Miller, Raine - The Undoing of a Libertine (Siren Publishing Classic) (11 page)

“Was it you last night?” Jeremy asked gently, feeling sorry for her.

Marguerite nodded. “I am saving money so I can go to France, to Calais. I have a sister there. I only agreed to go with them because of the coin. I told myself it was worth it.”

“They hurt you. I saw bruises on your skin.” Jeremy felt suddenly sick thinking of Georgina suffering rough treatment at the hands of Pellton if she’d accepted him for a husband.

“I survived it, and besides, they indicate they will have no need to continue coming here. They boasted that soon they will not have to pay for their wicked pleasures for the elder intends to marry, and once he has the girl, they can both use her as they wish and she can do nothing about it. The nephew even bragged that he had tried her out and found her most satisfactory for she fought him and he liked that about her. I cannot imagine why a lady of society would agree to marry into such a family.” Marguerite shook her head, pondering the mysteries of the rich and entitled.

Jeremy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
It was Pellton’s nephew who raped her. That is why Pellton knew she wasn’t a virgin!

“Marguerite, did they seem sure that the elder would marry the girl?”

“He appeared confident and boasted that when he wed her they wouldn’t have to pay for their
ménages
anymore.”

Feeling cold, freezing fear engulf him, Jeremy prayed for rationality to overcome the sudden need for vengeance swimming through his blood. “Thank you,” he told Marguerite, thinking he owed her a great debt. “I now know why I was supposed to come here tonight.”

He fished open his money purse and pulled out some bills and a card, handing them to her. “Take this, Marguerite. Visit this address and see a Mr. Paulson when you’re ready. Give your name—I’m sorry, what is your surname?”

“LeSavior. Marguerite LeSavior.”

“Right,” he said, thinking the angels must be laughing down at him right now. A “savior” she certainly was. “You’ll have comfortable passage to Calais whenever you want. Go to your sister. Make a life. You deserve better than this.”

“Why would you do such a kindness for me, sir?”

“Because I have the means to do so and it is no hardship for me to help you, but mostly because you have helped me. More than you can ever know, Miss Marguerite LeSavior.” He bowed. “Thank you,” he said to her at the door, thinking that if he ever had a daughter she might just have to be styled with the name Marguerite, at least for one of her names.

When Jeremy let himself out, he saw Pellton at the end of the hall, following behind a courtesan, entering a room, the nephew trailing behind. Jeremy got a good look at him and knew what he saw. Pellton’s nephew wore a coat, notable in color—notable in that it was a deep, dark red.

Turning his head, Jeremy saw that the big guard also watched the two men. His stare looked, for lack of a better term, malevolent. Marguerite was correct in her claim that the establishment reviled Pellton and his nephew.

Once their door shut behind them, the guard turned his piercing eyes onto Jeremy. He lifted an eyebrow as if to suggest, “that was fast.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just not in the fates.”

The guard gave a nod and a sympathetic grunt. Male to male, they were in perfect understanding.

Jeremy decided he could trust this man. “Say, I was wondering, do you know the name of the younger of the party that just went in?” He jerked his head toward the room Pellton and his nephew had just entered.

“And why would you want to know that?” the guard asked in a gravelly, accented voice.

“He and I have some unfinished business,” Jeremy gritted out.

“What is the nature of your business?” The guard narrowed his eyes.

Jeremy looked levelly, his eyes stabbing the man. He felt rage in the very pit of his guts. Voicing his reasons required considerable effort, his emotions surging, threatening to overpower his acute, calculating judgment.

“He took something. Stole it brutally away and hurt a person very dear to me.” Jeremy nodded at the guard. “I’m going to see that he pays for what he did.”

A slow, malicious grin formed on the guard’s face. “A man must do as his conscience demands of him,” he said. He paused thoughtfully before putting out his hand. “I am Luc, and would be delighted to help you, sir.”

Chapter Eleven

It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

—Robert Herrick, “The End”
(1648)

Summoned to her father’s study, Georgina thought this couldn’t be a good sign, but regardless wasn’t able to muster up much anxiety in any case. The past weeks had worn heavy on her.

Once Jeremy departed Oakfield after his disastrous proposal, Georgina felt the loss of him keenly. Tom had told him everything, so Jeremy knew the “why” of her disgrace. She also felt her will to resist her father’s machinations fading away. Papa was still determined to marry her off, and aching for a man she wouldn’t have was of no comfort. A wonderful man who’d made her feel like a true woman, desired and cherished. For a short time, at least.

She’d held a tiny flicker of hope that Jeremy might still want her after being told the hideous truth, but no, he had not. He’d gone quickly and probably felt like he’d dodged a bullet.

She could still remember the flash of disgust in his eyes when she’d shared her shame. Like dung had been thrown at him.

No, the future Sir Jeremy Greymont, Baronet, of Hallborough Park and Somerset, would have no use for a soiled, ruined bride, and that’s exactly what she would be to him.

