Why did doing the right thing feel so terribly wrong, as if it would break her heart in two?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. For a wild moment, her heart leapt as she imagined it was Rafe, coming to collect her. But no, how foolish. He would have no notion of where she had gone. More than likely, it was Mrs. Bridges, from whom she had rented her room.
She went to the door and opened it without thought. And just like that, her world changed.
Her entire body went cold at the familiar form towering over her. Not many men were taller than she. But one man in particular had always been a full head taller, in true Calcot fashion.
“My dear Persephone,” Cousin Bartholomew drawled pleasantly, as if she would welcome the sight of him, as if he had been invited or expected. “It feels as if it has been an age since I have last beheld you.”
She moved to slam the door on him, but he was too quick, his booted foot keeping her from closing it. “What are you doing here?”
Throwing all her weight against the door, she tried desperately to keep it closed so he could not enter. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry, desperation seizing her in a relentless grip. Surely this was a dream from which she would soon wake, realizing it had all been a terrible illusion.
“Coming to collect my bride,” he answered, using his superior strength to push the door inward.
She attempted to hold fast to the battered plank floors but her slippers were sliding. “If you do not go, I’ll scream and Mrs. Bridges will come to see what is amiss.”
“Mrs. Bridges is a woman of practicality and good breeding.” He wedged his shoulder into the doorway, gaining on her. “She knows I am a peer of the realm and that you are my mad, runaway ward. She will not save you, my dear.”
“I am not mad!” she cried out, still pushing with all her might, though it was fast becoming apparent doing so was a losing battle.
“Your denial will not aid your cause,” he gritted, giving one more, sudden shove.
Persephone was caught off-balance, and she toppled backward, landing hard on her rump as Cousin Bartholomew gained entrance, closing the door at his back. His countenance was smug.
Victorious.
Hateful.
Her stomach clenched with terror. For so long, she had avoided him. And now, her greatest fear had come to fruition. He had returned, and he intended to take her with him. Just when freedom had finally been within her reach.
She scrambled to her feet, eying him warily.
She did not know if he would pounce or if he would, as he had so often enjoyed doing in the past, toy with her until striking at the moment she least expected it.
“Did you not think I would come for you, my dear?” He tilted his head, considering her, an ugly smile slowly spreading over his thin lips. “Ah, I can see from your countenance you did not believe I would. But then, all these years, and your birthday so near. You must have believed yourself incapable of being found.”
Not incapable, but she had begun to feel complacent in a way she had not been in the earlier years of her flight. She could admit as much to herself now. When she had first left Silwood Manor, she had guarded everything with the greatest of care—her identity, her person, her friendship. The Persephone of seven years before never would have allowed herself to so much as hold a conversation with a man like Rafe Sutton.
But she would not give Cousin Bartholomew the gratification of her acknowledgment. Instead, she kept her head held high and maintained her silence.
He laughed then, as if he found this moment, her at his mercy after fighting him for so long, amusing. But, knowing Cousin Bartholomew, he likely did.
“Ah, my sweet, innocent Persephone, clinging to your hopes like the stupid little romantic you are.” He laughed again, but there was no accompanying light of mirth in his light-blue eyes. They were dead, just as they had always been. “I would have thought I had disabused you of your mother’s nature when you were a child. But then, the most difficult of spirits to crush is the foolish, hopeful one. Fortunately for me, destroying them also proves the most enjoyable.”
She suppressed a shudder, refusing to show him fear, for she recalled all too well how he thrived upon the terror of others and the power he wielded over them.
He reached out with a gloved hand then, the butter-soft leather lightly connecting with her chin, tilting it upward. “You do not imagine I will be gentle with you after the merry chase you have led me on, dearest.”
How she hated his use of the endearment. On his lips, it was a weapon. A venomous snake, waiting to strike. Still, she said nothing, refusing to give him her words.
“You must, else you would not be showing such disobedience.” His nostrils flared. “Oh, my dear. I can assure you that you will not be treated as you once would have been. I tried to tell you, but you would not listen, how marriage to me would be a wondrous state. All you had to do was please me, and I would have been quite lenient. But a man does not want a soiled bride.”
She would have flinched at the condemnation in his voice, but she was doing her utmost to remain calm and unaffected.
“After what you have done with Gregson?” He shook his head slowly, and in an instant, his face changed, the lines of complacency growing harsh and violent, his eyes darkening. He caught her chin in a violent grip so painful she could not suppress her squeak of surprise. “My innocent virgin bride has returned to me a whore. I will be treating her as one.”
“I am not your bride,” she bit out.