Chapter 1
AT A COUNTRY ESTATE, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON
The day of Daphne's wedding dawned bright and clear; she could see it from her bedroom window. The sky was idyllically blue, the sun warm, the air balmy for the time of year. A fine day for a wedding, indeed.
She had been permitted to open her bedroom window, strictly for the purpose of airing it out, which was also a relief. It had begun to smell musty inside.
They needn't have been so careful with the windows, really. She was only three floors up, and while there was paving stones underneath, Daphne did not believe that a fall from that height would kill her, so there was no point in jumping.
"You... you won't tell the Marquess I untied you before he said so, will you?
" the maid whispered, fear jumping in her eyes.
Daphne did not know her name – did not know any of their names – and she suspected it was an order they'd been given.
This girl was friendlier than the others, though, with a round, happy face, brown hair, and brown eyes.
"Of course not," Daphne assured her. "It was very kind of you."
She was seated on a satin-covered stool before a white dresser, and the large oval mirror perfectly reflected the room behind her.
The bedroom she'd been given in the Marquess of Huston's estate was a fine one, all brocaded bed-curtains and rich silk draperies.
Her bed was three times as large as the one she'd had at home, and twice as comfortable.
Of course, the effect was somewhat ruined by the tangle of ropes tied to the sturdy wooden bed legs, loops revealing where her wrists had been tied.
Matching bracelets of purple-green bruises circled her wrists, and Daphne absently circled one wrist, then the other. She'd tried to undo her bonds, of course she had, but the Marquess' steward, the man who carried out his orders, had once been a sailor and was a genius with knots.
She might have been impressed, if it hadn't been such a painful demonstration.
"I... I don't suppose you were able to get my note to my father?" she said, hesitantly. That had been a dangerous chance to take. The Marquess had been clear on what her punishments would be if she tried to escape again, but what might he do to the poor maid?
The girl sighed, concentrating on brushing out Daphne's waist-length, red-brown hair.
"I tried, my lady, I really did. He's staying in the opposite wing, and the Marquess keeps him well watched.
Not that he tries anything. The poor man's spirit seems quite broken.
I delivered him the letter, but he took it from me and threw it straight in the fire.
He said that there was nothing else you could say to him that would make any difference, and making your peace with the marriage was the best thing to do.
He warned me against helping you again."
Daphne sagged back in her seat. So that was it, then. Her last hope, gone. Her father was not going to help her. She hadn't had much faith that he would, considering that the marriage was his doing, but still – he was her father, and she had hoped against hope that he would have a change of heart.
Not so, apparently.
"Once I am married," Daphne said casually, "I suppose I won't be locked up with a maid all night, then?"
She tried to catch the girl's eye in the mirror, but it was in vain.
"I couldn't say, my lady," the woman muttered.
She'd pushed herself far enough, and Daphne gave up.
The poor maid had already risked too much to help her.
Too much, and none of their plans had worked.
The Marquess was always two steps ahead of them, perpetually foiling their plans, his reach too long and powerful to escape.
And in just a few short hours, she was going to be his wife.
"I think it's time to get you into your dress, my lady," the maid said, finally setting aside the brush. "It is a beautiful gown."
The dress, of course, had been chosen by the Marquess.
It was white – he liked white, enjoyed its cleanness and purity, as far as she could tell – and had puffed sleeves, a too-tight bodice, and voluminous skirts.
The material was stiff with lace and embroidery, studded with beads, sequins, and seed-pearls. It must have cost a fortune.
It took a while to get into, with just the one maid to help. Daphne stood there helplessly, limply allowing herself to be strapped into layer after layer of shifts, petticoats, underskirts, and corsets, until finally the heaviest layer of all – the dress itself – was slipped over her head.
Her shoes were low-heeled white slippers, covered in lace, and a little too tight in the toes.
Her hair was twisted into a long braid, half down over her shoulders – half bare, as the neckline skimmed the tips of her shoulders - and decorated with small, white silken flowers.
It was a becoming style, but Daphne did not like the heavy, itchy length of her hair on her exposed skin.
It made her feel... well, vulnerable. Unlaced. Undone.
On cue, as the last lace was being tightened, the key clicked in the lock.
