William, Lord Ashworth, was not going to the ball tonight.

Having finally made the decision, he reached up to loosen his white cravat with a sigh of relief. He strode to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy, seeking to numb himself from this acceptance of his failure. It was a pity. After all, he had endured the carriage ride from his country estate in Kent to make an appearance at one of the final and most fashionable events of the season. Were he actually to attend, it would have served to satisfy the ton’s annoying demand to see the new Earl of Ashworth in the flesh, and perhaps quieted their rumormongering for a time. On the other hand, it could just have easily stirred the flames of gossip to unbearable heights. The ton was an unpredictable lot.

Sweat broke out upon his brow, and he unfastened the top button of his linen shirt before gripping the tumbler with shaking fingers and throwing back the drink, sending fire cascading down his throat. He uttered a groan, then slammed down the glass and only the sudden appearance of his friend, Viscount Evanston, stayed his hand from pouring another. In contrast to William’s own state, Thomas looked crisp and perfectly at ease in his formal black-and-white attire. He glanced first at the decanter in William’s hand, then with a raise of his brow, cast a critical eye at the state of his clothing.

“I wouldn’t normally recommend attending a ball with your shirt open and cravat untied, but no doubt the ladies will approve,” he said lightly, crossing the study to join him. The viscount’s tone was teasing, but William did not miss the note of concern that was also present.

“I am staying home tonight,” he said stonily.

His friend paused, then slipped the crystal container from his hands and replaced the stopper. “Come now, Ashworth,” he chided gently. “Don’t force me to be the responsible one. We waited until the end of the season, as you requested. You went through the motions. Accepted the invitation, traveled to London—”

William shot Evanston a leaden stare, silencing him immediately. “Yes, I went through the motions. As it turns out, that is all I can offer.”

The disappointment that briefly flickered across his friend’s face set William’s teeth on edge. Inevitably, people would be upset by his inability to come out in society, especially after he’d finally relented for the event in Mayfair tonight. But even if he were to show up, there was no guarantee that the ton could be appeased. Any answer to their questions would be ruthlessly scrutinized for a sign that he was failing in some regard. A moment’s hesitation could be the difference between projecting an air of self-assuredness and creating more fuel for their stories.

William knew there were fewer things more fascinating than an eligible lord who had suffered a calamitous loss, and for the past eighteen months he’d given them very little in the way of entertainment. Instead he’d shut himself away in the country, spending the time mourning three loved ones while recuperating from his own injuries, physical and otherwise. They would not take kindly to his absence tonight.

He closed his eyes wearily. They could all go to hell.

“Look, I don’t care what you do,” said Thomas, although the statement rang untrue. “And I certainly wouldn’t bother yourself with what the ton thinks at any given point in time. But might I remind you that this was something you wanted to do . . . both for yourself and for your sister?”

Yes, William could admit that Eliza had probably been his most important consideration. Especially now that her house had been entailed to the next male in line for her late husband’s estate. He needed to smooth their way back into society to make things easier for her, should she choose to remarry. And he needed to represent the earldom in a way that would have made his father proud, and his older brother, too—though they were no longer of this world.

He swallowed hard against the inevitable memories that always lurked, ready to invade his consciousness. They were actually less like memories, and more like the reliving of a horrid tale that often insisted upon its own retelling.

The sickening tilt of the vehicle . . . the screeching of the horses . . . the last time he’d seen them alive, eyes pale in the gloom and wide with terror. His father reaching for him from across the carriage—

“William!”

William blinked to stave off the nightmarish recollection, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. Evanston must have noticed, for his gaze dropped down to the sideboard. Going against his earlier censure of William’s drinking, the viscount removed the stopper to pour another drink while waiting for his reply.

“I would do anything in my power to make things easier for her,” William managed at last.

His friend cocked his head. “Is this not in your power tonight?”

He seriously considered the question, then shook his head gruffly and looked away.

Evanston surveyed him calmly, then heaved a large sigh.

“I know you don’t think I understand, but I do,” he said, sliding the tumbler towards William, then retrieving a glass for himself. “But rather than viewing this as the aristocracy cornering you in a ballroom, you need to see it as a strategic move on your part, designed to—”

“I can tell myself anything I like,” he said sharply, cutting him off, “and don’t think I haven’t tried. But I was in the carriage too, Thomas. My scars are not visible, but still they show. This isn’t simply a matter of losing family and moving on. It’s a matter of losing control, and of those selfish bastards finding any sign of my struggle so vastly entertaining!”

