Brock felt Selina stiffen beside him, then he heard someone speak her name. He turned from contemplating his wrecked carriage in time for Selina’s fiancé to shove him away from her.
Taken by surprise, he didn’t offer immediate resistance as Cecil grabbed her arm and wrenched her toward him. "What the devil are you doing here?"
Brock watched the confidence he loved blanch out of her face, leaving her looking ashamed and frightened. "Cecil, I…"
"Let her go," Brock growled.
Cecil sent him a haughty look. "You have no rights over this woman."
"Cecil, please don’t make a scene," Selina pleaded, wrenching back to try and break his hold.
"Canley-Smythe, what is this to-do?" Lord Derwent strode over to Cecil, then he took in Selina and Brock’s presence. Aristocratic displeasure hardened his features as he realized who had occupied the other coach. "Mrs. Martin, your servant. Bruard."
"Derwent," Brock said coldly. He struggled to come up with some unexceptional reason for him to be with Selina. "Mrs. Martin has been staying with a friend in the locality, and I arranged to collect her on my way back from my hunting box on the coast."
"I…see," Derwent said slowly. To his chagrin, Brock knew that he did indeed see. Far too much, blast him.
"Mrs. Martin has had a shock, and it’s cold out here. Could I prevail upon you to drive her to the Blue Wagon? She has a carriage waiting there to take her to London."
Cecil flung Selina off as if she was infected with some contagious disease. "Better to let the traitorous hellcat freeze."
"Cecil, as Lord Bruard said…" she began, sounding even less convincing than Brock had.
"I didn’t come down in the last shower, you lying slut. You’ve been with that lecherous bastard since I left you."
Brock saw Selina flinch, and he stepped nearer to extend his arm, but she recoiled from his protection. The frozen misery on her face had threatened to break his heart. It was worse now when she refused to accept any help from him.
"Mind your tongue when you speak to the lady," Brock snapped.
"I’ll call it as I see it."
Derwent winced. It was clear that he was eager to avoid dramatics. "Canley-Smythe, I realize this encounter is unexpected, but theatrics benefit nobody."
Brock saw Cecil consider a heated response, but self-interest must have kicked in. He wouldn’t want to offend such a powerful patron as Lord Derwent. In seething acknowledgment, he bowed.
Derwent nodded, although his expression didn’t warm. He presented his arm to Selina. "May I offer you a seat in my carriage, Mrs. Martin?"
"Thank you, but if…if Erskine has a broken arm, he should go. I was only bruised in the accident, my lord."
Pride threatened to burst Brock’s chest. Even on what must count as the worst day of her life, she thought of someone else’s trouble before her own.
Derwent scowled, as if the idea of a menial sharing the rarefied air he breathed offended every drop of his blue blood. "There’s room for four. If we take the injured man, Mr. Canley-Smythe or Lord Bruard must remain behind."
Horror flooded Brock at the prospect of letting Selina go without him. He didn’t trust Cecil, who looked ready to commit murder. It was the closest thing to passion he’d ever seen the cod-faced poltroon display. But then Brock had known from the first that while Selina didn’t want Cecil, Cecil most definitely wanted her.
Selina broke away to cross to where Erskine sat, pale and in obvious agony. Brock followed, itching to do something to make all this better for Selina and hating to be so powerless.
"We need to splint that arm before you travel, Erskine," she said in an impressively steady voice. "I’m so sorry you were hurt."
"Och, madam, nae need to worry about me. I’ll be right as rain in nae time." But when the man tried to stand up, he jarred his arm and went as white as milk.
Relieved to have something practical to do, Brock returned to his carriage. He slithered down the bank and felt his boots sink into the mud as he snapped a length of wood from the rails. He tossed the stick back onto the road, then collected the baggage from the back and tossed that up to safety, too.
Plaistow appeared at the top of the ditch. "May I be of assistance, my lord?"
"Good man. Can you give me a hand up?"
The sides of the ditch were steep and slippery. Brock had made it down with relative ease. He wasn’t sure he’d make it out again without help.
When he was back on the road, he rummaged in his bag and produced half a dozen neck cloths. He also took the chance to rub some snow over his face and hands to clean off the worst of the blood.
