She looked up, shock and pain in her eyes.
“I know the memory hurts. But physically, Lynette, did he hurt your body? Was there a great deal of pain?”
She spoke slowly this time, as if sorting through what happened. “Not a lot. Some. Mostly…” Her voice trailed away, then abruptly there was shock in her eyes. “Mostly I was surprised. He had been so…” Her voice trailed away.
“So what? Was he kind?”
She shook her head. “No. Not kind.”
“Intriguing, perhaps? Exciting? He showed you
something new, didn’t he? He touched your hand in a way that excited you. And your breasts…”
She looked down at herself, and her hands shifted as she tried to explain. “It was like the way you touched me. Only…different.”
He knew she couldn’t explain, didn’t understand. So he tried to help her categorize the experience. “It was faster than you expected. More intense.”
“Yes!”
“And there was pain. But no more than you could handle. And it was exciting.”
Her eyes widened and her voice came out a bare whisper. “Yes. Exactly so.”
“Some people, Lynette, have pleasure and pain locked together in their mind. They cannot have one without the other.”
She shifted, and he wondered if he was telling her too much, too soon. “Is that how Lord Rendlen is? Does pain feel good to him?”
He shook his head. “No. I believe he is the other side of the coin. He cannot experience pleasure unless he is giving someone else pain.”
“You mean me.”
He shrugged. “Or any other victim. His mistake with you is that he went too fast. Many women, especially when trained correctly, are unbearably excited by what you experienced. They join with men like Rendlen in bizarre play. But each experience, each search for the greatest sexual moment is linked with more and more pain.”
Her eyes were wide with horror, but her mind was still sharp. Lynette clearly understood what he was suggesting, horrifying as it might be. “How much pain?” she whispered.
“Enough to kill, sometimes.” He paused, then continued. She might as well know it all. “If you had gone with Rendlen, he would have killed you. Perhaps not today. He was right that he would have trained you well, but in the ways of pain. It would have taken months, likely. Possibly even years. But in the end there is only one thing that could have happened.”
“He would have killed me.”
Adrian nodded; then he gripped her hands, trying to impress upon her the truth. “There are many men like that, Lynette. And many other perversions as well.” He heard her breath catch in fear, but he had to continue. “You are already well on your way, Lynette. If all goes well, you will have many options in your choice for husband.”
“And my one task as a wife will be to keep my husband entertained.” Despite her brave front, he heard the terror in her voice.
“Yes.”
“No matter what he wants.”
Adrian shifted uneasily. “Once you are wed, you can always refuse.”
“But I will be a second wife. These old men are always widowers, aren’t they? So I will likely be his second, and could be completely cut out of my husband’s will. Defeating the whole point.”
Again, she had cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Yes.”
“So I must please him, even after we are married. Until his death, I will have no assurance of safety.”
He squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her. “Your marriage contract will specify a minimum amount required in the will. When your husband dies, your future will be adequately prepared for.” He
took a deep breath. “However, that amount is often minimal. And by the time your husband dies, you will have become accustomed to a great deal more.”
“So it behooves me to keep my husband happy. No matter what his interests are.”
He could tell the thought frightened her. In truth, it had frightened him many a time, but he was blessed by being born male. He did not face the same choices. Or rather, the same lack of choice.
He gently raised her chilled hands, laying his lips softly against her fingers. “It behooves you to choose wisely. You must make sure that your husband’s interests are not dangerous.”
She shook her head, not so easily soothed. “But I can never know, can I? Not until I am wed. There are countless women in my father’s church who thought they knew the men they married, but after the vows were spoken, after they were bound by God and man, they discovered the truth. Only then were they insulted or beaten or imprisoned within their own homes.”
She was right, and they both knew it. Still, he would lessen the risk. “I investigate the bridegrooms very carefully. I will know.” He paused. “And many tell me their…requirements beforehand. As a way to make sure you are prepared.”
She looked at him, and he knew she wanted to trust him, wanted to believe. But her reason would not allow her. “Have you ever been wrong? Ever deceived?”
He felt his body tense. He did not want to admit the truth, not now.
