How was it that her sisters were both gifted with angelic faces and soft bodies, while she was cursed with a hard-muscled body and a long mop of black hair? She was nearly convinced her mother had taken a lover of some sort, or at least had an affair while her father was away on business. It was the only explanation for her looks; certainly, her own father must have thought as much as well, because she received the most despised spankings as a child, and allotted the most horrid of all chores.
Her parents meant well, her beautifully gifted sisters often told her, but she had her doubts. As of a few days ago, she accepted her lot in life was to be a spinster; to spend the rest of her days longing for something she'd never had to begin with…love.
"Sara!" Her mother's impossibly loud voice never ceased to carry for miles on end.
"Coming!" she called, although not at the same decibel. It was nearly impossible to reach the same frequency as her mother on any given occasion. A gift is what her mother called it, but her father called it a curse behind her mother's back.
Sara reluctantly pushed herself off the ground and walked slowly into the lion's den. Her fate to be decided by the two most unlikeable people in her existence: her mother and her aunt.
Both eyed her speculatively when she approached them in the garden. Heat encompassed her body while observing her aunt's disapproving gaze trace her from head to toe. She was used to being criticized. Holding her head high when subjected to rejection had once been a trying chore. Now she did it with ease, her only recourse, as if to say she didn't care what everyone else thought. Though in her heart of hearts, she always did. Didn't every girl?
She resolved to always maintain eye contact—to communicate to everyone within distance she accepted the way God created her. The local vicar once told her there were worse things in the world, and sometimes you only see what others want you to see.
Sara had her doubts about the local vicar after that day, yet her faith in God was the only solid thing in her life. She had to trust that possibly, when she went to Heaven, she would turn into a beautiful butterfly, whilst her family rotted in….
"Oh, dear," her aunt sighed, lifting the teacup to her thin rouged lips. "I just don't see what you expect me to do. I can't perform miracles." Her eyes skimmed quickly over Sara; although, she noticed Aunt Tilda seemed to harbor some tender emotion in them, for she ventured a gentle smile her way before facing Sara's dreadful mother again. Either that or Sara was losing her mind, which was probably more likely, given the circumstances of her upbringing. One could only tolerate so much verbal abuse before she went to the madhouse, or so she thought.
"Only the good Lord can," Mother responded, making a quick cross over her chest. Sara rolled her eyes but was quick about it, so she would not be caught. "After her sisters ran off and eloped, I thought to myself we would be ruined. Absolutely ruined. Then I realized I still had one daughter left. One daughter left who can at least try to marry above her station. And why not? Why shouldn't we have more wealth than what we have? I don't see why the good Lord would bless others and completely turn his nose up to us."
"Nor do I," her aunt agreed, clicking her tongue and then heaved a sigh of resignation. "I shall do as you ask… out of the goodness of my heart." She rose from her chair and approached Sara, making Sara's mouth go suddenly dry. "My husband is a Viscount. Unlike your mother, I married within my station, and it suits me well. I shall sponsor your first and only season in London. I shall expect nothing but good manners and graciousness from you. Do you understand, young lady?"
What was she supposed to do? Sit there and nod like a puppet? Sara cleared her throat to protest, but her aunt put a gloved finger in front of her lips.
"Tsk, tsk. You will not be speaking at all until we arrive in London. I have a head ailment which prevents me from listening to whiny, ugly girls for extended periods of time."
Sara was tired of being insulted. She should be accustomed to it though; it was a daily occurrence, but now it rattled her nerves.
Aunt Tilda shook her head once more. "I don't know, I just don't know. I mean, look at her skin. It's so, so—" Her hand waved in the air as if she would somehow pull the perfect word out of the sky.
"It's brown, dear," came Mother's annoyed voice. "She has straight white teeth though."
"Ah! Let me see!" Aunt Tilda grabbed Saras chin and forced open her mouth making her feel like a horse being inspected by a famer. "Oh, yes. I do see. Oh good, very good. We shall have her smile often."
"And her bosom!" Mother half-jumped out of her seat in a frenzy. "If you'll just pull back her dress here." The dress tightened around Sara's chest furthering her embarrassment. "You see? She really does have a lot to work with."
Aunt Tilda walked away for a minute, not facing any of the party in the receiving room. "She'll have to eat much more than you've been feeding her."
Sara took another deep breath; it was like getting sold to the butcher. She closed her eyes, so she could think about her latest book rather than the embarrassing things being said about her.
"She does eat!" her mother bellowed again, hazardously close to Sara's left ear. She wouldn't be surprised if she were close to being deaf in both ears. Years of living with her mother had not been good for her health. She winced as her mother yelled again "I know! We'll just give her more meals and have her eat before bed! If she lies down, it is bound to stay in her belly and make her softer!"
Sara wanted to scream, but she had always been even tempered, always. But even those who are even tempered can be pushed beyond the brink of sanity. If only her sisters hadn't eloped, leaving their family in utter ruin! What respectable girls elope with twin brothers to Gretna Green? They weren't even titled for crying out loud! It meant her family had nothing, absolutely nothing. Her two sisters were the only hope for riches, and now they were gone, along with their measly dowries. Nobody would want them now, even if they could get the marriages annulled.