He turned back to Plaistow. "Will you help me splint my coachman’s broken arm?"
By the time Erskine was ready to travel, after an interval of excruciating pain that he bore with astonishing stoicism, Derwent and Canley-Smythe had retired inside the undamaged coach. Neither had offered to assist with the coachman’s injuries.
"More brandy, Erskine?" Brock asked, as he and Selina helped the stocky young man up onto shaky legs. Now Erskine was as ready to travel as he was going to be, Plaistow had left them to check that his horses were fit to run.
Erskine was ashen, and it was clear shock was setting in. "Aye, thank ye," he mumbled, staggering as he found his feet.
"Keep this." Brock handed the man the silver flask. "You might need it again before you reach the Blue Wagon."
With some stumbling, Brock and Selina got Erskine across to the carriage. Derwent emerged as they approached. "If we take your man, someone has to stay behind."
"Be buggered if I’m giving up my seat for that petticoat-chasing bastard," Cecil snarled from inside the vehicle.
Brock caught a flash of terror in Selina’s eyes at the prospect of being trapped with Cecil. He lowered his voice as he spoke to Derwent. "I believe it’s best if Mrs. Martin isn’t alone with Canley-Smythe."
Derwent still looked as though something in the vicinity stank to high heaven. "You have my word that she’ll come to no harm, Bruard."
The sneer he sent Selina indicated that despite his assurances, he believed she deserved all she got. Brock fought back the urge to beat the self-righteousness out of the sod. Right now, he and Selina needed Derwent’s help – and his discretion, although Brock had a grim feeling that was too much to ask.
"Thank you," he said, although the words stuck in his craw.
"You can wait here and we’ll send back help, or you can follow us on one of your carriage horses," Derwent said coldly.
Now Selina no longer fussed over Erskine, the brief purpose faded from her expression. She was back to looking like the world ended. Damn it all to hell.
"I’ll ride one of the horses." He raised his voice so that Cecil heard him and noted that Selina’s defender intended to arrive at the inn soon after she did. "I should be just behind you. Derwent, when you get to the Blue Wagon, can you please wait with Mrs. Martin, so that no ruffians annoy her?"
He meant one ruffian in particular. To Brock’s relief, Derwent nodded. "It would be my pleasure."
He didn’t sound like it would be a pleasure, but at this stage, Brock would take what he could get. "Also could you arrange for someone to return to round up the rest of the horses?"
"Of course."
Brock bowed to Selina and sent her a smile meant to bolster her courage. "Such bad luck that our short trip together ended in grief, Mrs. Martin."
She didn’t look up at him. Brock burned to tell her that everything would be fine, that he would make it so. He burned to claim her as his, and consign Cecil to the devil. He burned to take her in his arms and kiss her, until she looked like the brave, vital woman he knew she was at heart, and not this crushed, frightened waif.
But all this burning did him no ounce of good. While they had an audience, he had to do his best to preserve appearances, despite every man here knowing just why Mrs. Martin had shared a carriage with the scandalous Earl of Bruard. Hell, the horses probably knew.
Derwent offered his arm again. "Mrs. Martin, may I assist you inside?"
Selina cast a nervous glance into the shadowy interior. "I think Erskine should go first."
"Erskine, I’ll help you," Brock said, before Derwent could protest.
"Thank ye, my lord. I’m gey sorry I’m causing all this palaver."
"I’m sorry you’ve been injured in my service," Brock said.
Maneuvering a man with a splinted arm into the confined space took more effort and time than either Erskine or Derwent appreciated. Cecil made his displeasure felt when the coachman settled beside him, but Brock was determined that Selina wasn’t going to sit next to her betrothed. At least if she sat beside Derwent, she’d have some protection. How Brock loathed that he had to let her go without him, although he’d do his best to catch up before they reached the inn.
Derwent took his seat opposite Cecil and Erskine. Brock caught Selina’s arm and spoke under his breath, as she stepped up into the coach. "My darling, I’m hellish sorry…"
"Not now," she muttered and pulled away to find her place. Brock didn’t miss the fulminating glare Cecil leveled on her, but he hoped Derwent’s presence – and perhaps Erskine’s, too – would preserve the niceties as far as the Blue Wagon.