She saw it nonetheless. Breathlessly, she pressed onward. “Who?” she asked.
“Suzanne,” he admitted, the name harsh in his
throat. But he swallowed the pain. Then he looked down at the end of the bed, unable to meet her eyes as he confessed. “I did not know. I swear it! Despite everything, I did not know until after. I saw her one day, bruised about the neck. Limping.”
He heard Lynette gasp, but he forced himself to continue.
“At first she wouldn’t talk to me, but I knew her. I knew how to ask, and in the end she told me it all.” He looked up, but not at Lynette. He stared at the door between their rooms. The door that adjoined her experiences to his own. What would it be like? he wondered for the thousandth time, to see that door and know that any moment your husband might come to you. Might beat you. Might try to choke the life out of you as he rutted on you from behind. What would it be like to night after night be faced with that horror?
He could not imagine it. And yet his sweet, gentle Suzanne had withstood it, lived it, and in the end, told him of it.
“What happened?” whispered Lynette. “Is she married to him still?”
He nodded, the movement harsh. “But he is not hurting her anymore. He…” He took a deep breath. “He met with some footpads. They beat him within an inch of his life, and then left him for dead.”
He heard her soft sigh. “But he did not die?” she asked.
Adrian shook his head. “No. But he is an old man. The night air, the injuries…He caught an illness. An inflammation of the lungs.” He shrugged. “Suzanne says he can barely lift his hand. She has to feed him broth day and night. He wheezes as he speaks.”
He felt her shift beside him. “But he does not hurt her anymore.”
Adrian closed his eyes. “No. He does not hurt her.”
Both were silent for a time, and Adrian blessed her understanding. Though Suzanne’s mother had brought her to him, she was the one who’d chosen to marry with his help rather than trust the boys of her own poor circle. She had been easy to dress and teach, his most beautiful girl in the classical style. Blond curly hair, eyes that made one think of the heavens. She had been delicate. Fragile.
But now when he looked at her, he saw the strength within her, the reserve that had allowed her to withstand everything—his training, her brutal marriage, and now her husband’s illness—all with grace and poise. She awed him, and he sincerely wondered if he could have done half as well.
“It was fortunate, then,” Lynette said. “About the footpads, I mean.”
He turned to her. He wasn’t sure why. Only that a note in her voice caused him to search her face. Then he saw it: understanding. She knew what he had told no one, not even Dunwort.
He had hired the footpads. He, in fact, had been standing in the shadows watching as each hired thug beat and kicked and choked Suzanne’s husband, just as the brute had beaten and kicked and choked his wife. Then he had called off the men and walked away, leaving the great Lord Brancock to die on the street.
“I could not let her suffer like that,” he whispered. “Not Suzanne. Not like that.”
Then the strangest thing happened. Before, he had worried about Lynette, wondered if he dared touch
her, draw her into his arms to comfort her. Now she touched him. She wrapped her arms around him and bent her head. Her hair fell over his face, its honeysuckle scent wrapping around him in a soothing embrace.
She pulled him closer to her, drawing him deeper into her arms. And he went. Like a child, he pressed his face to her breast and lay there, crying as he had not for years. He had not wept in such a fashion when his parents died. Nor even when Jenny cast him aside in favor of a wealthy protector. And certainly not when each one of his girls had walked down the aisle, entering a marriage of servitude with an old man.
He wept for no discernible reason except that he was in pain. He could not say he mourned his parents. Or his mistress. Or even his charges. He cried without understanding the cause.
Perhaps it was because he had broken his promise to Suzanne. Despite all his efforts, he had not kept her safe.
Perhaps it was because this brutality was the nature of all the husbands who married his girls. Any who would buy a woman such as he could provide would not be a normal man. He would not have typical tastes. He would, of necessity, seek out Adrian and his girls. Which meant that every such husband—even Lynette’s—would be cruel or brutal or perverse or, at best, simply insatiable. Such were the men who came for Adrian’s charges. Such were the men who bound them in unholy matrimony.
And so Adrian wept, because the truth was that he was not helping his girls. He was selling them in the basest, cruelest, most hideous of ways. Most of the time he convinced himself that he aided his charges.