Throwing his glass down, it shattered loudly despite the carpet on the floor. The amber contents splashed out unceremoniously to soak the ground, and silence hung heavy in the air as he and Evanston stared down at the messy aftermath of his temper. William ran a hand impatiently over his face.

“Christ.”

Thomas leaned casually towards the wall to tug on the bellpull. Then he came close again to grip William’s shoulder.

“You will not be able to exert perfect control over every situation. This is a truth you need to accept.”

William rolled his eyes. “Says the man who can command a room, and everyone in it, simply by entering.” He sighed. “Besides, you know this is different.”

“Not true,” Thomas corrected. “It is more similar than you know. My success in navigating society comes from being adaptable. By changing course to suit what the situation demands, not the other way around.”

“And given the reality of what this situation demands of me and my inability to provide it, I am changing course by not going to this ball.”

Even as he spoke, he knew his friend was right. But being out among society was not the effortless exercise of his past. With no notice at all, he could get pulled back into the carriage to relive his family’s final moments. It was a risk he was, quite simply, unwilling to take.

Evanston squeezed his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. A crooked smile brightened his face.

“Fine. Perhaps it is best for you to skip the ball tonight.”

William laughed weakly in spite of himself. “I believe I already knew that.”

“Not a word more,” said Thomas with a shake of his head. “Only come with me to Brooks’s. You can distract yourself at the card tables.”

He scoffed at his friend’s suggestion. “Surely you must be joking. To roam about London after declining to show at the ball? That would not help matters in the least.”

“No, I suppose not.” Evanston’s grin lingered. “What about a woman? They can sometimes be the most effective kind of distraction.”

William shrugged out of his black tailcoat, ready to make a biting retort, when his footman Matthew appeared in the doorway.

“You rang, my lord?”

He gestured to the crystal shards surrounded by a pool of liquor, now almost completely absorbed into the dark cerulean carpet. “I have made a mess, Matthew. Please have it cleaned up immediately. Also, please have Lord Evanston’s carriage brought back around as he’ll be leaving shortly.”

The viscount’s eyebrows shot up. “Have I done something to offend you?” he asked with a laugh, although clearly worried.

“Not at all, but it’s obvious you’ve got other places you’d rather be,” William answered heavily, “and I am suddenly very tired.”

The two friends shook hands firmly. Evanston lowered his voice.

“Shall we return to Kent tomorrow?”

William hung his head in silence, his teeth clenched.

Thomas nodded succinctly. “Tomorrow it is, then. There will be other balls, William,” he added reassuringly. “You’ll see, all will be well.”

And while he nodded in agreement, the Earl of Ashworth did not feel overly optimistic.

Clara sighed and folded her gloved hands carefully upon her lap while gazing longingly at the couples waltzing by on the dance floor. After her failure of a season, she had no delusions of actually securing a suitor, but what she wouldn’t do for just a dance . . . she loved to dance.

As she had expected, the disgrace of Lucy’s elopement had made association with the Mayfield family not only undesirable, but unthinkable. Dressed in all her finery, Clara had spent the duration of her season in the stuffy drawing rooms and ballrooms of London ignored, relegated to standing alone in corners or seated against various walls.

Well, not quite alone. Because of Lucy’s chance meeting with her lowborn beau, her father was taking no risks. The constant watchful eye of her mother ensured there would not be a repeat of the scandal that had claimed her older sister, and this last great ball in Mayfair was certainly no exception.

It wasn’t that Clara didn’t have anything to offer as a prospective bride. She certainly had wealth as the heiress to the Mayfield banking fortune, and knew her looks were tolerable. So it had stung all the more when invitations to balls and soirées had dwindled, her letters received fewer replies, and more women went out of their way to avoid calling on her socially. Friends she’d known for years had turned their backs on her, even going so far as to shun her in public. She longed to rage at them for their bad manners and fickle ways, but sternly forced herself to smile instead, unwilling to expose her family to the additional ridicule that an outburst would bring.