Without waiting to knock or be summoned in, the door was pushed open and the Marquess of Huston strolled inside to inspect his bride.
A black-suited, cadaverous man who never smiled followed him, the steward Green. Daphne wasn't entirely sure which one she hated more.
The Marquess lifted a gold-rimmed quizzing glass to his eye, and scrutinized Daphne from head to toe.
"Very pretty," he remarked carelessly. "I see that every detail of my instructions has been followed. I couldn't allow my future wife to look anything beyond perfect on our wedding day, naturally. Although she looks rather pale, I think."
Actually, it wasn't true. Daphne did know which one of the men she hated more.
"I think," she said levelly, refusing to drop her gaze before his penetrating stare, "That my paleness could have something to do with being kept indoors for... how long has it been now? A month?"
He dropped the glass, tutting. "Dear, dear. A lady never blames others for her shortcomings, especially not her beloved betrothed. We shall soon be husband and wife, my dearest, and you must respect and revere me as your lord."
Daphne smoothed out the bodice of her gown, wishing it was just a little looser. The corset lacings, like everything else, had followed the Marquess' outlines.
"I shall never revere you in the slightest. You may forget about respect, my dear William. I shall never view you with anything beyond abhorrence."
He pouted comically, exaggerating the movement. "Oh, dear. You are in a fine mood today. Well, well, I suppose a horse can be led to water but not forced to drink. It can, however, be drowned." He added thoughtfully.
Daphne clenched her jaw, not risking a response.
The Marquess, too, was dressed in wedding finery. Again, he had chosen all white, with accents of cloth-of-gold. There was frothy lace at his wrists and neck, his face was powdered – an old-fashioned style, but still – and he was immaculately groomed.
She knew by now not to let her guard down. The Marquess might look like a dandy, but he wasn't one. The sword at his side had been used before and used well.
The long, pin-thin scar on her thigh, stretching down from hip to knee, was a testament to his swordsmanship. It had been one of her earlier escape attempts, and she was under no illusions as to how easily the Marquess could have gutted her instead.
She remembered, too, the crushing strength of his hands as he dragged her back, over wet lawns and dirty flowerbeds.
Shuddering, Daphne pointedly banished that memory. The thoughts might come back in dreams, and there wasn't a great deal she could do about that, but during her waking hours, she could control her thoughts.
In the present, the Marquess was still inspecting her, tugging at the laces of her corset, fluffing up the lace at her bodice.
"Are you looking forward to our wedding, my dearest?" he remarked, after a few moments of tense silence. "I know your father is looking forward to being released from his debts."
Daphne wasn't quite able to suppress a flinch at that. The Marquess noticed, and his smile widened.
At first glance, the Marquess could be taken for an extremely good-looking man. Under the powder, his hair was blond, and his face was well-featured. He was tall, deceptively strong, and could be charming, when he chose.
That impression never lasted beyond a few hours. It had lasted even less for Daphne. The man was a monster, with a taste for blood. Not his own blood, naturally.
"I am looking forward to it," Daphne said lightly, earning herself an inquisitive stare. "Because as the Marchioness, I believe I would have keys to every room in the house. Including the key to my own bedroom. That would be a novel idea, I think."
The Marquess' gaze narrowed. "Watch your tone, my girl.
You have a quick tongue, and you have spirit.
I like that, but don't forget how quickly I get bored.
When things bore me, I get rid of them. And as for you.
.." he slunk closer still, until she could smell the cologne and spicy scent he'd plastered on himself.
Long fingers curled around Daphne's chin, keeping her face still, digging painfully into her skin. She forced herself not to flinch or blink, or indeed display any acknowledgement of pain.
That would only encourage him.
"... as for you," he continued, "you are in quite a pickle. You have no dowry, no money of your own, no land, nothing. You will be mine, body and soul, and the law is on my side. So, have spirit, if you must, but take care not to bore me, Daphne Pierce. You and your penniless earl of a father."
"Body maybe, but not soul, not mind, and not heart," she spat out, finally jerking her chin away.
He let her, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side.
"So impetuous," he sighed. "We shall see, my dear Daphne. We shall see."
"And where is my father?"