Devall's Angel (25 page)

They all sighed.

“What are your plans for the day?”

“I am paying calls with Lady Ashton,” said Sylvia, glancing at the mantel clock. “Heavens, I had best get ready or I will keep her waiting.” She hurried from the room.

“I will take a turn around Green Park,” said Angela. “Major Caldwell is driving me in Hyde Park later, so I won’t be gone long.” She rarely accompanied Sylvia on calls these days, having no interest in gossip. Since she had given up all hope of marriage, she no longer needed to turn the tabbies up sweet. Or so she claimed aloud. The truth was that she could not feel comfortable with women who had been pillorying her only a few days ago. Her reputation might have recovered, but it would be long before the pain lessened.

Barbara nodded. “Good. I need to finish opening Trotter House. Geoffrey will arrive soon. But I will be back for dinner.”

Two days of rain had washed everything clean. Sunlight enveloped the park, accompanied by a gentle breeze that ruffled Angela’s hair. Green Park was one of her favorite afternoon rides, for it was less crowded than Hyde Park and better suited to reflection. Society was engaged in paying calls. People clustered only near the dairy herd, where maids dispensed fresh milk. She could relax, rebuilding her energy so she could face the evening’s ball.

Leaves rustled overhead, playing a spring song that reminded her longingly of home. She looked forward to returning to the country, away from soot and grime and noise, away from cruel gossip and the rules that were so much stricter than seemed reasonable.

She must talk to Andrew about the dower house immediately. It had already been refurbished for Lady Forley, so he should not object to her using it. Her needs were simple enough to require only a tiny staff. If Andrew invested her dowry, she could probably live on the income. Her only problem would be finding a congenial chaperon.

She turned down a new path. What about Mrs. Giddings? The daughter of a baronet, Edna Giddings had married beneath her, eloping with the youngest son of a country vicar. Mr. Giddings had been a writer, though never earning enough to provide more than the bare necessities. He had died the previous winter, leaving his wife only a tiny income. Her nephew now held her father’s title, but the lad was an arrogant fool who refused to recognize the connection. Perhaps Edna would consider joining her. An educated mind was the most important trait for a companion. Angela couldn’t tolerate a simpering fool.

Closing her eyes, she turned her face up to catch the sun’s warmth. An image of the dower house shimmered against her lids, a modest Elizabethan manor with leaded windows and ivied walls that lent it charm. The head footman at the Court had his eye on one of the maids. Would they like to come to her as butler and housekeeper? She would also need a cook, two maids…

A thump distracted her thoughts, and she glanced over her shoulder. Her groom lay unconscious on the path, his horse galloping wildly away.

“No!” she screamed as a hand grabbed her bridle to drag her mount into a canter. “Let go!”

Atwater merely laughed. “You’ve had your fun, my love. It is time to come home.”

She fought against the spots swirling before her eyes, determined not to swoon. Fanaticism gleamed in Atwater’s eyes. Why had she never detected it before? She shivered.

“You are mine,” he vowed. “Payment from the gods for the pain I have endured. You worship me. I’ve seen it in your face, so you need no longer hide the truth. I will make you happy, my love. Happier than you ever dreamed possible. Nothing is too good for you. Nothing will harm you ever again. I will protect you from all evil.”

Terror nearly choked her. “The only way you can make me happy is to leave. Now.” Rage shook her voice. “Release the bridle and depart.”

“There is no need to continue the game, Angela,” he said, his voice now revealing dangerous undertones. “You will come with me. I have a special license, so we can be married immediately. You must not be left to the mercies of an evil world.”

“Absolutely not!” She sliced her crop across the hand that held her bridle. “The only evil I see is in you.”

A snarl bared his teeth. “Do not strike me again, my love, or you will force me to punish you. Punishment is painful; so very painful. Don’t put me through that again. You have caused me enough agony.”

Dear God! What could she do? His obsession had clearly crossed into madness. How did one reason with a madman? Panic darkened her mind. Unwanted images rose of Lydia and Ned Parker.