"Shut the damned door," Cecil snarled. "It’s bloody freezing."
His heart heavy with guilt, regret and foreboding, Brock slammed the door and stepped back. As the short, cold day closed in toward night, Plaistow set the horses moving.
***
Selina clasped shaking hands in her lap and told herself she wouldn’t cry. She fixed her gaze on the bleak view out the window, although she didn’t see anything of the landscape. Instead, she struggled to come to terms with the mammoth scale of the disaster that had befallen her.
Brock had done his best to place an innocent gloss on her presence, but not even a babe in arms would believe his flimsy story. Nausea churned in her belly when she imagined what might happen now that Cecil had discovered her infidelity.
Not just Cecil. There were other witnesses, apart from a fiancé who, if he had any sense, might see some advantage in smothering the scandal. After a week with the Derwents, she was under no illusion how far the delicious morsel of gossip about prim Mrs. Martin spreading her legs for that libertine Lord Bruard would travel. A morsel made even more delicious, now it included the spicy addition of the lady’s betrothed catching her in the seducer’s company.
She wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Shame and fear placed an iron band around her chest, a band that tightened with every second and threatened to cut off her breathing. After the accident, she was sore and stiff, but her physical discomfort didn’t come near to matching the rank wretchedness seething in her belly.
Black spots clouded her vision. She realized she was on the verge of fainting – which would lacerate her pride worse than crying. A sharp pain from her lungs reminded her to suck in some air. Her sight cleared, but that offered no relief. Devastation lay in every direction, and she wanted to die of humiliation.
Since Gerald was born, she’d done her best to be a good mother. She’d protected him as far as she could from the effects of his father’s excesses. She’d offered him secure and steady love. She’d tried to teach him right from wrong.
Now the almighty scandal about to break over her head would make her son think that his mother was a round-heeled slut. It didn’t matter that when Brock touched her, she felt purer than she’d ever felt in her life. She was just another empty-headed strumpet who had succumbed to Lord Bruard’s fatal charm. That her stupidity had cost her a marriage to one of the richest men in England provided even greater fodder for tattle. From Land’s End to John o’Groats, people would snicker and point their fingers and click their tongues in delighted disapproval.
Selina’s fingers clenched in her skirts until the knuckles shone white. She didn’t know how she could bear the anguish to come.
Even worse, she’d lose her son. Without Cecil, she had no money to support Gerald. Even if she did, his trustees would insist on removing him from her dangerous influence. His grandmother would take him and subject him to the same suffocating treatment that had turned Roderick into a wastrel.
My darling boy, I’m so very sorry.
Selina couldn’t imagine he’d understand. He was too young. And once he left her, the talk would convince him that his mother was a whore. He’d grow up to hate her.
God forgive her, how on earth could she have done this terrible thing?
A cry of distress rose in her throat. Struggling to maintain a dignified silence, she fisted her hands even tighter in her skirts.
The silence in the carriage vibrated with hostility. Poor Erskine looked like he was in terrible pain, and as if he wished he’d stayed behind with Brock’s horses. She couldn’t blame him. Lord Derwent regarded her as if she was mud beneath his feet. Which was the height of hypocrisy, given that his long-term mistress had been a guest at the recent house party. The highborn ladies might have turned their noses up at Selina, but her presence hadn’t restrained their gossiping tongues.
She flinched. Gossiping tongues that would soon flap with tales of the rake, the social-climbing Midas, and the wanton widow.
Cecil sat fuming in the corner. His large body seemed to swell, until it took up more than its share of space. Even unspoken, his rage threatened to blister her skin.
"We’re almost at the inn," Derwent said in a distant voice.
Selina should be relieved, but she was sickly aware that once she reached the Blue Wagon, the rest of her life would start. Right now, even the prospect of traveling forever with a livid Cecil and a contemptuous Lord Derwent was preferable to facing up to the unholy mess she’d made of everything.
As she turned away from the window, she made the mistake of catching Cecil’s eye. He glared at her as if he hated her. What else did she expect?
