Holly L. Huff
All rights reserved by Denlinger's Publishers, including the right to reproduce this electronic book, or portions thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Jillian is a young English lady molded to fit into a society she detests, but accepts. She is forced to marry a cruel man out of duty to her father. When her father is mysteriously murdered on her wedding night and her new husband begins to demand that she give him the Jewel of Satyr, a jewel she knows nothing about, Jillian finds herself in a maze of betrayal and lies.
Michael Lancaster sails into London with a mind set on revenge toward Jillian's husband. His own secrets of a dark past come to battle with Jillian's as she becomes the pawn in a dangerous game of vengeance and greed. Jillian's passions are put to the test and she finds that she is both weaker, and stronger, than she thought herself to be.
Chapter 1
London, 1854
Lady Jillian never wanted to sign the agreement to marry the Marquess of Lindchester. As a man twice her age, she thought him to be incredibly dull and boring. But her father, the Duke of Wakefield, had requested it of her. A sigh escaped her as she sat at the vanity table, studying her wedding dress in the mirror. She would have never thought that such a pretty ensemble could feel like a thousand chains weighing on her shoulders. She would forever be at her father's whim. But it was how it should be.
Jillian turned as she heard her cousin call her name. She smiled and rushed to the dressing room door. Upon opening it she saw her cousin, Sara, look at her with the usual vigor and disquiet.
"You cannot be married today," Lady Sara Barrington breathed as she barged into the dressing room. Her eyes were swimming with purpose, her mouth tight and insistent.
Alarm gripped Jillian as quickly as Sara's words, and had her reaching for her cousin's arm. "What has happened?" Jillian asked urgently.
"Nothing yet," Sara responded, "but if you marry the marquess you will regret it. I've kept my peace, but I cannon bear to watch you marry a man you don't love!"
Jillian backed away from her cousin and sighed. "Sara," she said with a smile, "I signed the contract. I promised my father and the marquess that once I was old enough to be presented at court I would fulfill my duty. It is done."
Sara stepped closer, grabbing her skirts to prevent tripping on them. Her fine, blond hair began to escape its pins. She straightened one of the pins as she spoke. "You were sixteen when you signed that contract, surely something can be done. It isn't legal."
Jillian smiled at her cousin's familiarly dramatic behavior. Sara was just a year older than she and they were very much like sisters, close as twins for as long as Jillian's memory took her back. And as sisters sometimes are, the pair could not be any more different.
"I made a promise," Jillian said quietly, "I have no choice." She looked down at her hands as she tried to keep emotion from her face and her voice. "It is my duty to appease my father. You know that his health has not been well, and the marquess promised him a good bit of land and a ship that my father can find very useful. And my father's wish is to be able to see me marry. Also, the marquess has promised that, should my father become more ill, he will help in any way he can. He really is a fine man." Pleased that she had made her point logically, Jillian looked up and smiled thinly.
Sara paced. "I hate to see you do something that I know you don't want to."
Jillian turned again to the mirror. Her dress was of ivory and gold taffeta and Sara though she looked very much like an angel. She took the sheer muslin and placed it over Jillian's head as a veil. "You do look beautiful," Sara said, concerned at Jillian's silence.
Jillian adjusted the veil in the mirror. She mused that it felt as if she were wearing her death shrouds. Forcing a smile, she turned to her cousin again. "I would surely have married someday, Sara. And the marquess will make a fine husband. He is of high breeding, as I am, and we will produce suitable offspring." Though her voice was polite and practiced, it held the sad note of sorrow. It came from the knowledge that her cousin was right. Sara knew Jillian better that anyone else did. But there was no reversing a promise that had been made.
Another knock sounded at the door and Sara rushed to open it, hoping for a catastophe that would delay the wedding. But it was only her uncle and Jillian's father, the Duke of Wakefield. And he appeared quite serene.
"Hello Uncle," Sara smiled at him, disguising her dislike for the man.
"Hello Sara," the duke said formally. "I ask that you please leave us be, for I'd like to speak with my daughter."
Sara nodded as she walked past him and out the door. She noticed that he did look very ill. His skin held a sickly gray and it appeared as if it was difficult for him to see or breath. She turned around as she closed the door and saw that he limped toward his daughter. He had never told anyone where his limp had come from, he had simply aforementioned that it was from an old wound.
"Hello father," Jillian said dutifully without looking at him. She kept her back turned and struggled with a tear that insisted on escaping to make its lonely way down her cheek. She reached her hand under the veil and brushed it away before her father could notice it.
"Look at me, girl," her father wheezed the request and she obeyed his order.
He was a portly man with grayed hair and kind eyes. Even through his sickly appearance his kind and soft heart was more distinguishable. He had promised her that it was for her well being that he had requested for her to enter this marriage. He wanted her to be well cared for, as she wanted the same for him.
"I have something for you," he limped closer to her as he pulled a gold necklace from his pocket. On the end of the chain dangled a jewel enclosed in glass. It was small, yet the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She had never seen a color quite like it. It resembled jade, but was also very different, with what seemed like every other color swirled about. The colors dipped and played harmoniously in a rhythm that made Jillian think of a dance.
"What is it?" Jillian whispered as she took the jewel into her hand. "It's beautiful."