The moment he pulled up next to his coach, she leaped off her horse, running wildly. But there were no people nearby, no other carriages, no horsemen. The street was deserted. His arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her from the ground. A hard hand slapped her face, stopping her voice in mid-scream.

“The game is over, my love,” he repeated softly. “You will come home now, and I will take care of you forever.”

He deposited her in the coach, his face twisting in pain when she broke into sobs.

“Don’t cry, my love,” he crooned, cradling her and stroking her head as if she were a child.

Hysteria threatened, but Angela fought it back as the realization hit. For some reason, he needed to care for her. When she appeared vulnerable, he became soft and gentle. When she countered him, he turned vicious. Her only hope lay in humoring him until she could escape. But she must be patient. Her next attempt had to succeed. God only knew what he would do if he caught her.

“Wh-where are we going?” she sobbed, trying to force her body to relax. Her skin crawled at his touch, and it took all her determination not to scream.

“A special place where we can be alone,” he whispered, the sensual voice eliciting new shudders. “The world won’t intrude on us. We will be married tonight.”

Panic inched closer. Surely he couldn’t get away with forcing her into wedlock!

But he was the beautiful and beloved Earl of Atwater, who could undoubtedly convince a vicar to ignore her protests. And she was of age, so she did not need permission from Andrew. Only by postponing the ceremony could she hope to escape.

“You cannot expect me to wed in this old riding habit.” Her voice shook, but she could do nothing to control it. And she didn’t dare look directly at him lest he see her hatred. “Are you not worthy of a splendid gown?”

A frown puckered his forehead even as he jerked her arm, leaving a bruise. She bit back a protest. “Why have you put me through such pain?” he demanded.

She forced her hand to rest soothingly atop his. “I thought you understood,” she whispered at last. “I had to get rid of my mother. She would have hung on you and squandered your fortune.”

“You never meant to hurt me? Your love is true?” His eyes blazed with increasing ferocity.

“Of course.” Bile rose higher with each new lie. “Will you allow me to dress properly?”

“That primrose gown you wore last night will be suitable.” He resumed his quiet stroking. She shuddered, praying he would interpret the movement as pleasure. “We will marry tomorrow. I can retrieve your wardrobe by then.”

“Would it not be better to collect it now?” she dared.

“No!” He shook her violently several times, snapping her neck. “You will not leave me. Not like the others. I can never allow that again.”

Dear God! How was she to escape such a madman? She choked back words and forced relaxation on battered muscles still taut with horror. Her tongue was bleeding by the time her tears finally calmed him. He resumed his crooning. Barely able to control the revulsion sweeping through her, she pressed close against him, allowing her rending sobs to continue. It was the only sound that didn’t incite attack.

The carriage stopped on a street of small houses that gave no clue to their location. How much time had elapsed? It could have been minutes or hours. Her terror mounted as he carried her inside. How could she return home? She had few coins in her reticule and no idea how far they were from Clifford Street – or even in which direction it lay.

How was she to escape? Even if he left to fetch her wardrobe, he would undoubtedly post a guard. His cunning still functioned. He was not mad enough to leave her alone. Somehow she must get word to her family.

“If we are to marry tomorrow, I must invite my brother to the wedding,” she tried softly. “Perhaps you can talk to him when you fetch my gown.”

“Impossible,” he declared calmly. “He is still at the Court. How can you tolerate his disinterest? That country squire mentality will always place his estate above his sister. But you are first in
my
heart. Nothing is more important than protecting you from harm.”

She stiffened, then forced herself to relax, not daring to mention her sudden suspicion. Was Atwater responsible for the fire that had taken Andrew from town? If so, then this was something he had plotted for some time.

That last fear was confirmed when he carried her upstairs to a back bedroom and laid her on the bed. A sturdy lock gleamed in the door – a brand new lock. One glance took in the Spartan furnishings – bed, stand, chest, chair, heavy draperies pulled tightly across the single window.

“Will you get me something pretty to wear?” she asked softly. “This wrinkled habit seems so dowdy next to your splendor.”

“Later, my love,” he said absently, locking the door and sliding the key into his pocket.