The lack of gentleman callers was also not a surprise, but she hadn’t grasped the dire truth of her situation until recently. By then, her parents had been left to calculate their mounting losses on this massive waste of a season, and Clara could finally envision the stark reality of her future—living as a spinster, alone and childless, with not even her sister to confide in.

Her head began to ache, and she stole a covert glance at her mother. Like Clara, Mrs. Mayfield was fair skinned with dark hair. They even shared the same dark eyes, and right now those eyes were staring unseeingly at the lavish gala before them. Not for the last time, guilt wracked through Clara. Her parents were good people. The ton was cruel and took an almost gleeful satisfaction in the Mayfield’s misfortune, but she knew they were not selective. Any ill-fated family would have been shunned just the same, though this did not lessen the sting of it.

In fact, another target had emerged during the course of the evening. Clara had overheard a barrage of offended whispers between the lords and ladies in attendance, relating that the Earl of Ashworth had chosen not to attend tonight despite accepting the initial invitation. Aside from what they considered to be his unforgivable rudeness was their peevish discontent at being denied the opportunity to view the man, who had recently suffered an awful family tragedy.

It was mentioned too—by more than a few disgruntled women—that he was rather attractive, although Clara did not see these people as true authorities on the matter. Often enough, even if a titled bachelor was old and portly but still possessed all his natural teeth, they would consider him to be exceptionally handsome. Still, she did feel a sense of gratitude to the man for allowing her to share the hateful spotlight for a change.

Tired of overthinking the ton and their ways, Clara turned to her mother. “Would you like something at the refreshments table, Mama?” she asked, touching her arm lightly.

Her mother jerked, as if suddenly awoken, then smiled feebly at her. “Yes, that would be lovely. It is rather hot in here.”

The pair rose to stand, and made their way into the refreshment room, which was currently empty, save one older gentleman, who was standing nearby with a steaming cup of negus. Clara couldn’t bear the potent smell of the spiced port drink, and quickly directed her mother towards the lemonade and ices at the far end of the table. Glancing furtively in the man’s direction, she realized she knew him. Gray head, no whiskers, slightly rotund physique. A widower. She had seen him often during the course of the season—he tended to leer at her when he thought her attention was occupied elsewhere. However, despite his seeming fixation on her, he had followed suit with the ton and remained distant, never once condescending to ask Clara for a dance. Yet his presence now put her on edge, the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifting as they might in the oppressive quiet before a thunderstorm.

Her mother leaned over. “Baron Rutherford,” she whispered.

Clara nodded in confirmation and a shudder passed through her. His eyes alighted with recognition and he began walking towards them. She tensed her shoulders; there was nothing to be done except endure the uncomfortable exchange as best she could. Resolute, she pasted a waxen smile on her face and curtsied politely beside her mother.

He bowed. “Mrs. Mayfield, what a delight . . . and Miss Mayfield.” He focused his attention on Clara, and she noticed an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. It was as if he were hunting in the woods rather than seeking a bride in a civilized London ballroom. “Why, you haven’t been dancing. I won’t stand to see you tucked away in the refreshment room during the final ball of the season. Allow me the honor.” He extended a mottled hand.

It wasn’t a request so much as a command. Clara could feel her eyes narrowing at his show of superiority, made worse by the indelicate reference to her lack of dance partners. Mrs. Mayfield flushed, but stood silently by, waiting for her daughter’s reaction to this rare invitation to dance. While Clara longed to refuse the baron, it could not reasonably be done without fear of mortifying her mother, and her mother had been through enough this year already.

She tipped an icy smile in his direction. “If it pleases you, my lord,” she forced out.

Accepting his proffered arm, they approached the dance floor. Clara glanced over her shoulder to her mother, who waved in encouragement, although the confusion in her eyes was somewhat less encouraging. She was probably trying to understand why a titled gentleman would now show interest in her daughter after a long season of snubbing her.

Rutherford led her out onto the floor, ignoring the flurry of disbelieving looks from those nearby, and launched into a waltz upon the first notes from the orchestra. His clasp on her waist was noticeably tight, as was his grip on her hand. Surprised, Clara glanced upwards to find him smiling hungrily down at her. The sight was disconcerting to say the least.

“My lord, is it absolutely necessary to—”

His hands tightened further, shocking her into silence in mid-sentence.