The duke smiled. "I want you to have it. It is something that is very dear to me, for I found it where I met your mother, hence it belongs to you. I believe it has brought me luck and I wish the same for you." Jillian would not have known his emotion if she didn't look into his eyes. He kept his voice level as he spoke but on the rim of his eyes she saw the mist.
Jillian smiled, showing the dimples that gleamed through her cheeks and her blue eyes lit up. "Thank you, father." She raised her veil enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I shall always treasure it."
The duke smiled in return and then took his daughter's hand. "It is time," he said solemnly.
Jillian's pleasant mood vanished completely as she walked through the church courtyard and into the sanctuary. Because the wedding was to take place during the season, the hall was filled with London's poshest society. Jillian held a frown during the entire ceremony, but she behaved diligently, as a lady should. And although she almost cringed as her new husband kissed her, she was able to force a smile.
After the ceremony the couple returned to the townhouse of the duke and duchess of Barrington; her Uncle and Aunt, and Sara's parents. There they enjoyed a breakfast feast and mingled with more of London's society. Jillian did her best to avoid her new husband, until they were alone in the carriage and she was forced to notice him.
She sat in the corner of the private coach with her hands folded in her lap. She looked like a lady should look and the marquess was pleased. She came at a high price, but he didn't doubt that she'd be worth it, for he was about to earn the price back, tenfold.
"Come sit next to me, bride." The marquess addressed her with a knowing smile as he held his hand out to her. At first Jillian slumped against the seat, but then decided she must do as she is told.
She took his hand and decided that he was not homely, and was actually quite handsome. But at thirty-six years of age, gray peppered his hair and a few wrinkles streaked his face. As she sat next him she thought that he smelled of brandy and cigars. But she smiled and played the role of a loving bride.
But they both knew that love was not a requirement in this marriage. She married him simply out of duty to her father. The marquess knew this but was not bothered by it. After all, she was merely a means to an end. She would soon have something that he had wanted for sometime. And in the end, it would be his. But he smiled as he took her hand, for his bride was more lovely than he remembered her, and it would please him to make her his wife. His alliance with the duke of Wakefield had proven to be worthwhile after all.
The marquess scowled upon remembrance that the duke had agreed to take one of his best lands and his best ship. He had made the offer out of desperation, for the duke had been difficult to convince. For some reason he cared for Jillian, which the marquess did not understand, for he knew the duke to be a man who never cared for anything, other than gold and jewels. In this, the two men had been very similar. And they had both been after the same goal. The duke had thought to have won, but Jonathan, the Marquess of Lindchester, would soon prove otherwise. And Jillian was the key to his achievement.
When they arrived at the marquess's town house, Jonathan helped her out of the carriage. "I have some business to attend to, but I shall return this evening," he said as he walked her up the steps of her new home. "I shall have you introduced to the staff. You will be taken good care of in my absence."
Jillian walked inside and marveled silently at what she saw. The house was much nicer than she had expected. In the center of the foyer sat a mahogany three legged table covered with fresh flowers. The windows were covered with floral valances and shear drapes. In front of her stood a curved staircase leading to a large sitting area. Just beyond that must have been the bedrooms. To the right of her was another sitting area, and to the left was a hallway which appeared to lead to the drawing room and study.
"Hello, mi'lady," the butler addressed her with a smile. "Your things are settled in your room. When you are ready I will show you where that is."
"Thank you," Jillian smiled warmly and then turned to her husband.
"Yes, thank you Spencer," he glanced at his wife then back to the butler. "Jillian, I'd like you to meet Spencer, my loyal servant. He has been with me for years."
Jillian lent her hand to the butler and allowed him to kiss it. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir." She withdrew her hand and smiled warmly. She decided she liked him right away and it was obvious he was practically family. He was much older that Jonathan, yet seemed so much younger in vitality. The wrinkles upon his face had probably been planted by laughs and smiles, rather than frowns and unhappiness.
"Spencer," Jonathan said briskly, "I will be gone for the rest of the day, but will return this evening. My wife," he turned to Jillian, "I will come to your chamber shortly after the sun sets, I expect you to be ready for me."
Jillian was embarrassed as the sudden pinkness that she felt overcome her cheeks, yet no one else seemed to notice. Her husband kissed her hand and then left. She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to the butler.
"You mustn't be afraid, mi'lady," Spencer said warmly, "he is a kind man."
"Yes Spencer, so I've been told." She straightened her posture and pulled her gloves off. "I am very tired, and I would like to see my room now."
"Yes, of course." Spencer said as she took his elbow. "When you are ready, please call for me and I shall take you on a tour of the grounds and introduce you to the rest of the staff."
Jillian smiled weakly as they walked up the stairs. Her only words from that point were to thank him. After she shut the door behind her she leaned against it in a very unladylike manner. She realized her position and quickly stood upright, although she knew she was alone.
She walked desolately around room. It was as beautiful as the rest of the house, but she had never been a slave to such possessions. She had heard that some people lived with only a fraction of what she did, but they were still happy. And at that moment she knew she would trade every possession she had for just a moment of happiness.
But happiness was not something she would ever again expect to feel. She was married now, and forced to put aside her silly dreams of love. Perhaps she could one day learn to love the marquess, but surely he would be dead before that time came, and she'd be forced to live out the rest of her years lonely and embittered.
But she knew that dwelling was as pointless as hoping for something to change. She was trained to be noble and selfless. This marriage was her first important duty as an adult and the fact that it pleased her father gave her some comfort.