That after a decade of servitude, they would be free—wealthy widows who could make their own lives.
But was it worth it? Could he know that ten years of perversity would be better than the life they might have chosen without him? Perhaps Suzanne could have become an actress. Maybe Audra would have been content with less, assuming it wasn’t complete poverty.
He didn’t know, and so he wept. Because now the one woman he most wanted to protect, his darling Lynette, was comforting him, holding him, whispering soft words of compassion. And yet he knew as surely as the sun would rise in the morning, soon she would revile him.
Because soon he would give her to one of those men.
Adrian woke early the next morning. He did not even remember going to bed and, as he opened his eyes, he suddenly realized he had not. He had slept with Lynette. All night. Indeed, she was still there, relaxed and curled like a kitten against him.
He blinked and rubbed his face, amazed at how rested he felt. Then, listening to the sounds of the hawkers just outside the window, he realized it was still morning. In fact, he realized with a start, it was
early
morning. He had not woken at this time, refreshed; in years.
He knew the reason, though the event was no less amazing because of it.
Lynette.
He had slept so well because of her. He had cried—literally cried!—in her arms, until he had fallen asleep, and she with him. Looking down, he noted that they were both still dressed, his clothing
hopelessly creased. Yet, he thought with a tender smile, he had slept like a child. He could not remember such a dreamless, healing night since before his parents died.
The urge to touch her was nearly overwhelming. She rested on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other still across his belly as if she had held him to her all night long.
He wanted to kiss her. To thank her for what she had done for him. But he resisted. She had a long, hectic few weeks ahead of her. She needed all the rest she could get. And he did not need to deepen his connection to her.
Already he felt as if her upcoming marriage would tear him apart. How much worse would it be if he allowed himself the intimacy of morning kisses? Of waking caresses? And how would he stop himself from going well beyond the bounds by even his very lax standards?
No, he thought with gut-wrenching regret. He had to leave her. And as soon as possible. Besides, he reminded himself as he eased out of bed, he had something else to do this morning. Something she need not witness.
He dressed quickly, using the time to stoke his fury. It wasn’t hard; all he need do was remember Lynette as she was last evening, curled in her bed, shaken and afraid. He recalled everything she had told him, her every experience with Rendlen, delivered in her frighteningly flat tone, and his vision ran red.
He could not do anything to the bastard who had caused the distress. Unfortunately, Rendlen was well beyond his reach. However, his guard against such men, the person Adrian had set to protect against
such men, had not been at her post. And for that she would pay.
By the time he left his bedchamber, he was as near to shaking with rage as he had ever been. He found her where he expected. His aunt was seated in the upper parlor, an empty bottle near her hand, her head and body limp in drunken stupor. The stench was hideous. The sight even worse. Bile rose in his throat as he stared at her. He did not know what had set her off this time, nor did he care. He could not afford such a liability in his home.
He stepped forward and gripped her shoulder, trying to shake her out of her sleep.
“Aunt Agatha.”
She barely stirred.
“Aunt Agatha! Wake up!”
She shifted. Coughing and sputtering as she came to her senses, she sat up abruptly, peering in foggy confusion about her. Adrian pressed his lips together in disgust as she reached for her bottle. He pulled it away.
There was no liquor left, in any event.
Tossing the bottle aside, he quickly crossed to the sideboard. He frowned as he saw a mess of broken bottles and stale liquor on the floor: another disaster to lay at his aunt’s door. Fortunately, the decanter he wanted was still there.
It was an elegant bottle, one of the few remaining from his parents’ devastated estate. He thought it might have come from his mother’s family, but he wasn’t sure. The cut crystal was simple, elegant, and beautiful. And in it he kept the best liquid of all.
Water.
On the rare occasion when he invited potential bridegrooms to his home, he often served them the
beverage of their choice—some sort of spirit, mixed strong. For himself, he never wanted anything to fog his mind, so he took water mixed with food dye. Because it came from a cut-crystal decanter, his guest believed it was fine brandy. Adrian knew well how to appear slightly in his cups, when in truth his mind remained sharp as ever.
