She stared at the handkerchief, breathing shakily.
“Take it!” Lord Craventhorp said, more as a warning than a command.
She shook her head.
He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and grinned. “I’m going to enjoy marriage to you.”
The fine hairs on Annabel’s neck and arms stood at attention. She saw nothing but enmity in the viscount’s cold eyes. Her body sensed danger and urged her to flee, yet she did not move. A lady would bury her fears and smile, keeping her decorum. Lord Craventhorp knew as much, and his eyes sparkled with malice, daring her to break society’s rules.
“Go on,” he said in a low voice, “run.” His lips curved into a smile. “I dare you.”
Annabel’s body trembled. Once, in Bristol, she’d seen a group of boys corner an alley cat. The creature was so frightened its hair stood on end. She’d felt such sympathy for the poor thing that she’d thought nothing of stepping forward to intervene. The boys had paid no heed to her. They only laughed, and one dirty-faced urchin even took a stone out of his pocket and threw it at the cat right in front of her. But his laughter quickly turned to a wail when Stella grabbed him by the collar and boxed his ears, shouting, “mascalzone,” which sounded far more intimidating than yellingrotterorscoundrelin English.
How she wished Stella was here now.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted two women exit the house through the French doors leading to the garden and step onto the terrace. Thinking of that cat again, she remembered how it took the chance at escape while Stella had the boy by the ear. It had scurried past his distracted friends and disappeared into the night. Now, it was her turn. This was her chance.
She dashed forward, brushing past Lord Craventhorp in her haste to get away. Panic blurred her vision as she hurried across the lawn, weaving between the tall shrubs. She glanced back, envisioning Lord Craventhorp closing in behind her, but forced her legs not to break into a run.
Hands clutched her shoulders. She gasped and struggled like a trapped animal. He wasn’t behind her. Somehow, he’d gotten in front of her.
“Are you in need of help, miss?”
The strong smell of spirits infiltrated her nostrils and fear commanded her thoughts.
“Please, allow me to help you.”
The only voice Annabel could hear and the only face she could see belonged to Lord Craventhorp. He was everywhere. She had to get away. Twisting out of her captor’s grip, Annabel raced toward the terrace, where she narrowly missed colliding with the two ladies in her haste to reach safety indoors.
Chapter Three
And—would it were not so!—you are mymother
—Shakespeare,Hamlet
Henry had spentthe last two years trying to avoid his mother, but he should have known better. Lady Stokeford, previously Lady Hudsyn, would not be ignored.
Instead of displaying remorse and shame after Henry confronted her with the dark secrets of her past, she dismissed the fact that she’d cuckolded his papa precisely nine months before his birth and continued to portray herself as the queen of morality. Safe in the knowledge that Henry would protect her secret, just as her sister and his father had done, she made a habit of judging and scorning others while refusing to be judged. And she’d become even more insufferable in her criticisms since elevating her status in society by marrying William Ryde, 5th Earl of Stokeford, one year ago.
After losing no less than three young wives and a total of seven babes, Lord Stokeford, having reached his seventieth year, stopped trying to sire an heir and decided to settle down with a woman past her child-birthing years. Henry imagined it hadn’t been difficult for his mother to worm her way into Lord Stokeford’s broken heart. After all, she possessed an extraordinary ability to connive and manipulate others.
Henry looked at his mother, who sat like a queen on her throne next to her husband with her lips pursed in disapproval as she eyed her wayward son. When he was a little boy, he’d thought his mother the most beautiful woman in the world, but now all he could see was her black heart.
“Henry,” Lord Stokeford clasped his hands together, “you are neither my son nor my heir, but out of respect for your mama and the good name of this family, I must speak out against your behavior. You dishonor your father’s memory and embarrass your mother, behaving like a common drunk, frequenting houses of ill repute, and neglecting your duties. I have remained silent for too long, but last night, you went too far. I must speak, and you must listen. A drunken, unprovoked attack on one of Lady Dawley’s guests—it’s unacceptable.”
Henry glared at his mother. How dare she preach to him through her husband—who knew nothing of her own revolting behavior—committing an act of infidelity so vile that he felt shame at being her son and perhaps the result of her crimes.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” the earl asked.
Henry shrugged. “I dislike the man.”
“It will behoove you to remember that you are no longer a boy in the schoolyard. I cannot fathom why you attacked Lord Craventhorp in such a brutal manner.”
Henry touched his bruised jaw and recalled the feel of the young lady’s lithe, trembling body. She’d flown into his path like a confused bird whilst Craventhorp watched her from afar with the same expression of pleasure he’d worn after hurting the harlot at Madam Katrina’s bawdy house. Henry recalled the burning rage Craventhorp’s smugness had ignited in him but had no memory of what followed. According to Hobsworth, he’d tackled Craventhorp to the ground and attempted to choke the life out of him, yet he had no recollection of the incident.
“It wasn’t unprovoked, I assure you. Earlier that evening, I watched him break a young woman’s wrist right in front of my eyes. The man is a bully, and he deserves a good thrashing. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to give it to him.” He glared at Hobsworth, who sat beside him on the couch.
“He what?” Lord Stokeford turned to Hobsworth. “Is this true? What young lady are we talking about?”