But since the accident, curiosity had eaten at her. At last, she dared to ask the question that puzzled her. "Why are you here? I thought you were heading north to see your mill managers."
A sneer twisted his thick lips. "And I thought you were going back to London to prepare for our wedding. It seemed we were both mistaken." His sarcasm turned vicious. "I was indeed mistaken in the virtuous Widow Martin."
She couldn’t contain a faint whimper of distress, although more and worse awaited, now her liaison with Brock was sure to become public knowledge.
"I asked Mr. Canley-Smythe to return early from his factories, as I wished to discuss our business at greater length than we managed during the house party," Lord Derwent said.
"A good thing his lordship invited me," Cecil snapped. "Or I’d find myself bound to a woman I’m now ashamed to claim as an acquaintance."
Selina bit her lip and reminded herself that she wouldn’t cry in front of Cecil. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But it was plaguey difficult to hold onto her composure.
"Nothing to say, Selina?" he jeered.
She could see he was disappointed that she wasn’t biting back. But what could she say? He had a right to his temper. She’d betrayed and humiliated him in the worst possible way. And while he might be a bully and a boor, he didn’t deserve this.
"Just that I’m sorry, Cecil," she said in a quiet voice, as she linked shaking hands together in her lap. "I have wronged you unforgivably, and there’s nothing I can do to make amends."
He went on needling her. "I’ll wager you’re sorry. You’ve lost an honorable place as a rich man’s wife, in exchange for a few days in a debauchee’s filthy bed. You’ve proven yourself a slut, madam. And a stupid slut to boot."
"Canley-Smythe, that’s enough," Derwent snapped, as Selina bit so hard on her lip, she tasted blood.
Cecil’s jaw set in an austere line, but he bowed his head to Derwent. "Your pardon, my lord. The strength of my feelings overcame me."
Derwent’s tone remained forbidding. "I can understand you’re suffering a disappointment, but do me the courtesy of containing yourself while in my company."
"My apologies," Cecil said stiffly, but the scowl he leveled on Selina told her that he had plenty more to say and he intended to find an opportunity say it.
God help her.
***
At the Blue Wagon, Kitty must have been waiting beside the front door, because she rushed out across the bustling yard in a fluster of relief as soon as Lord Derwent handed Selina from his carriage.
"Miss Selina, thank heaven! I’ve been that worried about you. I feared some mishap." Kitty’s gaze sharpened on her. "Lordy, madam, are you all right? You look terrible."
Selina supposed that "some mishap" could describe the day’s calamities. She mustered a smile and struggled to sound as if her life hadn’t come to an end. "There was a carriage accident, but I wasn’t injured. Just a few bruises. Where is John? I’d like to leave for London straightaway."
The yard was crowded, and there was no sign of Brock. He hadn’t passed them on the road, but she’d hoped he wasn’t far behind. Luck didn’t shine on her today. She was vaguely aware of Cecil climbing out of the carriage. Lord Derwent stood a few feet away, ordering assistance for Erskine and requesting a parlor for his use.
She shrank from the curious glances aimed at the new arrivals. Nobody would miss the disheveled woman exiting the stylish equipage in the company of two well-to-do gentlemen and an injured man. She wished she could hide under her bonnet, but she’d left it back in the wrecked carriage.
Selina felt close to shattering. All the emotional turmoil of leaving the hunting box, then the accident, and now this public humiliation – humiliation sure to worsen as the scandal spread – overwhelmed her. She stumbled as she advanced toward the inn’s entrance.
"Madam, let me help you." When Kitty placed a supportive arm around Selina’s waist, she sagged into her maid’s grasp. The girl lowered her voice. "I thought I might see a certain gentleman with you."
Selina spoke under her breath, too. "The earl is following on horseback."
The inn’s servants were already bustling around them. Yet more people to bear witness to her disgrace, she thought bitterly. She heard Erskine’s strangled groan, as they attempted to move him.
"You and I are due a discussion before you go," Cecil said behind her, in a tone that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
"Cecil, tempers are running too high right now." She struggled to sound in control. A concerned glance from Kitty hinted that she didn’t succeed. While she owed Cecil an explanation, she didn’t want to talk to him while anger rolled off him in waves. "Better you come and see me in London."
