Marchmont rode ahead, then slowed in a small clearing where an old chalk pit dropped away beyond a fringe of bramble and dead fern. It was not a cliff, precisely, but it was steep enough to break a neck if a horse went over badly.
Lottie noted this. She also noted the grey’s agitation, the way it tossed its head and fought the bit. There was foam upon the animal’s neck, and its ears flicked backwards again and again, as though even the poor creature objected to the company it was forced to keep. “Your horse dislikes you,” she observed.
Marchmont turned in the saddle. “Most things do, until they are properly handled.”
A cold little silence followed.
Lottie drew her horse to a halt several paces from him, keeping the mare between herself and the worst of the drop. “Show me the letter.”
“So direct, Miss Tolliver.”
“So tedious, this pretending otherwise.”
He laughed softly and withdrew the letter, then another, and another. There were at least four folded papers in his gloved hand, each directed in a hand that was almost hers—good enough to fool those who wished to be fooled, which was to say, nearly everyone. “You’ve a very pretty turn of phrase, Charlotte. The scandal sheets will adore you.”
He held the letters out before him.
Lottie looked at them. Her own name seemed to stare back from the folds. She hated this man—truly, truly hated him. She swallowed down the bile in her throat. “And what do these forgeries say?”
“Oh, the usual things young ladies say when they are in love.” His eyes moved over her face with dreadful enjoyment. “Very eager and wicked things, indeed.”
Lottie ground her teeth, very much wishing she had packed her pistol. “It is easy enough to prove they are forged, Lord Marchmont,” she said tightly.
His smile only widened. “Can you prove it before they are printed?”
Her heart dropped, but she lifted her chin. She would not cower before this man. “What do you want?”
Marchmont’s expression softened into something almost tender, which was the most revolting thing he had done thus far. “Come now, my dear. Let us not make this uglier than it must be. Your family has influence. Your brother-in-law has wealth enough to settle a small kingdom’s debts and still afford gloomy upholstery. The duke, I imagine, would pay handsomely to keep his wife’s sister from becoming the newest entertainment in every breakfast room in London.”
“Money, then.”
“Money, certainly. A return to Town. A softened attitude. A denial, if certain rumours of my conduct ever begin to circulate.”
“You want me to smile at you and pretend you are not the devil incarnate.”
“I want you,” he said, holding the forged letters a little higher, “to remember what happens to women who do not.”
Lottie stared at him, and for one hideous moment she was no longer upon a horse in a cold green wood, but back in that dark bed with Marchmont’s hands on her hips, his horrid breath at her neck, and the fear that made refusal feel impossible.
Marchmont saw the memory pass through her. His eyes brightened. He held the letters out before her, neat and false and damning. “Shall we be civilised, Miss Tolliver,” he asked, “or shall I make you famous?”
Chapter 37
It was only as they reached the next field that Jasper noticed Marchmont cutting away from the pack and angling his horse towards the wood.
He watched as Lottie followed, her bright blue habit vanishing between the trees.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jasper muttered.
Morleigh caught the movement a moment later. “Where?”
Jasper pointed. “There. Into the copse.”
The duke swore. It was an impressive oath, particularly from a man who generally dispensed profanity with the same reserve he applied to affection.
Jasper had already turned his horse.
Morleigh caught his bridle before he could give the animal its head. “Wait.”