Jillian opened one of her trunks and pulled out a sheer white nightgown with its matching silk robe. She traced the lace edgings with her fingertips and sighed. Tonight her innocence would end. She tried not to be so frightened, for she had known for nearly two years that this is how it would be. Yet in all her education she was unlearned in the happenings between a man and a wife. She knew only the basics - that a woman should never enjoy it. It was her duty to perform in order to produce offspring. But without a mother to tell her, she was without knowledge of how it is to be done. She hoped her husband would be patient with her.
She spent the afternoon settling her things. When she was finished she asked that she be shown around the house and introduced to the other servants. She liked everybody right away and by the time her dinner was served her spirit had been uplifted considerably. Perhaps this marriage would not be as difficult as she had thought. Or perhaps it would be worse.
Her meal was grand and served in the large dining room. Spencer had taken care to place fresh roses in the center of the table for her. But she didn't eat much, only enough so that the cook's feelings would not be hurt. After the meal Jillian scuttled back to her room to prepare for her wedding night.
The nightgown fit perfectly, outlining her curves, hiding as much as it revealed. She stood in front of the mirror and frowned. She let the pins out of her hair and allowed the soft curls to float against the silk. Her eyes were misty, but she forced herself to be strong.
Her strength came from thoughts of her father. He so very much wanted a grandchild before he passed on. And she feared that he would not be alive much longer. His health was deteriorating quickly. He had once told her that he must die an untimely death for penance of his past, although he would not tell her anything about this past. But all that mattered to Jillian was that her father was a kind, gentle, man. And whatever he had done in the past, his kindness had already released him.
Jillian smoothed her curls and then looked through the heavy drapes, looking over the courtyard. It was beautiful, although small. The gardens were nicely done, popping with color from azaleas, roses, and even snapdragons, her favorite as a child. She sighed as the frantic knock at the door tore her from her musings. She assumed it was her husband and so she opened the door without thought to her current state. Upon seeing Spencer standing there her hands flew to her bosom and her face burned red.
Spencer looked just as embarrassed. "I'm sorry mi'lady," he said as he diverted his eyes away from her.
Jillian quickly regained her composure as much as she could and smiled. The poor man looked absolutely wretched. She pulled the robe up to her chin. "Spencer, what is it? Your look as white as milk."
"I'm afraid I have some distressing news mi'lady," Spencer looked at her face, keeping his gaze above her neckline.
Jillian smiled. "Spencer, please, call my Jillian."
"Of course, Lady Jillian."
"No, just Jillian." She was doing her best to help him relax. The poor man.
"The marquess would not like it," the butler informed her. "I must address you by your title."
Jillian straightened. "You may call me by my given name when we are alone. Now tell me this news."
"Perhaps you'd like to get dressed and come downstairs," Spencer suggested.
Jillian could not bear having to take time to dress. The worry started as a slow burning in her stomach, yet her hands were cold and shaking. She grabbed the doorjamb for support. "No, Spencer, please tell me what you must tell me."
"A message was just received, Jillian," he fumbled over using her name. "It has brought news of your father."
Jillian's face turned ghostlike and her knuckles turned white as she held a death grip on the doorjamb. "Tell me." She said with little emotion, although inside the emotion was bubbling, demanding to be freed.
"He has died, madam."
Jillian let go of her robe, no longer caring about her state. She backed into the room and sat on the bed. She was numb. She knew she should cry, but there were no tears allowed in the presence of her staff. She was angry. "How?" She asked Spencer as he still stood in the doorway.
"He was killed," the butler said quietly.
"Oh God," Jillian whispered. "Who?"
"They aren't sure," he informed her, "it appears to have been a robbery that went terribly wrong. They felled him on the streets and his possessions were taken from his body." Spencer hung his head. It was such a shame to be the bearer of this news. He had sent for the marquess, but after hearing no word he decided to tell her himself, as the message instructed that Lady Jillian be told right away.
"Does my cousin know?" Jillian asked as the bile rose in her throat. She clutched onto the bed covers and stared at the floored.
"Yes, it is Lady Sara who sent the message," Spencer stammered with the words, "she will call on you in the morning to see how you are. Is there anything that I can do for you now?"
"You can get my husband," Jillian said in monotone. "Right away please." She did not really want him there, but it seemed the proper thing that she ask for him.
"I have tried, but cannot seem to reach him. However I will try once again," he added after seeing Jillian's face grow even more pale.
"Please do so, Spencer," she said quietly. Her eyes were still dry. "And please leave me be until he comes home."
Spencer dutifully agreed and left Lady Jillian to her own sorrow. Once the door was shut she found her tears and cried long into her pillow. When all of the tears were gone she stood and paced the room. Where was her husband?
As if on cue, she heard a knock at the door. She ran to open it. The marquess stood before her. At first his expression held one of sorrow and pity, but Jillian saw his gaze turn to lust as he gawked at her near nakedness. When she pulled the robe up to her chin and backed away, he seemed to recapture his gentlemanly statute.
"My wife, I am so distressed, I assume you've heard." He walked into the room without being invited. It was his home and he'd walk anywhere he damn well pleased. He knew he must console his wife, but he wished it to be done quickly so that they could attend too much more pleasurable business.