He poured his aunt a glass of it now: plain water. And he had to stop himself from throwing it in her face. She took the glass greedily, gagging when she realized the contents.
“Water?” she gasped, then cringed as the sound no doubt hurt her head.
“You would be wise to drink it down, Aunt.” He did not say more, but his tone must have registered somewhere inside her befuddled mind because she did not protest. Obediently, she lifted the glass and drained it.
He poured her another. By the time she had finished two glasses, she appeared awake enough to hear him. If she was not, he could not find the sympathy to care; she would hear it now whether she was ready or not.
“You began drinking early yesterday.”
It was a statement, not a question. Still, he was not surprised when her gaze shifted to the window, narrowing as she realized she had lost an entire day and night.
“I—” she began. But he cut her off.
“I do not care how or why this happened. I care only that because of your negligence, Lynette was nearly raped.”
The baroness’s eyes grew wide with horror. “What happened?”
“That was your job to know. Instead you chose to drink yourself insensible.”
She sat up straighter, fear lighting her eyes. “I could have stopped it?”
He swallowed, part of him wishing to deny the truth. But in his home he was always honest. Even to her. “I do not know. Certainly you could have minimized the damage.”
She made to rise, her feet and arms obviously unsteady. “I will go to her.”
“She is sleeping. And I have taken care of the matter.” His voice was cold, releasing some of his tension onto her because, in truth, he did not know if he had handled the situation. Lynette defied understanding. More and more, he found himself being led by her as much as leading. It was unsettling.
“You are in my home for one reason and one reason only,” he continued firmly. “I value your expertise with the girls.” He clenched his jaw, angry at the wasted life he saw before him. His aunt was the living embodiment of exactly what he wanted his girls to avoid: a destroyed life because of a bad husband. “You were a handsome woman once.”
She shot him a look filled with resentment. “When I was young.”
“When you did not drink.”
He saw her hand spasm, as if searching for her bottle. But to her credit, she did not move. Not by a shift in her gaze did she betray her longing for a drink, but he knew it consumed her.
“If you cannot perform your duties, you will leave this house.”
Once again he saw fear flame in her eyes. It was strong enough that she nearly leaped out of her seat,
but her legs were not up to the task. “You would toss me out? Your only blood kin?”
He nearly laughed aloud. Instead, he took a single step forward, his anger more than matching her fear. He wanted her afraid. He wanted her terrified. So he let his fury blaze through him, hoping to sear his words into her brain.
“All blood connection between us was severed when I was thirteen.”
“You know that was not my fault!” she shot back.
“I don’t care!” he returned, amazed to find himself bellowing. Abruptly he spun away, placing his hands on the table that usually held her liquor. “Did you think you were here because you are my aunt?”
He was silent, awaiting her answer. She did not give it. He turned back to her, staring coldly at her feeble frame. Yes, he realized, she did think that. She honestly believed he felt a family tie. To her.
“Never,” he said firmly. “You were never here because of some shared ancestor. My family died years ago. I have none left.”
He saw his words hit like blows, and he was glad of it. He stepped forward, wanting his words to hurt, to pound away the illusions she surrounded herself with, to reveal the naked, ugly truth. Finally it would be open between them. Finally it would be clear.
“You are here because you can teach the girls some things. I value your knowledge. And I valued you because of it.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. Good, he thought with cold satisfaction. She understood. Still he pressed his point, making it so plain that even her brandy-soaked brain would not forget.
“You know how to make a woman appealing to a
man. In return, I give you food and lodging and a position by my side.” He cast his gaze disdainfully up and down her filthy body. “If you fail one more time, I will happily toss you out and hire a whore instead.” He spun on his heel. “Jenny can recommend a good one.”
He cast a disdainful eye back on the broken bottles. “One who costs less in liquor.”
Then he stepped out into the hallway.
He was not looking where he was going, his thoughts entirely focused on his aunt behind him, so he was startled when he nearly toppled over Lynette standing there, empty food tray in hand. She was dressed, and had probably been on the way to the kitchen when she overheard the argument.
For a moment he experienced a wave of panic. What would she think of him—a man who would toss his last living relative out on the street with no ounce of compunction or remorse? How vile was such a man in her eyes?