The hand that curled around her arm wasn’t half so gentle as Kitty’s. "No, we should sort this out now, Mrs. Martin."
Since she’d agreed to marry him, Cecil had called her Selina. Her change of status in his life was clear. A harrowing future loomed ahead, but she couldn’t contain a surge of relief as she realized that she no longer had to share Cecil Canley-Smythe’s bed. Ever since she’d accepted that marrying him was the only way to keep Gerald, the prospect of Cecil’s hands on her had made her queasy.
Cecil’s grasp was rough on her arm, bruised in the accident, but she refused to quail under his bullying. She straightened away from Kitty and lifted her chin. While she might feel bilious with shame, she refused to cringe as Cecil wanted her to. As they entered the crowded inn, her maid dogged her footsteps.
"This way, sir, madam," the plump landlord said, gesturing down a black-and-white tiled hallway.
Cecil ignored the man and hauled Selina toward the steps. She stiffened and tried to break free. "I’d prefer to remain downstairs," she said, through stiff lips.
Cecil’s disdainful glance made her shrink away. "Your wishes no longer carry weight with me, Mrs. Martin."
"Nonetheless, I…"
"Sir, Lord Derwent has requested a private parlor on the ground floor for the lady," the landlord said in a quavering voice. Selina didn’t blame him for sounding nervous.
"His lordship has no authority over this female," Cecil snapped.
Selina hid a wince at her demotion from lady to mere female. "Cecil, anything you want to say to me, you can say downstairs."
He lowered his voice, until only she could hear him. "I assume you’d prefer to avoid a scene."
"Surely you would, too," she hissed back. "Any scandal will hurt you as well as me."
The cruel smile that curved his mouth shot another jolt of terror through her. This wasn’t a Cecil she’d ever seen. He’d always been overbearing, but now she feared violence. "After the way you’ve played me for a fool, I could do what I like to you, and no man jack here would raise a finger to stop me."
Selina had a horrid feeling he was right. She was the guilty party. In fact, if Cecil gave her a good beating, most men in the world would cheer him on. In desperation, she twisted to see behind him, praying that Brock might stride into view. But no lean, dangerous man prowled through the doors.
She battled to maintain her composure. "You want to hurt me, I understand that."
"Yes, I do, but you’re not worth the effort. I mightn’t be born a gentleman, but that doesn’t mean I lack standards."
She’d find his reassurance more convincing if at the same time, his hand wasn’t crushing the soft flesh of her upper arm. And if he wasn’t quivering with barely restrained rage.
"I’ll stay with you, Miss Selina," Kitty said staunchly from behind them.
Selina summoned a smile for her. "Thank you, Kitty."
"I’ve reserved a parlor where Mrs. Martin may wait in private," Lord Derwent said, coming through the door and walking toward them.
"I’d like to stay with his lordship," Selina stammered.
"Touting for a new lover already?"
She flinched at Cecil’s spiteful question, but before she could muster a reply, he turned to Derwent. "Mrs. Martin and I have private issues to discuss, my lord. You may rely on my honor."
"I hope so," Derwent said shortly, but despite his promise to Brock, it was clear he wasn’t interested in any further attempt to save her skin.
Again Selina craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the door. No Brock. Her stomach scrunched up into a ball of sour fear. Her head pounded with alarm, but she mounted the first step with as much dignity as she could muster.
"Stay close, Kitty," she muttered, as Cecil climbed the stairs ahead of her at a pace that made her stumble in his wake.
Cecil tugged her along a corridor. Selina started to feel dizzy with terror.
"Madam, I think we should go back," Kitty stammered behind her.
Selina did, too. She dug her heels into the wooden floor. "I’ll go no further."
"You’ll go as far as I say you will," he snarled.
He stopped outside a door and without releasing her, he unlocked it and slammed it open. Selina took a moment to register that this time round, Lord Derwent hadn’t invited Cecil to stay at his house. "Get inside, you faithless bitch."
"Sir!" Kitty protested as Cecil shoved a stumbling Selina into a large parlor crammed with ornate, old-fashioned furniture.