Jillian turned away from him. Her tears had dried and she was now back to her ladylike demeanor, although she wished she could run into his arms and sob. She wanted him to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. But she knew that it wasn't that kind of marriage. He would bed her tonight to make the contract legal, but after that they would only do the deed when a child could possibly be conceived.
Jonathan stepped closer to her. "I wish I knew what to say to your to ease your pain," he stammered.
Jillian turned around. "At least my father saw me marry," she said coldly before turning back around.
Jonathan walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her small, fragile body went ice cold beneath his touch. Being a gentleman he knew that it was proper to allow Jillian time to mourn her father's death. He released his hold and she relaxed again.
After a moment Jillian turned back around. "My lord, I'm sorry. I know that as your wife certain things are expected of me. But I must warn you that my heart is not at all agreeing with what is to take place. I simply ask that you give me some time. But if you do not wish to, I obey and will do as you wish. "Jonathan wanted her with a fierceness that he felt tugging in his groin. Seeing her in that outfit was enough to drive any man wild. He wanted to feel those curves against his hands, drive into her until he was satisfied. He stepped toward her again, but then stopped. To accomplish his ultimate goal, he needed her to trust him. He knew from the look in her eye that she was frightened and hurting. To bed her now would cause her to mistrust him. And that would complicate his plan immensely.
"Very well," he said as he stepped back. "I shall give you time, wife, although I cannot promise you how much."
"Thank you, my lord," Jillian whispered without looking at him. She couldn't bear that look of lust that had once again returned to his eyes.
When he left her chambers her heart began to beat again and she was once again able to breathe.
The marquess stormed out of the bedroom and toward the drawing room. On his way down the stairs he saw Spencer and ordered him to send for his associate, William, right away.
"What the hell went wrong?" Jonathan bellowed an hour later. William sat in a chair across from his partner. He watched the marquess stand and pace the room.
"I don't know, my lord," William said as he clutched the side of the chair. Jonathan and William had been long time friends, but the man still had a tendency to frighten him. "I gave our men your orders exactly. They knew that they were not to kill the duke until the marriage had been consummated. Some of them are not very bright, perhaps-"
"I will not hear excuses," Jonathan bellowed again. "Everything is nearly ruined. The damn wench won't let me touch her now. Why does she mourn for that vial man? It perplexes me to no end."
"That vial man is very much like yourself, sir, which is why you hated him so."
That statement brought a sinister smile to the marquess's face. "Yes, he was my competition, and now I have conquered him."
William smiled in return. "You have not reached your goal quite yet, my lord," he reminded him. "The fortune will not be yours until your bride becomes your wife."
Jonathan scowled. "I know," he said quietly as he turned to look out the window. "But she will be. I swear to you that I will bed the bitch even if I have to use force. Although I doubt that force will be necessary, for she seems to be very obedient."
"But she must trust you, otherwise she will not sign the fortune over to you. Even if you force her to sign the papers, and if by chance she tells her Uncle, the Duke of Barrington will see to it that the contract be made void." William had a way of being very logical.
"I am aware of that," Jonathan bellowed impatiently, "I am not stupid. My meaning simply is that I will do whatever it is I have to do. And although I will do what I can to avoid such a problem, I can handle my bride's relatives if the need be. The Jewel of Satyr will be mine," he added with a crooked smile, "and once she gives it to me I will have the power and influence I so deserve."
William stood to be more level with the marquess. "How do you know she has it?" He asked curiously. "She doesn't," Jonathan answered, "at least not yet, but I am certain that the duke left it to her in his will and she will receive it as soon as the attorneys can legally take it out of the trust."
"How long will that take?" William asked.
"Long enough for me to be able to make her to sign her fortune over to me." The marquess growled, "I should have never agreed when the duke asked me to sign that agreement that would protect her fortune. Otherwise, the jewel would be mine the second I bedded her. She obeys me, but she may want to protect her father's estate. She's seems annoyingly sentimental."
"But all you care about is the jewel," William reminded him.
"Yes, but if I can have it all, then I will get it all." A flicker of greed passed through the marquess's eyes and William smiled. His share alone would be enough to set him for the rest of his days.
Deciding to lighten the topic, William said, "I can see you are looking forward to making her your wife."
Jonathan turned and smiled. "The cards have been dealt in my favor, William. I am not only going to obtain the power I've craved for, I will also have the opportunity to see a beautiful woman writhe beneath me, and be at my every call." He punctuated his statement with a hard glare.
Both men were smiling as William left.
**********
Jillian never slept that night. She missed her father already, but she somehow felt that he was there with her. The next few weeks would be tiresome. There were the funeral arrangements to make, although most of it had been taken care of. Her father was not well and knew that he should take necessary steps to assure his daughter's ease. And there would surely be meetings with the attorneys of the trust to discuss her father's estate. It was too much to bear. Her only comfort was knowing that her husband had no access to the inheritance. She wished to keep it as it was, as the house held extreme emotional value and she feared what Jonathan might wish to do with it.
But her husband was a righteous, honorable man and he would probably wish that she sign the estate over to him so that he could handle all of the details. In her weary, the idea seemed tempting. But she really did not know what to do. All Jillian knew was that she missed her father and she was glad her husband understood her plight.
When the sun rose Jillian still sat on the bed, which she had not bothered to turn down the previous night. She walked into her dressing room and prepared for the long day ahead.
