Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
IMOGEN
Maisie flits about, ensuring the bathroom towels are lined up—like it matters—and turning down the lights on either side of the king-sized bed. She folds the covers over on one side, then pours me a glass of water.
Since she sidled up to me in the ballroom ten minutes ago and told me she was to take me to my rooms, I’ve been standing in one spot like a statue. This isn’t the same suite I stayed in with my parents, but it doesn’t look masculine enough to be Alexander’s room, either. There’s something about that bed, though, and the silk nightgown draped over the covers that’s brought all this to the forefront of my mind.
And I’m terrified.
If Alexander had been even a touch kinder, it would make what’s expected of me that much easier, and Mom’s so-called pep talk hasn’t done anything to help. It’s only made my anxiety spike and my anger flare. I shouldn’t be here in this strange house in a foreign country, far away from my friends and, soon enough, my family, too. I shouldn’t be married to a man I don’t know and have no desire to get to know. I should be looking forward to starting work for Zenith and putting my degree to good use.
At least my things have arrived far earlier than I thought they would. Someone has thoughtfully placed the book I was reading before I left America on the nightstand, and plugged my cell in to charge.
Wait a second. I take a closer look.
That isn’t my cell phone.
I walk over to it and pick it up. It looks like the latest model, and as I wake up the screen, the words ‘Hello, Imogen’ appear.
What the fuck? Phones purchased off the shelf aren’t personalized from the get-go. I brandish the phone at Maisie.
“Whose phone is this?”
Her gaze flickers to the device, then her eyes meet mine. “It’s yours. Mr. De Vil had it delivered earlier today with instructions we were to leave it here for you.”
I heave a sigh, irritation crawling over my skin and lifting the hairs until they’re standing at attention. “Which Mr. De Vil?” There are five of them, after all.
She rubs her lips together. “Your husband, Ms. Imogen.”
So, we’ve evolved from “Miss” to “Ms.” That isn’t any better. And ugh. Husband. The word alone makes my stomach tilt.
“Just Imogen, Maisie.” All this formality is giving me a headache. “And where is my cell phone?”
“Of course. Whatever you prefer. As to where your phone is, I’m afraid I don’t know.”
My teeth gnash together. Another question for Alexander. How dare he take my phone. It has all my personal numbers in it, not to mention private messages I’ve shared with Emma and many of my other friends. It has my entire chat history.
“May I help you dress for bed?”
I blink, jerked from my thoughts by Maisie’s question. “No, you may not.”
Her face falls, and guilt swells in my chest. I rush to make amends.
“I didn’t mean it to come out like that, but it’s fine. I can do it.” I want her to go now, to get this night over with. The waiting is the worst. Once it’s done, I’ll be fine. I will.
“Thanks for everything, Maisie, but I guess you’d better go.”
“Of course, Ms. Im—” She dips her chin to her chest and backs away. “I mean Imogen. I’ll be back in the morning. If there’s anything you need in the meantime?—”
“I doubt I will.” The only thing I want is to go home, and Maisie can’t make that happen. Tea and sympathy aren’t what I need.
She gives me a small smile and, seconds later, the door closes, leaving me alone.
All alone.
I go through the setup on the phone, and when I get to the end, relief swarms through me. All my photos are there, as well as my contacts, my chats with Emma, my parents, my college tutors and my other friends. Thank God. Although it does raise the question of what the point was of a new phone. Mine was only a year old.
Checking the settings, though, shows me it’s a new number. I guess having a US number makes no sense if I’m living in England, although it would’ve been nice if he’d just asked me. Then again, asking for permission doesn’t seem his style.
I fire off a message to everyone in my address book, letting them know my new number, then set the phone down on the nightstand and pick up the nightdress, running the material through my hands. Rebellion burgeons within me. Tossing the nightgown on the floor, I rifle through the drawers. Aha. Perfect. I take out my blue Dodgers hoodie and grab a pair of gray sweats. If my beloved husband thinks I’m going to dress like a high-class hooker for his benefit, he can take a seat, because it isn’t happening.