“Perhaps you are wondering why I might wish to dance with you now,” he offered. “Particularly when an association with your family is considered so highly undesirable.”

Clara’s mouth fell open in offense. “I wouldn’t want you to blacken your good name on my account. Pray, let me relieve you from such a trying act of generosity . . .”

She did not wish to create a scene, but her own sense of self-worth prevented her from blithely accepting his insults. She pushed against him again and he retaliated by jerking her closer. The cloyingly sweet smell of negus on his breath engulfed her and she turned her head to the side, gasping for air while trying to create more distance between them. All efforts were futile, though, and he continued forcing her to dance while leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“I have watched you these many months, Miss Mayfield. And I have waited. Tomorrow I will pay a visit to your beleaguered parents to make an offer for your hand. It is an offer they will accept, for the season has ended and your prospects are dire.”

The baron whirled her around into a dizzying turn before she could respond, and her stomach lurched. Her eyes searched desperately for her mother, who was craning her neck to find them through the mass of dancing couples and frothy skirts. Clara knew that she was likely not able to see Rutherford’s behavior from where she stood. She glared angrily up at him.

“Even were it so, I will never accept you as my husband.”

He smiled. “Oh, you will accept me, my dove. Perhaps in time you will come to realize how very little control you have over the situation. It is of no importance, either way. In fact,” he added, his voice lowering, “a little resistance might make things more enjoyable, if I may be so bold.”

Shocked beyond belief, Clara wrestled out of his grip.

“You’ve had months to pay your courtesies, and this is how you choose to make overtures? With insults and threats and . . . detestable imaginings?”

The ladies and gentlemen surrounding them began to slow the pace of their dancing, immediately drawn to the commotion. Her cheeks burned at the unwanted attention, but it was minimal when compared to the fire of her sudden hatred for the baron. He took a step towards her. She immediately took a step back.

“I am not interested in making overtures, Miss Mayfield. You will consent to being my wife or your family will be ruined.”

She scoffed. “I will consent to nothing of the sort.”

The baron simply chuckled. As the music came to an end, he sketched a bow in her direction, and Clara spun on her heel, rushing off the floor into the relative safety of her mother’s arms.

Clara paced fretfully in the parlor of the Mayfields’ country home in Essex. Six weeks had passed since the night the baron had made his insulting offer—and yet the time since had been more awful still, something she wouldn’t have thought possible.

Of course, she also wouldn’t have thought it possible for her father to actually agree to marry her off to the baron, yet here she was on the eve of their wedding, the preparations having been hastened along by her husband-to-be. He was in the drawing room this very moment, preening and posturing before her parents in his penultimate moment of victory. As much as she loathed to admit it, he’d been right about everything. The state of her family’s reputation being what it was, there had been no true alternative in the end. Rutherford had easily been able to force her father’s hand, for denying the baron what he wanted could only damage the family further, while her marriage to him could repair it.

Her father chose to view the situation in a more optimistic light than Clara could, entreating her to give the baron a chance to prove himself a worthy husband. However, the season had afforded him many chances already, and he had shown plainly what kind of man he was.

Absently, she swiped at her cheek, then gazed down at the moisture on her hand. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. She’d shed enough tears to last a lifetime these past months, first with the loss of her sister, and now with the loss of her own free will. At least Lucy had found love—she reminded herself of that. But oh, the cost . . .

There was a discreet tap on the door. She rushed over to crack open the portal to reveal the white-capped head of her lady’s maid, Abigail, holding a cup of coffee. Clara admitted her inside the parlor before they could be seen, then closed the door securely behind. Abigail set the steaming beverage down on a table and reached out to clutch Clara’s shaking hands tightly in her own.

“The preparations have been made. My sister, Amelia, has agreed to provide a reference to the housekeeper at Lawton Park, although I did not give her the particulars of your identity. I only told her you were a capable housemaid from the Mayfield estate in search of work in Kent.”

Clara regarded her anxiously. “And if they should turn me away?”

“I don’t think they will,” replied Abigail with a thoughtful shake of her head. “Amelia has commented on the understaffed conditions there for quite some time.”

She chewed on her lip. “And the master there is kind?”

“From what I have heard, the Earl of Ashworth is . . . a bit of a recluse,” Abigail replied. “But I believe him to be fair.”