Sara called as she said she would. When Jillian walked downstairs to meet her, she found that her cousin had been crying. Her face showed telltale signs. Her cheeks were red and her eyes bloodshot. Jillian's eyes were also blood shot, but from a lack of sleep. Her tears had dried long before dawn and she was numb again.
Jonathan had business to attend to, so Jillian took Sara into the courtyard and lead her to sit by the fountain.
"Did he suffer?" Jillian asked as she sifted her fingers through the cool water.
"No," Sara recalled painfully. She hadn't been with him when he was shot, but she was the first to hear of it. "The bullet went clean through his heart. He died instantly."
"That eases my strain. A little." Jillian didn't look at Sara as she spoke.
"Have you cried at all?" Sara asked as she tried to stop her own tears.
"Yes," Jillian admitted, "but alone in my chambers."
"You are allowed to be sad," Sara pointed out, "does your husband know?"
"Yes," Jillian said wistfully, "he has been wonderful. I asked him to give me time to mourn and he agreed. I know he didn't want to, but he is a noble man."
"But are you happy with him?" Sara asked boldly. She could tell from Jillian's face that she had never been more lonely and depressed.
"How can I be happy with anyone when my father lies lifeless?" Jillian asked as she looked at Sara. There was ice in her eyes as she spoke.
"Of course," Sara took back the question, "you need time to accept his death."
Jillian stood and walked over to a peach tree. She stared at the clear sky through its branches. "When my mother died I was too young to understand. I do not even remember her. Sometimes I think it was easier that way."
Sara nodded in agreement. "Yes, I agree. Ignorance is sometimes a blessing." She inched closer to her cousin before continuing. "Speaking of ignorance, does it frighten you that you are married now and about to lose your innocence?"
Jillian turned around and glared at Sara. "It is no matter if I am frightened. It is my duty."
Sara's heart fell for her cousin. Jillian valued society's beliefs more than she valued her own. "The marriage has not yet been consummated," Sara said with a smile, "and your father is gone. You can get out of the marriage now! I am sure my father will help you."
"No." Jillian said sternly. "It was my father's wish that I be well provided for. I cannot dishonor his memory by going back on my word. What will people think?"
"Who cares what people think?" Sara shook her head angrily and a lock of hair came loose. She righted it and then went on. "Half the town thinks this marriage was misguided. And as for those few biddies who will talk, so be it."
"Sara please," Jillian said, matching her cousin's angry tone of voice. "I am devoted to this marriage because it is what my father wanted. Nothing will change my mind."
Chapter 2
His tangled hair blew viciously in the breeze as he stepped off of the ship and onto the dock. He had arrived with a vengeance and he wouldn't be leaving until this vengeance had won. It was that hunger for revenge that had kept him going all those years. And the thirst for it now dried in the back of his throat. With a scowl he longed to wrong his enemy, who had wronged him so long ago.
But the memories were still vivid. As Michael Lancaster strode through the port and to a hack waiting on a street corner, he remembered clearly why he was there. Why he was in a place whose soil was tainted to him. It was a breeding ground for hate, a place where evil spawn dwelled. He scowled as he stared out of the window, eyeing London's streets. He had to be here, it was the only way the past would be freed.
The sun was setting and he noticed a young boy reaching to light the street lamps. A cobblestone path laid beneath the lad's feet as he tiptoed and reached, his tongue clasped between his top and bottom teeth, trying not to slip. The streets were moderately crowded, men and women walking about, trying to tend to errands before they lost the light. Michael inwardly laughed at them, at the way the shirts lay upon the men's chest, starched and stiff. And he scoffed at the hems on the women's dresses; so low they almost tripped, their prim manners allowing only minimal skin to be seen.
He continued to look about when his sights settled on another sight, forcing a scowl to encompass his face. He saw a young couple walking together, their gazes starry-eyed. A pang traveled through his chest. It brought back memories that were too painful to think of. So he pushed it aside and focused on his plan.
Michael was stubborn, had never backed down from anything. God knew that seeing things through to the end had been what had brought him into this predicament, his current purpose. And he would see this through as well. He vowed to see it to the end, until revenge had been given, and what had become so wrong was made right again.
And so he found himself in the midst of English society. English society. He drawled at the contradiction of those two words. He'd see more civilized people when he'd eaten with barbarians, or feasted with tribes in the South Seas. Yes, he mused, civilization certainly meant different things to different places.
The English, with their prim and proper attire, their noble titles, were all hypocrites. Michael guessed that half the gentlemen he saw would be patronizing cathouses later in the evening before going home to their wives and children. All the while those same men were most likely to be the ones to speak out about demoralization of society.
His studies had taught him of England, its rules and laws. So although he had never before visited, he knew the land well. It was one of the many things he had learned over the years. Those years he spent without a home, without a place he belonged. Michael was a wanderer and he was well educated because of it.
But education did not bring him here, vengeance did. And so his blood brewed with the anticipation of conquer, knowing that he would not accept defeat. And he would not stop pursuing his goal.
Grimacing, Michael laid his head back along the velvet cushion of the covered hack and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out heavily, trying to calm his queasy stomach. He was an expert swordsman, a warrior in battle, and he could kill a man with his bare hands. Yet, Michael was prone to seasickness and the rock of the ship he had arrived in still caused his stomach to twist.