He released Selina to whirl around and bundle a squealing Kitty back into the hall. "I’ve had quite enough of you, you meddlesome jade."
"Sir! Miss Selina!"
Even as Kitty rushed forward to force her way back into the room, he kicked the door shut and locked it. Kitty’s shrieks of outrage were now muffled behind several inches of good English oak.
Panic turned Selina’s stomach to water, but she knew that if she showed the slightest sign of weakness, Cecil would destroy her. So she raised her chin and regarded him with the pride she’d learned over the last week. "Say your piece, Cecil, then let me go. Gerald is coming home from school tomorrow, and I’d like to be there when he arrives."
Her calm challenge startled Cecil. Given her spineless compliance the last time they’d been together, she couldn’t blame him. "You’re not fit to be a mother. To think I introduced a trollop like you to my mamma. I blush at the thought. She warned me about you."
"She warned you about me because she was jealous," Selina dared to say. "She wants to be the only woman in your life."
Cecil reddened with anger, and his beefy fists closed at his sides. "You presume to criticize a woman of such spotless reputation? I can’t believe I was so deceived in you."
Selina sighed. She had a feeling Cecil’s histrionics were likely to continue for a while.
However vile the consequences of becoming a fallen woman, her disgrace offered a new freedom. "I know you want to shout and call me names until Twelfth Night, but let’s take it as read. I’ve deceived and disappointed you, and now there’s going to be an almighty scandal when the world will label me a whore and you a dupe. But for the love of God, at least let us part with a modicum of civility."
"Have you no shame?" Astonishment had him gaping at her. "You sound as if you don’t give a fig about what’s happened."
She didn’t give a fig about Cecil, but not even her despairing recklessness let her say that. "Of course I care. I care that I’ve stained my good name. I care about the scandal. I care that I’m sure to lose Gerald."
"And you care that you’ve been found out," he said in a snide tone. "I’m assuming that you intended to rush from Bruard’s bed to mine and never confess your sins."
She had, at first. And because of that, she supposed she deserved whatever punishment the world meted out. But now she wondered if, even with Gerald’s future at stake, she could have steeled herself to accept Cecil as a husband. After experiencing Brock’s passion, how could she lower herself to marry Cecil?
She slid the diamond ring from her finger – she’d removed it a week ago, but replaced it this morning before she left the hunting box – and held it out. "Please take this back, Cecil."
He snatched it, which brought him too close for comfort. "I’ll find a woman worthy of this ring."
"I hope you do," she said, struggling for calm as she watched him shove the ring in his pocket. "Now I’m going downstairs to find my maid and my coachman and set off for London. I can’t imagine we’ll have reason to meet again. I know you won’t believe me, but I bear you no ill will."
His hard stare was somehow more threatening than his earlier blustering. "I suppose you’re hoping Bruard will keep you in luxury. Well, he might for a week or two. But everyone knows his short attention span, when it comes to his tarts."
"I have no idea what Lord Bruard intends," she said coldly.
"I know he’s stolen what belongs to me," he snarled.
This time the tide of fear that rushed through Selina turned her blood to ice. Don’t show him you’re afraid. Don’t show him you’re afraid. She battled to hold onto some authority. "You can’t mean to assault me here, Cecil. There’s an inn full of people around us to come to my aid."
He grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip and jerked her nearer. "Be damned if I want to marry you anymore."
"I know that," she said through tight lips.
"But that doesn’t stop you giving me what you gave that bastard Bruard."
Vomit rose in her throat, and she strained away from him. "Don’t be disgusting."
Fury flared in his eyes, and he gripped her wrist so hard that she heard the bones click. "Disgusting, am I?"
She struggled to break free. "Let me go."
"Not until you hear me out, damn you." He paused on an audible inhalation. She saw him fight for control. When he continued, the rage had receded from his eyes, but the lust that replaced it was no improvement. "While marriage is out of the question, everything doesn’t have to end between us. If you stooped to play Bruard’s mistress, why not be mine? I’ll put you up in a discreet house, give you the deeds if you like. Fine clothes. A carriage. A box at the opera. Carte blanche. I’ll keep you in luxury, Selina. No more money worries."
"What about Gerald?" she asked bitterly.