Clara nodded, but she had known this already. She had remembered the rage of his fellow aristocrats when he had backed out of the ball in Mayfair. His solitary ways were one of the reasons she’d even considered fleeing to his estate. Without the constant risk of having a master who enjoyed entertaining and throwing balls, safeguarding her secrecy would be easier.

Abigail paused in conflicted silence. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind?”

Clara pulled her close in a familial embrace. Over the years, Abigail had become so much more than just a maid. She had become a close friend, and Clara would miss her almost as much as she missed Lucy. She hugged her tightly. “There’s no chance of that,” she whispered.

Another knock sounded on the door, causing the two women to spring apart. Clara smoothed her skirts and cast a nervous glance at Abigail.

“Yes?” she called out.

Mrs. Mayfield appeared. She gave a brief nod to the maid, and with a last departing glance at Clara, Abigail left the room. Her mother stared after her curiously.

“What was Abigail doing in here?”

Clara froze in panic for just a moment, before remembering her coffee. She strode to the table to retrieve the cup and saucer.

“She brought me coffee while I waited, Mama.” She took a sip of the warm, lightly sweet drink. Clara had always preferred coffee, and this was perfect, just the way she liked it. Cream with two lumps of sugar. It reminded her of how comfortable her home—her life—had been. Her heart clenched at the thought of leaving it.

She returned the cup to its saucer, the china rattling noisily in response to the trembling of her fingers. “Do you have news?” she asked, attempting nonchalance but feeling the full burden of her guilt.

“Yes, my dear,” Mrs. Mayfield answered lightly. “They are ready for you in the drawing room.”

Her heart began to race and her stomach roiled. It didn’t matter that she had no intention of marrying the vile Lord Rutherford. Just the thought of seeing him, smirking and self-congratulatory, was enough to cause an adverse physical reaction.

She set her drink down on the table again. Otherwise, she might have been tempted to toss it in the baron’s face. Extending her hand, she tried to smile at her mother.

“Shall we go in together?”

Moments later, they entered the drawing room. Both Mr. Mayfield and Rutherford stood to greet the ladies, although Clara did not approach the man or even look at him, electing instead to seat herself on the farthest edge of the settee across from his chair. She stared stubbornly down at her hands and an awkward silence ensued, which was finally broken by her father’s rumbling baritone.

“Lord Rutherford,” said Mr. Mayfield. “I am very pleased we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Very pleased . . .” His great moustache absorbed any final murmurs on the subject.

Clara’s fingers tightly gripped the dark emerald velvet upholstery as she listened silently, finally raising her gaze to evaluate the situation. Her fiancé sat opposite her, triumphant in his crisp attire that did nothing to conceal his bloated form. Mutually beneficial, Clara understood, was a relative term, one that excluded her entirely.

Baron Rutherford flicked an invisible speck off his perfectly pressed pants. “It seems we have, Mr. Mayfield,” he drawled. “Your daughter will make me the happiest of men, I’m sure.”

“Yes, my lord—such a handsome match,” said Mrs. Mayfield. “It will inevitably be the talk of le bon ton . . .”

If there was to be any talk within high society about their match, it would likely not be flattering. Another titled old widower, his estate destitute after years of improvident financial decisions, finds a wealthy young wife to refill his family’s coffers—almost certainly to drain them again.

What a tale for the ages, thought Clara.

It was strange to feel so helpless. Clara ached to confide in her sister, but the last thing she wanted to do was give Lucy any reason to worry on her account.

As if sensing Clara’s despair, Abigail skirted by the door, giving Clara a nod of support as she passed. If their plans succeeded, it might allow Clara to live life on her own terms versus getting crushed beneath the baron’s bootheel. It would also mean hiding in service until Lord Rutherford either remarried or died, but under these dire circumstances, she was determined to be eternally patient. Although if this scheme failed, which was a distinct possibility, it could mean a life of ill-repute—further ill-repute, rather—and destitution.

Or worse, returning home to be claimed by her enraged fiancé.

She sank lower into the cushions, wishing she could disappear. Every second felt more suffocating than the last, and while the men discussed the particulars of the arrangement, Clara passed time by studying the gleaming hardwood floor and the ornate golden rug that lay upon it. She knew her parents wished only for their remaining daughter to make an uneventful, but advantageous, marriage, to dispel the smoke of Lucy’s scandal and return their lives to normal.