The sky was orange when Michael pulled up to the townhouse. He absentmindedly paid the driver and then walked steadily to the door to meet his enemy once again. He'd waited a long time for this. He could almost smell the man's blood as he imagined spilling it all over the gentleman's expensive floor.
But he couldn't afford to be haste. Michael knew that killing him would not earn enough penance. He was a demon who had taken everything from Michael, and the bastard deserved to have the equal done to him. And Michael's reward, once all was won back, would be to finally see his enemy whither and die in front of his own eyes, to see the look of horror mixed with confusion, and then realization branded on his face.
Pulling himself out of his musings, Michael rang at the door and waited for someone to answer. He ran his large, callused hand through his long hair and looked around impatiently. When the door finally opened, he was surprised to see a woman standing before him. She wasn't really a woman, he decided, for she was very young and she had a look of innocence about her, although her hair had an exotic, dark richness. It fluttered in the gentle breeze that sneaked inside the house as she held the door open.
Her eyes were a deep, ceaseless blue, cool although he felt them burning through him. They were exquisite and alive, yet underneath he saw sadness in them, just below that cold exterior.
The smile that overtook Michael's mouth seemed to be a simple greeting smile on the surface, but he knew the true reason behind the grin. She was obviously his enemy's daughter, and it would be no greater punishment for the Marquess of Lindchester than to know that the man who took his daughter's virtuosity had been his most vial enemy.
He matched her stare as they stood without words.
Jillian continued to look cautiously at the man who stood before her. It was obvious to her that he was a foreigner. His hair was much longer than was fashionable, nearly hanging past his shoulders. And he dressed like no Englishman. His breeches were so tight that they caused Jillian to blush upon looking at them. And he hadn't bothered to button his shirt all the way, either. It was the first time Jillian had seen a man's chest and although her cheeks burned at the sight of him, she caught a guilty hint of enticement in her own mind. She quickly quieted the series of intensities that she felt awaken inside her body and soul. After all, she was a devoted wife to another, and she was gawking rudely.
Michael continued to smile as he watched the woman survey him. Her lips thinned into a straight line while her eyes continued their cold and scorching stare. "I am here to see the marquess. Is he at home?" Michael asked charmingly, trying to sound as business like as possible, although his blood burned at the thought of seeing his enemy once again.
The accent was American, Jillian was sure of it. She smiled distantly as she invited him in. "My husband is not at home," she said formally, "but he will be shortly."
Michael turned boldly, met her cold eyes with the same cool stare. So she was married. "I do not care to see your husband," he answered, "I am here to see your father."
Jillian hung her head and folded her hands across her midsection. After taking a few moments to regain her composure she was able to speak. "My father is dead, sir."
Michael stepped back solemnly. But he wasn't quite sure he understood. Had some other enemy already defeated the marquess?
"And I am afraid you are mistaken, sir," Jillian spoke quietly. "My father was a duke, not a marquess. Perhaps you are looking for the wrong man."
Michael spun around quickly. He'd been so sure of the man's identity. Could he have been wrong? No, something was amiss, it had to be. Michael had written a letter to the Marquess of Lindchester, answered by the same. Without giving the woman another look he turned and strode away.
"May I help you?" Michael barely heard the gentlemen speak as he brushed past him just outside the door. But he saw his face. It was him; the Marquess of Lindchester, the man he had sworn to destroy.
He set aside the hate that threatened to erupt and he held out his hand in greeting. Hollow relief and saturated hate filled him. "Hello, my name is Michael Lancaster. I believe you are expecting me."
"Yes, please come in." Jonathan moved inside slowly and led Michael into the sitting room, where Jillian stood. He turned to his wife. "Where is Spencer, wife?"
Wife? Michael stared in bewilderment. So the old bastard had snagged a young wife. She wasn't his daughter after all, and he had been right about his enemy's identity. He grinned at the marquess's wife. The circumstance was certainly turning in his favor. To steal her away would be a definite reward, he knew. The knife would cut even deeper for the marquess to know that his enemy had stolen his wife.
The woman moved forward, her hands at her sides. She looked downright afraid of her husband. She had a right to be, Michael thought. "My lord," she answered quietly, "Spencer has taken ill and I took it upon myself to see to his duties."
Jonathan looked at Michael. "Excuse us, please." He then grabbed his wife's wrist and pulled her into the next room.
Michael walked over to the wall to listen.
"No wife of mine will be answering doors!" Jonathan bellowed.
Jillian slumped her shoulders. "That is very kind of you, but-"
"I am not being kind," he yelled again, "what will people think when they see my wife doing the work of servants?"
She said nothing, but kept her gaze on his hard eyes, refusing to even blink, but wishing she could spit on his neat collar and polished mustache.
"The man who you have embarrassed yourself with is a very important man. He is going to invest in my businesses. Do you understand, wife?" Jonathan ran his hand over an angry scowl. "Woman," he said more quietly, "you have been more trouble in this week we've been married than I could ever have imagined."
"I'm sorry, my Lord," she whispered, "it has been a very difficult week for me."
Jonathan turned to leave the room. "Tonight, you will be ready," he said angrily before he stormed out.
"Sorry about my rudeness, Mr. Lancaster," Jonathan smiled politely. "I had to set my wife straight. She's been nothing but a boil on my toe since the day I married her."