Her thoughts had gotten away with her somehow. Before she knew it, her aunt kissed her mother goodbye, and pushed Sara into a black plush carriage waiting outside.
"Oh, and Sara," her mother ran toward her, "Aunt Tilda will explain what needs to be done to secure a husband; you listen to everything she says. Do not embarrass us! Your father has, well, he has some debts, dear, and you're our only hope of securing a man rich enough to take care of us. Do you understand?"
Was that a rhetorical question?
Her mother droned on, "And, dear, I know you are…well, you're wicked-looking, but if you could please swallow your pride and do whatever it takes, we would be grateful. After all, this is your one and only chance for any sort of affection from another person. And we all desire affection. Even ugly children desire acceptance."
Hearing enough, she bit her lip to keep from talking. Sara nodded her head and closed the door to the carriage. Her body felt numb. She knew all about emotional rejection; it was her cross to bear, but to be reminded by one's own mother time and time again was the worst pain imaginable. Turning her head toward the window, she pulled her knees up to her chest and sighed. Aunt Tilda reached across and patted her hand much like a stranger would do to comfort a small child.
"No fear, my girl, I have a grand plan. A plan even you can't ruin." She smiled cheerfully before putting a covering over her eyes and going silent, most likely to sleep.
It's an adventure, it's an adventure, Sara kept repeating over and over again in her head to keep herself from crying. Being mortified in front of her family because of her looks she could handle, but being humiliated in front of the ton was quite another. "Dear God, if you can do miracles, I ask for one right now. Make me pretty; make me loveable. I don't care if I let my family down, I just don't want to feel this way ever again." The stress of the day overwhelming her, she drifted off to sleep.
Another great read from Rachel Van Dyken
Prologue
Essex, England
Miss Emma Gates loved to dance. Not that she would ever share
this private information with anyone but her dear sister, who was easily bribed and young enough not to care. No. A lady was entitled to her secrets and this was one of hers.
It wasn't just any kind of dancing she was fond of. No, because dancing with the gentry was quite acceptable for a girl getting ready for her come out. The dancing she enjoyed was more passion-filled than waltzing, although she had to admit waltzing was another favorite.
For some time, she had been practicing the dance of the gypsies. In her heart she knew it was wrong to spy. But every so often a traveling gypsy family would be allowed to stay near their large estate.
One night a few months ago, Emma had been absolutely dying with curiosity as she heard the foreign music glide through her windows. Carefully, she rose from her bed and tiptoed to her door. Looking out the hallway, she took a steadying breathe and made the decision to sneak out of the house. Always accused of being too inquisitive and adventurous for her own good, Emma had told herself this would be the last time she would do something rash before her come out this Season.
Nearing the campground, fire light glowed in the distance. Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched in utter fascination as the bronze-colored girls danced with jewelry trilling on their ankles and hands, swishing their fingers this way and that.
It was powerful and fascinating.
Men were captivated, drawn in by the sensual sway of their hips and promise of desire in their eyes. How could they not be? There was something so alluring about the way the gypsies danced, as if they held some secret nobody else in the world knew about. Men weren't just full of desire for the women, though she could see plenty of that in the way their gazes seemed to follow every sway of the gypsies' hips. The way the gypsies danced transported Emma and all those who watched to a place of mystery and enticement.
It made her wonder what it would be like to be able to deliver a siren call without speaking at all. To communicate without words. The gypsies' music spoke to her like nothing else. The idea that she could express her deepest desires through such movements had her bewitched.
The first night she had been too nervous to show herself to the crowd, worried someone might recognize her and tell her parents.
The second night she had ventured out and sat near the edge of the campground.
And the third night, a young girl had approached and offered to teach her, asking for nothing in payment, merely the enjoyment of seeing Emma learn something she obviously found so much delight in.
Emma had been dancing ever since.
She promised herself she would quit once she had a Season, but the temptation was too great. Soon after she made the decision to stop, her fingers and legs would twitch with excitement, begging to be set free by the dance of the gypsies.
Life had a way of making more sense when she could dance. The troubles of the world, of her current betrothal seemed to melt away with the sway of her hips.
Being betrothed was another reason for her current fascination with all things adventurous and forbidden. Her life was over before it started. The man she was betrothed to was a good man, if one could call him a man. At one and twenty he was two years her senior and in a terrible state to be a husband. Having only just finished at University, his only goal in life was to warm the beds of courtesans and gamble away his inheritance. With striking features and a rakish grin, he could easily get away with all seven of the deadly sins and come out unscathed.
So in one last fit of going against the demands of society and her parents, she snuck away to dance. It was the last night before they were to leave for London. After all, the Season would start soon, and although she was betrothed, her parents wanted her to attend. They hoped she would gain some friends, considering most her time would now be spent in London, once the wedding was completed. Not wanting to take any chances of getting caught, she would often practice in the small hunters lodge next to the stream. It was only a mile from her house, close enough for her to feel safe but far enough away she felt she wouldn't be discovered.
