none too gently, then released her as he pivoted toward the door. Reed stepped aside and made way for a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman to enter the room. Hannah’s lips parted as she stared at him. This was…this was not Viscount Gordon, the man she had feared and reviled.
This was a stranger. A very handsome stranger with full lips and bright eyes. Eyes and lips she instantly recognized. Eyes that had seen her naked. Lips that had slid over her skin.
“No,” she whispered. It could not be. There was no way it could be.
“Mr. Cavendish,” her father said, coming toward the man with his hand outstretched in welcome. “Thank you for joining us. I was just telling my daughter of the arrangement we made yesterday afternoon. She is overjoyed.”
“I can see that,” Duncan said, his tone as dry as the desert. And as recognizable as her own. This was him. This was the man who had taken her innocence.
“I-I don’t understand,” Hannah whispered, speaking to Duncan even though she had no idea if he recognized her. He was looking at her, but his expression was unreadable. Bored, even.