Cecil shrugged, as if her son was of no importance. She realized with a sick feeling that her son had never mattered to the man who had almost become his stepfather. "After this, his mother’s name will be dragged through the dirt. If you think Derwent will keep quiet about Bruard rogering you, you’re more of a fool than I take you for. You’ve lost any chance of a decent match, my girl. Better me than selling yourself on the streets."
Dear God, what a repugnant picture Cecil painted. "It’s not that bad," she said, still struggling to break free.
Cecil sneered. "It is that bad. You’re fair game for any man. If you imagine you might find work, ask yourself who in their right mind would employ Bruard’s cast-off mistress? The question is will you accept me as your keeper and profit from your offenses – or will you battle on in poverty until you end up swiving anyone who can put food in your belly?"
As her reeling brain winnowed his odious proposition, Selina’s heart turned to stone. Cecil was right about so much. She had a nauseating feeling he was right about everything.
"I won’t starve." She heard failing courage in her voice. If she accepted Cecil’s offer, she could put some money aside and use that to build a new life when she left him. A new identity. Emigrate even.
He must have sensed her wavering, because his vicious grip softened a tad. "Say yes, Selina. You know I want you."
"But I don’t want you," she said dully.
She gave a sharp cry of pain when his grip flexed. "You’ll find that hanging out for what you want is a luxury you can no longer afford."
She stared up at Cecil. Agony made spots swim in front of her eyes. "Stop it. The answer is no. A hundred times no."
How could she go from Brock’s arms to Cecil’s? Even the prospect of penury couldn’t make her accept this cruel swine as her keeper. And while he spoke as if he rescued her from disaster, his aim was revenge. If she said yes to Cecil’s opportunistic offer, he’d bully her without surcease – and she’d have no recourse against him. She was also wise enough to understand that he’d never forgive the blow she’d struck when she took Brock as her lover. Cecil would make her pay over and over. In pain and humiliation and misery.
Her dread of what was to come was like a massive avalanche threatening to crush her. But she wasn’t defeated yet. At least not so defeated that she’d crawl into Cecil’s bed.
She watched his face change. Blood suffused his cheeks, and his bones hardened until they presented a terrifying mask.
"Your pride is an expensive indulgence," he bit out. "You’ll be sorry you rejected me."
"Never," she said, straining back.
"Then you owe me this, you lying bitch."
"Cecil, no!" she cried, as he wrenched her higher and whipped his arm around her waist. He released her wrist to grab her hair, pulling it until tears sprang to her eyes.
His mouth, wet and hot and greedy, crashed down on hers. She felt an instant’s relief when he let her hair go. But then he captured her chin in a rough hand. As he tugged until she opened her lips, she struggled to close her teeth against a tongue that felt like a slug in her mouth.
Selina fought, but his hold on her head was unbreakable. She lost the ability to breathe. The world darkened to gray fog. Her head filled with an urgent pounding.
On one last despairing surge of energy, she pushed her arm up from where it was trapped between their bodies. With savage force, she raked her nails down his cheek.
Juddering, he wrenched back. "You little harlot. How dare you?"
He clouted her across the face. Pain exploded through her skull. As she staggered to keep her feet, her vision went black.
Amidst the thunder in her head, she thought she heard the crack of breaking wood. Then through her dizziness, she heard Brock. "You fucking bastard!"
Dazed, she shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. When her sight cleared, she realized that she hadn’t imagined Brock’s arrival.
He was standing over a cowering Cecil. Behind him, the door hung half off its hinges. "I should bloody well kill you. You’d be no loss to the world, you sniveling coward. How dare you raise your fist to a woman?"
An arm slid around her waist, saving her from falling. "I’m here, Miss Selina," Kitty said.
"Don’t hit me again," Cecil sobbed. Blood poured from his nose, and Selina discerned no trace of the hulking beast who had attacked her. When she noted the long furrows her nails had made in his cheek, she felt a savage surge of triumph.
"Don’t kill him, Brock," she said in a thick voice. Her shaking hand touched her jaw, as she wondered if Cecil had broken it. Her face felt like it was on fire. "We’ve got enough trouble already."