I slide my wedding dress off and let it pool on the floor. The ivory lingerie is the next to go. I grab the biggest pair of boring, white cotton panties I own and pull them on, then dress in my chosen bedtime outfit.
Catching sight of myself in the floor-length, freestanding mirror, I smile. That ought to do it.
I sit on the bed and bring my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My phone dings a few times with acknowledgements to my message, but there’s nothing from Emma. She’s probably at the beach playing volleyball, or on a date, or visiting the cinema and scarfing down a gigantic bucket of popcorn alongside a tray of cheesy nachos.
Another bout of loneliness washes over me. I haven’t heard from her today, although I didn’t expect to after she sent a text last night wishing me luck.
Ha! Luck. That’s not what I need. What I need is an escape route.
Minutes pass, then an hour, then two. I wait. And wait. And wait, but Alexander doesn’t come. I glance at the clock on the opposite side of the bed. Twelve forty-five. Where the hell is he? Am I in the wrong room? Is he expecting me to go to him?
Good luck with that, asshole.
Another fifteen minutes pass before curiosity gets the better of me. I jump off the bed, slide my feet into my slippers, and open the door. Outside, it’s silent, with muted lighting overhead. I make my way down the hallway. Most of the doors are closed, but I pass one that’s ajar and peer inside. There’s a single lamp on in the corner, and I recognize the room instantly. It’s the same one where the De Vil siblings gathered the other night.
Tonight, it’s empty.
I continue on, pausing by another closed door. I’m sure this is where he went the other night after he stormed off like a toddler. I tap on the door and open it. It’s dark inside, and Alexander isn’t here.
I’ve almost given up when the sound of ice being dropped into a glass drifts toward me. I make my way to the sound, happening upon a library that is every book lovers’ dream. Unfortunately, the beautiful sight is ruined by the vision of Alexander sitting in a high-backed chair nursing a crystal glass. He’s staring into the fireplace, his brows dipped low, and from this vantage point, he looks like a man with the weight of the world sitting on his broad shoulders. His tie is askew, his top button is unfastened, and he’s tossed his morning jacket over the back of the chair across from him.
I knock once on the open door and enter. Alexander doesn’t show any signs of hearing me, his attention still locked on the unlit fire.
“Alexander?”
No answer.
I venture farther into the library, the smell of old books lingering in the air. I pause to check out a few of the titles, but I don’t recognize them. I move to within his line of sight.
“Where is my cell phone?” I don’t care that everything has been transferred from the old one to the new one. That phone belongs to me, and I want it back.
Ignoring me, he knocks back his drink, then stands and crosses to a table where a crystal decanter half-filled with an amber liquid sits. Pouring himself a glass, he glances over his shoulder for the briefest moment. There’s no reaction to my casual attire—such a contrast to his wedding outfit and the beautiful dress I’ve worn all day. It’s as though he doesn’t even see me now, or that I’m so unimportant, I could be wearing a trash bag, and he wouldn’t give two fucks.
“Do you want a brandy?”
I shouldn’t, especially after drinking two glasses of champagne, but what the hell? My nerves are shot. Maybe hard liquor is the answer to the knot tightening in my stomach.
“I want my phone.”
He swipes his jacket off the back of the chair and points for me to sit, then pours a second drink, even though I didn’t ask for it. When I sit, he appears to the side of me and hands over a glass engraved with the De Vil family crest.
“Thanks,” I mutter, smelling it before I sip. It’s strong and burns on the way down, but in its wake is a warmth I’ve been craving. Maybe because every time I’m around Alexander, I feel a chill.
“My phone, Alexander.”
Sitting back in his chair, he resumes his incessant staring, occasionally swirling the brandy in his glass. The silence stretches from seconds into minutes while I wait for him to answer my goddamn question. I’ve already figured out he’s a master at the art of silence, but I’m not all that bad at it myself. I use the time to scan the room. This may become my favorite place to hang out, unless Alexander is here. Then I’ll probably give it a swerve.
Time is a strange phenomenon. If you’re happy and enjoying yourself, it passes faster than a comet streaking through space. In uncomfortable silences, like now, each second feels like an hour, but I refuse to give in. The previous times he tried this, I was the first to speak. On this occasion, I’m determined he’ll break first. I calculate at least fifteen minutes must pass by, during which we both finish our drinks. He doesn’t offer me another one, nor does he rise to refill his own.