Then he shook his head. He did not care what she thought. If such knowledge served to distance her from him, all the better. It would make it easier for her to wed another man. He turned and proceeded down the hallway with barely a backward glance.
She followed him. He was not surprised. Lynette was often tenderhearted, and she would no doubt seek to soften his words. Force him to modify. She would be disappointed. His ultimatum to the baroness stood. She either performed her duties, or he would throw her out of his house like so much refuse.
Without even realizing it, he found himself in the kitchen, searching for his morning tea.
Dunwort was there, pouring the hot liquid even as
he pushed open the door. The older man looked up, his expression carefully blank.
Thankfully, the servant said not a word as Adrian stomped in. And when the door swung open to admit Lynette, the butler merely bowed and disappeared. A good man that, Adrian found himself thinking. Performed his duties and knew when to disappear. A man worth his weight in gold.
“My lord?”
“I thought we decided you would call me Adrian.” His voice was curt, his words harsh. But even though he now strove to keep some distance between himself and Lynette, he resented her formal tone. Dammit, he liked the sound of his name on her lips.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. Then he heard her put down the tray. Glancing toward her, he saw that her movements were unsteady and somewhat slow. As though she were searching for the right words to say. “Adrian…” she began.
He forestalled her. “Do not even try, Lynette. I have issued my orders. She will either obey or not.” He lifted his tea, sipping though the brew scalded his tongue.
“Of course,” she answered smoothly. He watched from the corner of his eye as she pulled down her own cup and sat beside him. When she reached forward to grab the teapot, he was momentarily distracted by the sight of her arm. It was long. Delicate. Beautiful.
And strong enough to hold him through the night.
She took a breath, and he closed his eyes. He did not want to hear her plead for his aunt. He wanted her to speak to him. To touch him. To continue the soothing caresses she had begun last night.
“Do you truly have no feeling for her?” she asked.
He flinched. Her words made him sound like a monster, but he would not deny the truth. Not to his aunt; not to Lynette. So he lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes with a firmness he hoped she found convincing, because it was the absolute truth.
“No feeling whatsoever, Lynette.” He sighed. “Truly, I have tried. But when I look at her, I feel…” His words trailed away and he lifted his hands in a gesture of futility. “I feel nothing.” His hands dropped back to the table.
“I am not sure I can understand that,” she said. “For all his faults, my father will always be my father. Whenever I think of him, I will feel something. Whether anger or love, I do not know. But I cannot imagine…nothing. He could never be just another person to me, another soul on God’s Earth.”
Adrian looked at her and felt the constriction in his chest tighten another notch. “That is good, Lynette. I would not wish you to lose the capacity to feel.”
She tilted her head and regarded him. “Is that how it is for you? Do you feel nothing at all? For your charges?” she asked. “For Suzanne or Audra or the others?”
“For you?”
She nodded, acknowledging his question. Then she leaned forward, searching his face as she spoke. “What do you feel for us? Are we merely instruments in your plan to rebuild your estates? Tools you use to good advantage, then discard?”
“I…” he began, but then stopped himself. How to answer? Did he tell her the truth? How could he not? “I study you, Lynette. As I have studied and learned all my girls. They are…you are my student, and I
must teach you valuable skills to survive. The reward for my efforts is money I use to rebuild my home. My family estate.”
She nodded as if she understood. “But what of your feelings?”
When he did not answer, she stood, moving to the pantry, where she found bread and jam, bringing it back to the table as she spoke. “When you touch me, I feel…” Her voice trailed away, and he saw her gaze grow abstract. Suddenly it sharpened on his face, as if she was asking a question as much as stating a fact. “I feel an intimacy between us.”
He nodded. “Such is the nature of what I teach. The sensations I produce in you are new, surprising, sometimes overwhelming. When I give that experience to you, when anyone shares such momentous occasions, a bond naturally develops.”
“Yet you say you ‘study’ me. You ‘teach’ me.” She turned to face him full on. “You do not care for me?”
He shook his head. No statement could be farther from the truth. “Of course I care for you, Lynette. I care for all my girls.”