Rutherford had laid his trap well, silently waiting for its jaws to spring closed around Clara as if she were some unfortunate animal.

The baron’s gravelly voice grew louder, disrupting her melancholy train of thought.

“You look lovely today, Miss Mayfield.”

Before thinking better of it, she glanced up to see his mouth curved upwards in what could only be described as a leer. It did not surprise her that he was enjoying her discomfort. Clara merely disregarded his compliment with a dismissive raise of her brows. His steely gray gaze sharpened.

“So, my lord, the arrangements are all in place for the wedding,” said her mother abruptly in an awkward attempt at conversation. “We’ve hired an orchestra, and the weather should be fine, so we will have tables and chairs on the back lawn—”

“That sounds delightful, Mrs. Mayfield,” interrupted the baron without taking his eyes off his betrothed.

Clara’s mother could certainly detect the simmering hostility, but persevered anyway. “Clara’s dress is beautiful and just arrived yesterday. I had it made in Paris at this wonderful little shop . . . they even rushed to finish it in time. No expense spared,” she said proudly. “White satin and lace, with tiny pearls . . .”

Mrs. Mayfield trailed off as she observed her daughter’s increased pallor. Clara squirmed uncomfortably, aware that she had begun to sweat. She tried to discreetly wipe her palms on the couch. What would happen if she jumped up and started yelling gibberish while waving her hands about? Would they care that she had been driven to such madness? Even better, would it end this farce of an engagement?

“And what of you, Miss Mayfield? Are you prepared?” He was no longer even trying to sound friendly. Clara knew he wanted to intimidate her, but it was shocking that he was doing it openly in front of her parents.

“I prefer not to think about it,” she snapped, and was rewarded with her father’s sharp intake of breath, but she refused to feel badly for being impolite. Her only regret in all this was that her behavior vexed her parents, although they would be more than vexed by tomorrow morning for sure . . .

Suddenly Clara felt ill. She stood abruptly.

“May I be excused?” she asked, hoping not to cast her crumpets in front of the baron. He’d be certain to take that a sign that he’d won.

Her mother’s brow wrinkled in a flash of concern before arching once more with a forced smile. “No, my darling,” she replied in a soothing tone. “You must stay until we are finished speaking with Lord Rutherford.”

Slowly, Clara sat back down on the couch and smoothed her skirts, trying to hide her trembling hands. She looked up and caught the baron watching her every movement. It made her shudder.

“Forgive her, my lord. Clara has always been an unconventional girl,” her father excused. “She takes great interest in matters of the estate. Why, I’ve often discovered her making rounds with my land steward, much to my dismay,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But she does enjoy getting her hands dirty every now and then.”

Rutherford scoffed. “She is a girl no longer, and will certainly not be getting her hands dirty on my estate. I expect her to behave as a baroness should.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed to slits. He would seek to control everything about her, she was sure.

Mr. Mayfield blinked, then continued. “Certainly, my lord. You will find Clara to be a cheerful and complacent bride despite the quirks of her personality. It may take time, but love so often does.”

The thought of love with such a man made her skin crawl.

“She can be willful, but indeed wouldn’t you say that is part of her charm, my lord?” added her mother.

Clara glanced at the baron, who trapped her gaze.

“Indeed,” he said with a mirthless smile that shook her to her core. He rose abruptly, and Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield struggled to stand quickly as well. Clara stood hopefully, ready to dash out the door, but her fiancé stayed her with a look. “I’d like to have a word alone with my bride now, if you please.”

Her father nodded and bowed, quickly escorting Mrs. Mayfield towards the door. “Certainly, my lord.”

Clara shot a pleading look at her mother, whose brow furrowed slightly just as the door closed between them. She didn’t think her mother fully grasped her abhorrence of this man. Attempting a brave countenance, she cleared her throat and faced Rutherford, who stared at her in barely concealed rancor. A jolt of alarm shook her already unsteady frame.

Perhaps a little politeness might hasten this meeting along. She attempted to switch tactics.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked lightly, approaching the sideboard.