Michael didn't bother to smile. "Let's get the business over with." He was assured now that the marquess did not recognize him. But it only seemed logical that, after all these years, he be nearly impossible to be recognized. Michael had barely been grown when he had seen his enemy last. He had been straggly and weak. He was nothing then that he was now.
"Yes, let's get this done." Jonathan smiled again. It seemed as if this stranger was very much like himself; determined to accomplish his goal, and secure that he would have what he wanted. Still smiling, he lead his guest into the drawing room where he poured them both some brandy.
Michael accepted a glass as he leaned back in a wing chair. The room reeked of cigar smoke. Its mahogany wood and dark green carpeted floors that blended into a dark floral wallpaper were a sight, but Michael was more concerned with the sight directly before him.
He leaned back further in his chair and pulled a muscular calf over his thigh. "I'm prepared to invest in the railroad," he said with a glare.
Jonathan leaned forward, a sniveling grin on his lips. "It comes at a high price," he said, turning his grin into a frown.
"Money is no matter." It was true. Michael had made a fortune from traveling, picking up things that he would trade at his next destination, wherever that happened to be.
A slow, greedy smile returned to the marquess's face. He clasped his hands together and laughed. "How many shares?"
Michael thought for a moment. "Twenty," he decided. No use in giving the man too much. "If the stock does well, I will buy more."
"Wise choice, I like that." Jonathan stood to refill his glass. "I will have the paperwork drawn up this afternoon."
Michael stood and finished off the rest of his brandy.
"Tell me, Mr. Lancaster, have you a place to stay?" Jonathan offered to refill Michael's glass, but he politely shook his head in refusal. It wasn't time to be drunk, there were matters that needed attending to. And a clear mind was the best way to see to them.
"I am in the market for a house, something in the country." Michael paced to the window.
"How long are you planning on staying?" The marquess asked curiously. There was something eerie about this man, as if they had meant before. The way he walked, the arrogant tone in his voice and in his eyes. He only wondered how, and when they had before seen each other.
"As long as it takes to get what I am after," Michael answered simply. Not being able to stand in the man's presence a moment longer, he stood and walked to the door. "I will assume that the details will be in order by tomorrow morning," he said over his shoulder as he left.
Jillian's heart jumped as she saw the large man streak past her. She shook the feeling off and went to the drawing room, being sure to knock on the door before she entered.
Jonathan had his back turned to and he did not turn to greet her. "The lawyer will be here tomorrow to go over your father's estate," he announced.
Jillian felt tears spring to her eyes. It had only been a week since her father's death. She had hoped it would have taken longer for the will to be released from trust. Her heart was still broken, torn in two from the loss of the greatest man she'd ever known.
When she didn't speak, Jonathan turned around, pleased by her sad expression. She was distraught, and he knew he had an advantage because of it.
"Wife," he said gently and he pulled her onto the sofa, next to him, "I know it must be difficult for you to deal with such a thing. Please, let me handle the formalities for you."
"That's really not necessary." Jillian stared at the floor as she spoke, her voice numb.
"It is my duty, as your husband to handle these sorts for you." Jonathan set his arm around her shoulders. She went cold and grimaced. "Damn it, wife!" He bellowed.
Jillian flinched as if he had struck her.
Jonathan stood fiercely. "You are my wife. As it is my duty to handle your dead father's estate, as it is your duty to please me."
Jillian looked at her husband eyes. They were angry and mean. "I'm sorry, my lord." Her voice sounded accommodating, but Jonathan could see the dislike in her eyes. He sighed and sat back down.
"I can see how much this is upsetting you," he quieted, "I have had some documents drawn that you will need to sign to enable me to handle your legal affairs."
"But we are married, why should we need such documents?" She knew the reason well enough, but needed to stall him so that she could think.
Jonathan scowled, but forced his voice to be pleasant. "Because the contract your father made me sign before marrying you stated that I'd have no legal right to the estate. So you must sign it back to me."
Jillian stood and walked away from her husband. It was true, these legal affairs were too much of a burden, weighing on her mind like a thousand pianos. And the idea of someone handling them for her played a tune that was enticing when compared to the burden. "Very well," she said stoically, "where are these documents I must sign?"
As Jillian signed her name to the documents, Jonathan smiled with satisfaction, the greed glowing in his eyes. Jillian noticed it, but she failed to care. She failed to care about a lot of things lately. Removing the trouble and pain of having to handle her father's death by herself eased the strain only slightly.
"Excuse me," she whispered, "I wish to be alone."
She walked to her room where she stayed until nightfall.
Once night fell, which was too quickly, Jillian dutifully placed her sheer nightgown on her shaking body. It would have to be tonight, she couldn't postpone the event any longer. And so she sat on the window seat and waited for her husband to come to her and take her innocence.
When he barged in the room an hour later without knocking, she didn't say a word, didn't move. Jonathan went to her, pulled her to a standing position and kissed her roughly on the lips.
His kiss was stale and almost sticky. She tried to squirm away, but it only caused him to tighten his grip. Her body was weak, but her mind whirled frantically, trying to think of an escape.
But there was no thought, no escape. Her body was cold underneath his stifling kisses. It was too soon, too quick. And Jillian knew that there would be no soft words, no loving caresses.
Jonathan pulled away, but kept a firm grip on his wife's arms. "Tonight," he said lustily, "you will not stop me." Then she squealed as he kissed her again.