Her breath caught, her body turning rigid with fright.

“You are mine now,” he repeated. His coat dropped to the floor. “I will show you how much I love you.”

She rolled off the far side of the bed and bounded to her feet. “We are not married, my lord.” Somehow she kept both fear and accusation out of her voice. “If you truly loved me, you would never debauch me in so vile a fashion.”

“Fustian.” No force underlay the exclamation. His voice remained calm – almost dead – more frightening than his earlier violence. His waistcoat and cravat joined his jacket. “We are already married in spirit. The ceremony is but hours away. You know that I will care for you. Yet I sense fear. We must banish that. Prove your love. Now.”

“This has nothing to do with love. I will not be used in such a fashion outside of marriage.” Anger crept into her voice despite her efforts. Her eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking a weapon. Sidling to the night stand, she idly fingered the candlestick.

His eyes turned blank. A bulge strained at his breeches. The gaping neck of his shirt bared half his chest, exposing a mat of dark blond hair.

“This is what you were born for, my darling Angela, my divine angel,” he crooned. “You will serve me always, running my home, satisfying my needs, bearing my children. I must get an heir, you know. My cousin is deranged. We will start one now.” With a sudden lunge, he sprang across the bed.

She swung the candlestick, smashing the base into his face even as she whipped around the bed and across the room. Frantically, she tried to recall everything she had read about the art of fighting. It wasn’t much. Unusual though her education had been, she had never expected to need such information.

Contrary to her expectations, he did not fly into fury, but his restraint increased her terror. None of his previous actions had so clearly demonstrated his madness.

“I cannot accept that,” he stated calmly, smiling as he walked slowly around the bed. Blood dripped from his nose and from a cut on one cheek, landing unheeded on his shirt. Despite the wounds, he looked angelically handsome, the answer to every maiden’s prayers. Gentle. Caring. Excitingly sensual. But his eyes – dear God, his eyes. They held no trace of warmth. Or of intelligence. Reason had fled, leaving a hulking shell bent on a single purpose.

“Now be a good girl and come to bed.” His hand stretched out in command.

Hampered by her habit skirt, she was not sure she could elude him again. One hand gathered its bulk out of the way, even as fresh terror engulfed her.

He was unfastening the buttons on his breeches.

One…

Two…

Three…

One side of the panel fell open, the bulge growing larger as its shackles loosened. He stepped closer.

Four…

Her eyes stared at his fingers, terror making her own reason waver. Another step.

Five…

She launched a vicious kick at his manhood even as her free hand crashed the candlestick into his head.

Furious bellows reverberated around the room. Gone was the handsome, immaculate gentleman. Gone was the gentle, crooning lover. What faced her now was a savage beast with the strength of Atlas and the ferocity of a wounded bear. She had failed to knock him senseless, and now she paid in full.

She swung again, rapidly backpedaling as she tried to place the bed between them. Her next swing caught his chest, but he tore the candlestick from her hand and hurled it away. Blows rained over her body. Pain exploded through her midsection, her shoulders, her arms. Desperate, she landed a second kick to his groin, raking her nails deeply down his face and chest, biting savagely at the hand he held over her mouth.

But his superior strength made defeat inevitable. Too close to kick, she tried to use her knee, but her skirt hampered its motion. It glanced harmlessly off his thigh. He picked her up, shaking her mercilessly, snapping her neck until she feared her head might fall off. She clawed at his face, trying desperately to dig into his eyes. With a feral roar, he hurled her against the wall.

Stars burst through her skull, followed by darkness.

Chapter Fifteen

Sylvia returned from afternoon calls, still smiling at the latest tales. She was handing her parasol to Paynes when a footman clad in Atwater’s livery arrived. The butler accepted a letter, slipped a coin to the man, then closed the door with a frown.

“Is that for Miss Warren?” she asked.

“For Lord Forley.”

From Atwater? What did the earl want with Andrew – unless he was starting new rumors against Angela. He could not like the way her reputation had recovered.

“I will take it to the study,” she offered, unsure what to do about this latest twist. With Andrew out of town, it would be days before they knew what it contained.