Reckless (The House of Rohan 2) - Page 18

Meggie's shock was overplayed but nonetheless genuine. "The green dress that you were going to give to Miss Charlotte?"

"Well, I can't very well give it to her now, can I? She's half a foot taller than I am—the hem would be above her ankles. "

"It's no dress for an orgy," Meggie pointed out sagely. "The neckline's too high, the cut too refined. What about your red dress?"

"Do you see any orgies around me, Meggie?" she inquired. “I’ll be spending the next few days, perhaps longer, looking after Lord Montague. As you sagely pointed out, seductive clothes would be wasted on him, and that prude of a vicar as well. The green dress proves even I can be demure. "

Author: Anne Stuart

"The green dress proves even you can have a sense of humor. "

In fact, Lina had ordered the dress from her modiste on a whim. The cut and line of the garment was simple, charming, but most definitely unalluring. It had reminded her of a gown she had worn before she was married, when everything was new and fresh and she still believed in happy endings.

Henry had cured her of that particular notion. He'd been a full forty years older than she was—fifty-eight to her eighteen—but so enormously wealthy her father had been aux anges. Henry had already buried three wives and two stillborn heirs, but he hadn't given up hope. A young, nubile beauty should have been just the thing to stoke his fires, he used to tell her, filled with disgust at her ineptitude. His efforts had been desultory, more often spilling his seed outside her in his inability to get hard enough for penetration.

It was a great deal too bad that he accidentally discovered the cure for his affliction. His frustration and contempt for his young wife grew until one night he'd slapped her, so hard she'd fallen against the bed. temporarily seeing stars.

His excitement was immediate and powerful, and the next thing she knew, he was on her like a wild dog, puffing and sweating, hurting her so that she cried out in pain. When she did, his excitement reached a fever pitch, and he spilled his seed deep inside her.

He'd been so rough she'd bled the next day, and he'd been furious, thinking her menses had started early. It had been a blessing. Henry had been a fastidious man and never liked to come near her during her courses.

But a week later he was on her anew. It had taken more and more pain to inspire him. In the beginning he avoided marring her face, but as time passed he enjoyed that most particularly. Seeing the evidence of his brutality seemed to make him feel more virile. Eventually he took his dazed young wife to one of his remote country estates, so no one could witness his increasingly dangerous pleasures.

The only thing that would have stopped him would have been a pregnancy. He wanted an heir with a ferocity stronger than his twisted needs.

In the end it had been her fault, Lina thought. She'd begun to stretch out the time of her menses for as long as possible to avoid the increasingly nightmarish couplings Henry forced on her. She knew full well there was no one she could turn to—a wife's duly was to submit. The only one who would have come to the rescue was Charlotte, and while she would have moved heaven and earth to help her, there would have been nothing she could do.

So Lina had told no one. And one summer her courses were late. Days passed, when her body had been as regular as clockwork no matter what indignities Henry had subjected her lo, no matter how brutal his assaults. She lied, of course, lo keep Henry from her, anything to have an extra day or two of reprieve.

A week passed, with Henry growing more and more impatient. By the time two weeks had gone by, her breasts were full and tender, her stomach was queasy, and she knew, she simply knew, the old man's foul ruttings had finally taken root.

She'd thought she'd be disgusted, hating what had begun in her belly. She was wrong. The thought of a baby changed everything. He would leave her alone now, and she would grow large and placid, and by the time she gave birth to his son he would have turned elsewhere for pleasure. He would leave her and her son alone, and sooner or later he would die. He was old and fat, and when he hit her his face would grow purple with rage and excitement, and exhaustion.

She waited too long. Her fault, her fault. She'd wanted to cherish her secret for just a little while longer before she had to bring him into it.

She remembered that day far too well. He'd appeared in her dressing room, sending the servants away.

"Your maid tells me you've been lying about your monthly courses," he said, his voice deceptively quiet. "Haven't you?"

She flushed. "Yes," she admitted. "In fact, I—" That was as far as she'd gotten. His fist had connected with her face, splitting her lip, and after that there had been no chance of speech.

She made the mistake of crying out, enraging him further. The small blessing was that this time he didn't rape her. He simply beat her, with his fists, kicking her with his booted feet when she fell to the floor.

She curled in on herself, trying to shield her body from his blows, but she'd already felt the fierce tearing in her belly, the wetness of blood gushing between her legs. He'd destroyed the one thing he'd wanted most in the world.

He finally stopped. She moaned, and clutched her belly. She could hear him gasping for breath, and she struggled to sit up, knowing the danger any sign of life might bring.

It took her three tries. She could barely see out of her swollen eyes, and the pain in her belly was a ripping, vicious one, but she managed to see Henry half lying on her bed, his legs twitching as he made hoarse, gasping noises. For one moment she thought his sexual excitement had been unbearable and he was using his fist to bring on his own climax—she'd heard those gasping, grunting noises far too many times.

She managed to pull herself to her feet, using a nearby chair for support. She would need a doctor, she thought, dizzy. Would he allow her one?

She could see Henry on the bed, gasping for air like a landed fish. His handsome, florid face was a deep purple, and she realized with almost detached interest that he'd finally gone too far. He was having a fit of apoplexy.

She struggled toward the bed, using various pieces of furniture to support herself, until she reached his side. He managed to focus on her for a moment.

"Get. . . a doctor," he wheezed.

She could feel blood dripping down her legs, into her slippers. She looked down at him. "You sent the servants away, Henry," she said with deceptive gentleness. "They won't hear me if I call for help. You're dying. No one could help you anyway. But I want you to know one thing before you go to the hell you so richly deserve. " She moved closer. "I was finally pregnant, and you kicked me in the stomach, Henry. You killed your unborn child. Your heir. "

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