Laughter bubbled out of her as she reached the cabin and slammed the door behind her. The air was charged with excitement. Emma made sure to lock the large wooden door, as was tradition, and then turned to start the fire.
After lighting the nearest lamp, she began swaying her hips. The rhythm started slow and sensual as she lifted her arms above her head and snapped her wrists. And as her hips continued to sway, she allowed her hands to twist and turn, convulsing her body into the familiar rhythm taught to her by her Romany friend.
A loud thump jolted her out of her haze.
She shrieked as a cloaked figure walked toward her.
"I've been waiting for you."
His voice sounded gentry. Too much like a gentleman, but there were no gentleman in the area she knew of, other than her betrothed and his family.
She swallowed and slowly walked backward toward the locked door, her mind a jumble of ways she could escape without the man grabbing her. How could she have been so stupid to come out her alone? Yet she had done so for the past two months without disturbance.
"Aw, my pet, do not run away from me just yet. I have something special planned for you."
"No thank you." Her voice was weak. Quickly, she turned the notch to unlock the door, but the man's hands pushed her against the wooden frame.
"Oh, you won't be leaving. There is no way out."
He slammed her body into the door and began rustling with her skirts.
This was not happening; it could not be happening.
She tried to scream but was immediately silenced by his large hand.
The other hand continued to frantically grab at her skirts. She kicked him in the shin and tried for the door again.
"Okay, pet, now you've made me angry."
With a guttural growl, he ripped open her dress, revealing her bodice, and leered at her breasts. Her corset and chemise still covered her body, but she felt horribly exposed and dirty.
"So you like to tease, do you? You little witch, I should have known you would want me like this. You've been begging for months. I almost had you so many times, but now I'll have you as much as I want. I know you want it too. If you scream it will just make it better for me." He leaned in so she could smell the reek of brandy on his breath. "Nobody will want you now. Nobody will have you but me."
Her pulse raced as she fought frantically to free herself from his grasp. Her prayers were answered as the door she was leaning against began to move wildly behind her. Shouts were heard on the other side of the wooden door.
The man cursed and pushed her down before opening the back window and escaping. Utterly exhausted and weak she fell to the ground in one giant heap alternating between sobs and choking.
The door opened revealing her father and their nearest neighbors the Rawlings and, to her horror, the man she was betrothed to. Naturally all they saw was a young girl with her clothes torn, alone and crying.
Nothing needed to be said, because no matter how many times she tried to explain what had happened, nobody believed she hadn't invited advances from a man. Not even her own parents, and especially not the man who had earlier that year pledged himself to be her husband.
Emma never danced again.
Chapter One
London, England
Four Years Later
Nicholas was convinced his wife of five years had gotten used to his habit of pacing when he had something on his mind. Yet back and forth he went as the clock on the wall chimed noon. He felt it in his skin, in his bones.
She was going to protest.
They'd both been in his study since he brought the suggestion to her ears, and her expression in those past few hours hadn't changed to anything more agreeable than it was at this moment.
"What exactly do you mean when you say he's already here?" she inquired, the slight rise in her voice giving away that she was a little more annoyed than he had previously guessed. In a span of five seconds, her mouth was open to ask another q
uestion, and he silenced her with his hand.
Usually their arguments went the other way around. All she needed to do was flash a smile in his direction and he would buy the blasted moon, if it would make her happy. But today the tables were turned, because it was he who was asking the favor.
And it was obvious she had more self control than he did, which oddly enough wasn't surprising, given the circumstances of their marriage. Naturally he assumed it was because she was a woman, but mentioning that around her wasn't good for his health, which meant he kept his mouth good and shut. Yes, compromising his dear wife before she had any chance to protest had turned out to be the best mistake of his life.
He flashed one of his most genuine and sensual smiles, and noticing the breath steal from her lungs, he leaned over and kissed her firmly on the mouth.
"I did give you his title, did I not? The Good Duke of Tempest? Or as some call him The Angel Duke? He isn't the sort of rake people describe him as," he mumbled against her already swollen lips. "Furthermore, I don't think he's here to create scandal. Quite the opposite, in fact." He placed a hand on her cheek. "Need I add he wasn't nearly as wild as I was in my—" He stopped short of finishing that sentence when he noted the flash of anger on Sara's face.
"Admittedly, not the best reasoning I could come up with," he confessed teasingly. "But you must trust me on this."
****
She shook her head, wise enough not to speak for fear she might kill him with her pointed words. Her expression did the talking as she widened her eyes and tilted her head for more. A better reason was expected, this was Nicholas Renwick speaking. He had a purpose and excuse for everything, God bless him.
Sara cleared her throat, and Nicholas bit his lip and looked away. The tension in the room was enough to send her over the edge of sanity, then again most of the strain had to do with the fact that Nicholas had been denied access to Sara's bed for the past week on account of being away at their country estate.