For all her heartache, Georgina thought pragmatically and saw a bleak future. There wasn’t much spark left in her anymore to care though. With little to look forward to and nothing to lose, she hoped to leave Oakfield, unseen and quietly. Apart from Tom, nobody really wanted her, so she shouldn’t be missed once she left. As soon as she found the means and the way, she was getting out. Out of Oakfield, out of England, out of life as she had known it.

She knocked on the door, reminded of the audiences to this very study, after
it
had been done to her.

The humiliation and more so the fear that the monster might have impregnated her had simply paralyzed her father. Mr. Russell could think of little else and had continued to inquire obsessively if she experienced any signs, for or against a pregnancy. And she’d answered him, mortified and shamed anew each time he’d asked the question.

Then finally, one small blessing, a lifeline in a sea of drowning horror, fell her way. Her courses arrived, and she could finally answer her father definitively and stop the dreaded questioning once and for all. What a relief. For the both of them.

“Come.”

She stepped in. “Papa, you wished to see me?”

Nodding solemnly, in his way, Mr. Russell looked her over thoroughly, like he was trying to solve a conundrum. Shaking his head, he finally spoke. “I don’t know how you’ve managed it, girl, especially the way you treated him when he was a guest here, but it seems that luck favors you. He still wants you.”

An icy chill slid up her spine. “What do you speak of, Papa?”

“He is back and willing to overlook what transpired last time. His offer for your hand in marriage has been put forth yet again and on
this
occasion, you
will
accept him.”

Oh dear Christ and the angels! Lord Pellton has returned.

She backed up. “No. No, please, Papa. Don’t make me!”

“Georgina, enough of these dramatics,” he said tiredly. “It’s time to grow up and face your duty. His offer is respectable. You will want for nothing, will have a place in society, and shall bear a title, for Christ sake! That’s more than your mother got. You will be called ‘Lady.’”

“Oh, Papa!” She covered her mouth and turned from him. The walls were closing in on her. She felt small and powerless, completely at the mercy of others, with no voice of her own. She asked on a shuddering breath, “How can I do this?”

“You can, and you will. You are a Russell and must do your duty to your family and then to your husband, as is a woman’s obligation.”

She answered him with silent sobs, thinking she would start praying for a short earthly life. If she agreed to this, her life would be over anyway.

Mr. Russell’s voice softened, and he drew up behind her. “I know you’ve suffered, my daughter, but I believe this is best. A life of your own, and once they come, your own children to care for. In this way you can forget your—your past indignity. That man needs a son, and you are of a fine and noble family. He honors you. There is no shame in being a wife and mother, Georgina.”

She felt truly broken and tired, the will to resist crushed down to the point that she just didn’t much care anymore. Lord Pellton’s first wife had died in childbed and maybe she would, too. Whatever waited for her if she agreed must be her fate. What did it matter? Nothing mattered to her, not any longer. Feeling dead inside, she moved her head up and down woodenly.

“Success at last!” Mr. Russell blurted. “You’ve made the right decision, Georgina. I’ll just go give the happy news and bring him in for a private audience with you.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“He—he is here, now?”

“Yes. He arrived an hour ago, special license in hand. Says enough time has passed and will not wait any longer for you. The ceremony will be in the parlor, tomorrow morning, and then you’ll depart for your new home after the wedding breakfast. We can set back the date of your betrothal to the time when he was here before. Let it be known you were secretly engaged all these weeks. The maids should start on your packing right away. I’m sure you’ll have your own maid waiting for you when you arrive to your new home.”

Mr. Russell sounded positively giddy as he chattered about what needed to be done. She hardly paid attention to him, but did notice when the room grew quiet.

A sudden thought entered her mind. Right here, right now, was the last time. This moment was the last time she was a free person, operating under her own will. Because very soon, Lord Pellton would come in through that door and claim her. She would belong to him and would have to serve him. Her life would no longer be hers. It felt rather like a death, she thought.

She focused on the painting above the fireplace. It showed a seascape set along a craggy coastline. The storm-tossed waves at sunset, the glowing orange sun about to dip below the horizon. She’d always liked it, the colors and the subject. The painting could be a metaphor for her short life—this moment was
her
sunset, her end.

The door opened. She heard boots.

Standing frozen, she stared at the sunset in the painting, utterly unable to move.

He walked purposefully toward her, his steps hitting the floor in hard beats, growing closer and closer. She could hear his intense breathing. When he came within striking distance, he stopped behind her. She scented…cloves?

That couldn’t be right. There was only one person she knew who smelled of cloves! Her spine stiffened, afraid to think of him.
Jeremy?

“Can you not look upon me, Georgina? I want to look at you, for your face is the only thing I can see in my dreams all these weeks since we have been apart.”

She turned to him, feeling suddenly light-headed and thinking that the painting wasn’t of a sunset after all. It was a sunrise. Yes, most definitely. A glorious sunrise.

Chapter Twelve

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine...

—Ben Johnson,
To Celia
(1616)

Georgina started to drop, and Jeremy reached out his arms instinctively. He got to her just before she hit the floor. Her head lolling back, limp and lifeless in his arms—he realized she’d fainted dead away.