If he hadn’t been so unpleasant to me from the first moment we met, I may be more inclined to feel sorry for him. It’s clear he’s deeply unhappy with our marriage, yet he went through with it anyway. If he truly is as stubborn as his father made out, then he’d have dug his heels in and refused. I’d wager there’s more to his compliance than simply an expectation passed down from generation to generation.
“You should get some sleep,” he says, breaking the quiet, still not answering me. Is he being infuriating on purpose? His refusal to tell me where my phone is strips the joy from beating him at the silence game.
“Why?”
“We’ve a long day tomorrow. The flight will only take us as far as Edinburgh, and it’s a two-hour drive to Thistlewood from there.”
He speaks as if I should know what or where Thistlewood is. “Thistlewood?”
He scowls, pursing his lips. “Where we’re spending our honeymoon.” If he’d tried to sound any more disparaging, I doubt he’d have managed it .
“Oh.” I put the empty glass on the table beside me. “What’s it like?”
A sigh spills from his lips. “Remote.”
“Yippee. Just what you and I need. Time alone.”
My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. His scowl deepens. “There’s plenty of room for us to avoid each other.”
“Which is clearly what you want.” While I’m partial to the idea of avoiding him, the thought of spending all that time alone in a remote and strange part of the country doesn’t appeal to me. Oh, God, I hope I can get phone signal. What if I can’t? It’ll be torture.
“Are you telling me you’d rather spend every day in my company?”
“Not if this”—I swing my hand between us—“is what your company looks like.”
His nostrils flare as he expels a heavy breath, and he sets down his glass with a thunk. “What are you doing here, Imogen?”
“Aren’t you going to sleep with me?”
The words slosh out before I’ve connected brain to mouth, and I’d give anything to stuff them back in and kill them with fire, but it’s too late. He sits up straighter in his chair, his amber eyes like two blazing suns. Then he lets out a single-note laugh, and there’s so much bitterness, so much angst in that short sound, a shiver runs through me.
“Is that what you came here for?”
“No. I came here to ask about my phone, but as you’re determined not to give me an answer to that question, I thought I’d ask another.”
He rises from his chair and prowls behind me. I freeze, oxygen settling in my lungs. His fingertips trail over my neck, and goosebumps spring to life. Gathering my hair into a ponytail, he tugs, forcing my head back. I meet his gaze, and what I see there causes a shiver to run through me. For someone with eyes the color of warm amber, he’s mastered the icy glare.
“Do you want it, Little Pawn? Do you want me to take your innocence, to rip through your virginity? Fuck you until you bleed all over my dick, then force you to lap up every drop of blood?”
His bluntness renders me speechless. I can’t think of a single word to say in response.
What the hell have I done ? I should have refused to marry him and screw the consequences. Forced my father to offer something else to settle whatever this debt was that he ran up all those years ago.
Alexander releases his hold on my hair and walks over to the decanter once more. My lungs release the breath I’d been holding, and I almost pitch forward. My legs are boneless as I force myself to my feet, and my knees knock together so hard, I’m convinced he must be able to hear them.
When he turns, his eyes aren’t cold anymore. They’re glacial and filled with animosity. It’s clear he hates me.
Well, good. Good. Because I hate him, too.
“Don’t worry, Little Pawn.” He runs his gaze over me, and there’s something about the way he does it that makes me shiver again. “Your virtue is safe. For now.”
With the refilled glass of brandy in his hand, he sweeps from the room, leaving me standing there, aghast. My knees give out, and I plop back into the chair. My heart pounds, clattering against my ribcage, and my breaths burst in and out as if I’ve sprinted up a flight of stairs too fast.
But when my mind replays his crude speech, a pulse throbs between my legs. He degraded and humiliated me… and my body responded favorably.
What on earth is wrong with me? His coarse treatment can’t have turned me on. It can’t . What kind of person would that make me?
That’s a question I do not want to know the answer to. Not today, not tomorrow.
Not ever.