She couldn't breath, couldn't move. She'd never been kissed as a lover kissed, and she somehow thought it would be very different. She thought she would at least be able to tolerate it. But his kisses wear unbearable, hot and wet, and entrapping. But she was too weak to fight him off, and she knew that she had no right to.
Jonathan cupped his hand over her breast and squeezed tightly. He breathed hard into her ear and
pushed against her.
She had to get away, she needed to get away. But her husband was already pushing her down onto the bed. He ripped her beautiful nightgown as he struggled with the ties. When she lay there, naked underneath him.
Jillian squirmed and struggled to push him away. If only he would slow down, give her time to adjust. But her resistance only encouraged him more. He laughed and seemed to enjoy her hindrance.
"Please," she begged. "Please, let me go." She struggled some more, but he only held on to her more tightly.
Jonathan then held her down with one hand and unbuckled his pants with the other. He did not bother to remove the clothes, only moved them out of the way. When he started to position himself between her legs, she found her opportunity.
Jillian moved out of pure instinct. She twisted and pushed her knee into his groin, heard him shriek, and pushed him away. With her heart beating in rapid panic, she donned her torn robe hastily. He glared angrily at her.
"I do not wish my virtuosity to be taken forcefully or quite so roughly." Her voice was shaking and so were her hands, but she forced her chin to stay high.
Jonathan stood and lunged for her again. But he was still in pain and she was too quick for him.
"You are my wife!" He bellowed. "It is your duty to please me!"
Jillian stopped suddenly and stared at him. He was right, it was her duty. With tears on her cheeks, she glared at him. "Very well, but my heart is not in it." She said the words listlessly.
Jonathan smiled then and took her with carnal greed into his arms.
Then Jillian went numb. The steady stream of hopelessness filled her. She lay there and let him touch her, attempting to arouse her, but failing. For she was numb even to his intimate touches. The only feeling she felt was the blinding pain when he drove into her ruthlessly, grunting with pleasure. She wasn't ready and the skin ripped inside of her as he moved roughly. But she held in the pain, managing only a few coarse shouts of pain.
When it was over, she stayed on the bed, still as a corpse. Jonathan stood and straightened his clothes, still breathing in rasps, delighted with himself. His clothes and skin were wet with sweat. "Now I own you," he said cruelly before walking out the door and slamming it shut.
Now Jillian cried. It was nothing like she had once imagined it to be. There were no kind words that she had hoped to hear, no sweet caresses afterwards. Only pain, a deep, throbbing pain. And now that she knew what it was all about, she decided she didn't like it one bit.
Jillian rose from the bed and reached for her robe, but she couldn't bear to touch it, for it brought back memories of his hands all over her, taking cruelly and not giving anything back. So she stood naked and turned to go into her dressing room for fresh clothes. But as she turned her eye caught the bed and she stared at it in horror.
Blood was everywhere. A huge pool of it stained the sheets and she quickly noticed that more was streaming down her legs. She screamed until her ears hurt and her throat was sore. Within a minute her husband came crashing through the door. Seeing him caused her to scream louder.
"My God, woman," he said above her voice as he shut the door. "Shut up!"
Jillian did as she was told and quickly pulled a blanket over her naked body. Jonathan laughed then.
"I don't think you need to be shy anymore around me," he said as he walked up to her and pulled the blanket away. "It's only blood, I'll order a bath and a maid to clean all of this up. If you wouldn't have resisted so, it would not be so bad."
Jillian thought his voice seemed oddly calm and gentle. It was strange to imagine that just minutes before he had been thrusting over her greedily, scaring her with his cruel hands. It was too much. The strain finally took its toll. The last thing she saw was the red stain on the bed. Then everything went black.
A while later, Jillian awoke, but she kept her eyes closed. She could feel the fresh linens beneath her body and tucked around her. She sunk into the down pillows and pulled the blanket to her chin. She knew she was dressed in cotton, for it snuggled her and kept her warm. And she felt wonderfully safe and content. But then she opened her eyes.
Her husband sat on the edge of her bed and she could see that she was in her own chambers. To Jillian's immense relief, the blood had been cleaned up. But the pain between her thighs reminded her of her lost innocence. How she missed it already.
"What happened?" She asked groggily.
"You fainted," Jonathan explained tersely. "Your maid cleaned you up and put you to bed. Really, woman, you shouldn't be so faint hearted."
"I'm sorry," Jillian said softly as she tried to sit up. She quickly slumped back down, as the pain was unbearable.
Jonathan saw the grimace on her face. If the brat hadn't been so uncooperative, she wouldn't be feeling such pain. Although, he had to admit, it was quite enjoyable for the little bitch to fight him. She could be fierce when the mood sought her right.
"The nurse checked you over," he told her, his face seemingly bored. "You've torn some skin. It's fairly bad. You'll need to rest for a few days and take these." He took some pills and a glass of water off of the night table and handed them to her.
She frowned as she took them and decided she shouldn't remind him that it was he who had torn her, not the opposite, as he had said. Having to nearly bit her tongue, she settled back into the soft bed and fell asleep, grateful knowing that they couldn't repeat the episode until she was healed. But she despised knowing that, as husband and wife, she would eventually be forced to repeat the act.
She fell asleep thinking that she'd rather be dead.
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