His expression remained unchanged. “No. I would not.” She did not hear him step across the carpet, but suddenly his voice was right near her ear. “I want my wits about me when you finally submit.”

Immediately, all thoughts of politeness vanished. She whirled around. “Well then, I suppose you’re giving up drinking altogether?”

His teeth clenched noticeably, but he only smiled. “It will take far less time than you think, pet. And I will enjoy every second.” He regarded her. “Tell me, how does it feel to know you are already mine? Is it upsetting to see how eagerly your father accepted my proposal, as I’d told you he would?”

“I am not yours,” Clara seethed, her fingers curling into fists. “And as for my father, I think he ended up having very little choice in the matter.”

“By design. While you waited on the edges, hoping for someone, anyone, to court you during the season, I was watching in anticipation. Reveling in your every rejection.” He closed the final distance between them and seized her shoulders in a punishing grip. “You will learn to yield. You will learn to be grateful. Especially in my bed—”

Before she could even flinch, he crushed his mouth against hers. Clara cried in revulsion and raised her fists against his chest, and once again she was surprised at the strength a man of his age could possess. She struggled to twist her face away, but he followed each way she turned. At last, he released her, and she took a step backwards to slap him soundly across the face. He instantly countered by grabbing her throat and squeezing tightly.

“You will learn to yield,” he repeated slowly.

She clawed at his hand, struggling to breathe and eyes blown wide with panic.

“Stop,” she rasped. “Please—”

The vice-like pressure around her neck was removed, and she fell against the wall, gulping in huge breaths of air.

“See?” he spat, tugging on his jacket. “You’re learning already.”

He proceeded across the room to throw open the door without giving her another glance. Clara massaged her neck, her thoughts hurtling wildly. She was supposed to be safe here. This was her family’s drawing room, her home, where she and Lucy had played as children, and had grown into womanhood.

Her gaze flitted across the familiar paintings, her favorite green settee, the heavy patterned draperies beside the windows. It all felt wrong now, somehow. As if his violation of her here had challenged her very notion of home.

It needed to be safe. She needed to be safe.

Clara’s resolve to flee grew stronger. Seeing what he was truly like, she couldn’t help but wonder if Rutherford’s previous wife had exited this world in an effort to escape his cruelty—or if he had sent her packing early.

She would not be lingering to discover the truth of it for herself.

Clara felt nearly blind in the darkness, but could see the soft rays of moonlight illuminate the gleaming satin of her wedding dress. It hung silently in the corner of her room like the hovering wraith of the bride she was to become.

She sat perched on the edge of her bed, had sat there for many hours, listening to the sound of crickets chirping outside. She had once thought the crickets’ song sweet, but after listening tonight it somehow sounded sad; like the end of summer, like a hundred tiny good-byes.

Clara was wearing one of Abigail’s dresses. Definitely not normal nighttime attire, but this was not a normal night. It was the end of a long struggle for her. The struggle of wanting to do right by her family, but incapable of sacrificing herself to the baron to do it.

She wished he’d been a different man. Maybe then she could have made peace with her fate. Remorse coursed through her. Standing, she went to her desk. She opened a drawer with unsteady hands and unfolded the letter inside.

The room became blurry with fresh tears as she refolded the note and pinned it to her wedding dress for her mother to find. She was careful not to damage the delicate fabric, for despite her complaints against the groom, the gown really was beautiful.

Clara loved her parents, and knew they had been devastated by Lucy’s marriage. What was more, she knew they missed her, and longed to see the daughter they had lost. Their world would shatter one more time tomorrow morning upon discovering Clara’s own flight from home, and while she wished to avoid causing them more pain and humiliation, she could not see how.

Leaning over, she retrieved a small satchel and her coin purse of saved funds. As she did, she caught sight of herself in her looking glass. Haunted eyes, her mother’s eyes, admonished her in the gloom. Surely she didn’t have the strength to break from the only family she’d known and loved. There was no guarantee that the strange world outside would have any more love for her, after all . . .

She touched the faint bruise the baron had left on her throat and turned abruptly.

She did not have the luxury, or the time, for second thoughts.

Shaking her head to clear it, she strode swiftly across her room and threw open the windows. The fragrant breeze of late summer engulfed her as she leaned out, one of her tears making the jump before she did to the carefully sculpted greenery below.