“I will scream.” The words scraped past the terror in her throat. “I will scream and bring the entire household running.”
Drakeston’s smile widened. “Will you? Go ahead, then. Scream. Ruin yourself. Destroy whatever shred of reputation you have left.”
“They will see what you are?—”
“They will see what I tell them to see.” His hand came up to trace the line of her jaw, his touch featherlight, yet it made her stomach turn. “A desperate spinster who followed a married lord into a dark room. A woman so starved for attention that she threw herself at me, begging for pleasure.”
“That is a lie.”
His fingers tightened on her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Is it? Who will the ton believe, Sophia dear? A marquess of impeccable standing, married for thirty years, respected by his peers? Or a spinster with a ruined family, drowning in debt, desperate enough to do anything for survival?”
Sophia’s heart pounded against her ribs.
He was right. She knew he was right. The ton would take his word over hers without question. They always did. A woman’s reputation was a fragile thing, easily shattered, impossible to repair.
“You see?” Drakeston’s thumb stroked across her lower lip. “You have no power here. You never did. You are mine, Sophia. You have been mine since the moment your father signed his name to those debts.”
Something shifted in her chest. A spark, small at first, flickering to life beneath the weight of her fear. She thought of her mother trusting Sophia to protect them. She thought of the matches she had made, the lives she had changed, and the quiet pride she carried in knowing that Lady Fairhart had built something good from the ashes of her family’s disgrace. She thought of every moment she had endured this man’s cruelty, his wandering hands, his poisonous whispers, all while smiling and curtsying and pretending she was not dying inside.
She was not his. She had never been his. And she would rather burn than let him believe otherwise.
Before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew up and connected with his face. The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the room.
Drakeston’s head snapped to the side, and for one glorious moment, he was silent. Stunned.
Then his expression twisted into something ugly. Something terrifying.
“You will regret that,” he hissed.
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, wrenching it behind her back. Pain lanced up her arm. Sophia cried out, struggling against his grip, but he was too strong, too practiced.
“You stupid girl.” Drakeston shoved her against the wall, pinning her with his body. His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back until her neck strained. “Did you think that would stop me? Did you think I would simply let you walk away after you struck me?”
“Let go of me?—”
“I am going to teach you a lesson.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “One you willneverforget. And when I am finished, you will crawl back to me on your knees, grateful for whatever scraps I choose to give you.”
Bile rose in Sophia’s throat. She twisted in his grip, desperate to break free. Her elbow connected with his ribs, and he grunted but did not release her. His fingers tightened in her hair until tears pricked her eyes, until her scalp burned.
“Fight all you want.” Drakeston’s lips brushed her ear, his breath hot and foul. “No one is coming to save you. No one even knows you are here. The Duke is too busy to notice you are gone. Your mother thinks you are dancing. Your friends think you are resting. You are alone, Sophia. Completely, utterly alone.”
She would not give up. She would not surrender. Even if no one came, even if she had to fight alone, she would not let him win. She would not let him break her.
Sophia drove her heel down onto his instep. Drakeston cursed, and his grip loosened just enough for her to wrench free. She stumbled away from him, gasping, her wrist throbbing, her heart racing.
But he was between her and the door. And he was already recovering, and his face contorted with rage.
“You will pay for that, you devil-woman!”
He lunged for her.
Sophia dodged, but not fast enough. His hand caught the back of her gown, fingers hooking into the fabric of her bodice. She feltthe silk strain, heard the ominous sound of threads beginning to tear.
“No—”
She wrenched forward, trying to pull free, but his grip held. The fabric ripped, cold air hitting her shoulder, her back. She stumbled, off balance, and Drakeston lunged again, his face twisted with fury and something darker.
This was it. This was how it ended.
