Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) by Maggie Jagger
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Someone was kissing her. Lizzie moaned. It was wicked to like it. Wicked to open her mouth to allow the liberty of his tongue on hers.
She awoke with a cry.
A hand covered her mouth.
It was deepest night. Only the ticking of the clock and her heart pounding in her breast broke the silence.
The man, a dark shape above her, whispered, “Hush.”
How she had missed the scent of him, the touch of him.
“Hush.” The dark shadow in her bedroom belonged to Dace. She knew it.
How had he escaped?
Drat the man!
Lizzie refused to melt in his embrace. She tried to push him away, taking care not to injure his wounded shoulder. He stood his ground, not giving an inch, not allowing her to repel him.
“Gladys,” she mumbled past the hand over her mouth. She tried to call louder only to have him whisper, “Hush,” in her sensitive ears.
Kicking him was out of the question, her bedclothes were tucked in. She could only scramble up to sit on her pillow. How she had missed him.
Fornicating Felmont! That is all he was, all he’d ever be. She put her arms around him simply to make him embrace her so she could call for help. Like an idiot he released her mouth, but instead of holding her to him, he twisted her arms behind her back and tried to tie her wrists with a soft cloth.
“Gladys!” Lizzie called. “Help!”
He meant to ravish her. He wanted to infect her with that dread disease caught from whores. Who knew how many other women he had been with since she’d run from him?
She fought for her freedom, for her life.
He wrestled with her, pushing her down with his body. To her embarrassment, he found the soap from the priory under her pillow. Let him think what he liked. She enjoyed the scent of it.
He gave a low laugh and slipped it into his pocket.
She’d know that laugh anywhere, and she did not need any light to know who laughed at her. She spat like an angry cat, “Let go, you fornicating bastard!”
No sooner had he tied her, than his hand returned to cover her mouth. “Hush.”
“Untie me at once.” For some reason Lizzie was not the least bit disappointed when he did not.
If he ravished her while she was tied up, it was not her fault. Perhaps that whore had not been diseased. Visions of her mother suddenly filled her head.
Lizzie struggled frantically to be free. Such an awful death! She bit at his restraining hand.
“Hush.” He released her only to bind her mouth with another of his soft cloths.
Lizzie opened her mouth to scream. The cloth gagged her jaws apart. The monstrous demon tied it behind her neck, leaving her with her mouth slightly open. She could moan and she did.
The door to her dressing room cracked open. Gladys tiptoed in, carrying her pistol in one hand and a candlestick in the other.
The light showed the viscount dressed entirely in dull black, in his odd set of raiment. It could not be his own. His jacket pockets bulged. His top boots were silent on the carpet. He looked like a thief in the night from a restoration melodrama.
Why couldn’t Felmonts be sensible?
At the moment, Lizzie would settle for sane. The viscount had slipped far too quickly into madness. Could syphilis have touched his brain so quickly?
The choice between being rescued and being ravished by the debauched viscount was no longer in doubt. He’d not dare risk being shot.
“Stand clear of Lady Felmont, my lord,” ordered Gladys, with her dressing gown tied tightly around her waist and her nightcap covering hair-papers. She aimed the pistol at his head.
To Lizzie’s dismay the dastardly man just laughed. He strode over to Gladys and bent from his great height to kiss her cheek.
Gladys gave a gurgle of laughter. “Get away, I shall shoot you.”
Alas, the pistol was no longer in her companion’s hand.
Lizzie scrambled out of bed as best she could with her hands tied behind her back.
She made it to the door and turned her back to it to fumble with the lock, in time to see the Beast hustle poor Gladys into the dressing room and turn the key in the door.
Her companion’s laughter from inside her prison didn’t encourage Lizzie expect any help from that quarter. The Beast placed the pistol on the table with the candlestick.
Gladys’s fascination for all things Felmont might have dire consequences! Her inability to shoot the viscount meant he could ravish Lizzie on the floor, with no one to stop him. He’d surely take his revenge on her helpless body for chaining him to his bed.
Lizzie gave a moan, now was not the time to have wicked thoughts.
She fumbled with the lock. Panic grew as he covered the space between them.
“Hush.” He leaned down from his great height to whisper the word in her ear. Her breasts arched towards him of their own accord. She shivered, inches from him, and yet he did not touch her.
Could he think of nothing else to say? Could he think of nothing else to do? She shook her head. The gag in her mouth prevented her from cursing him.
He mimicked her gesture.
He placed both his hands on the door on either side of her head. Lizzie had to look up at him. For her trouble, she received a kiss on her upper lip and one on her lower lip.
While she stood breathless, he knelt to fasten her knees together. His face pressed against her belly, she drew a shaky breath. Her heart leaped around like a lamb in springtime.
Why had he done that?
Her knees together? Did he not mean to ravish her? Not that she wanted him to, not at all.
A wave of disappointment swept through her.
He retrieved her slippers from beside the bed and the black cloak from the chair close by. Without a word he pulled her away from the door to wrap her in it. He lifted her feet to stroke her cold toes before encasing them in her slippers.
The footmen on duty in the hallway were not disturbed. The Beast pulled her towards a jib door hidden in the paneling that led to the service hallways and staircases. She tottered with him in a slow shuffle.
The viscount carried her down the stairs by holding her tightly to his body with his left arm. He walked along the hallways with a strange mincing gait, as if trying to keep his boots on.
The only word out of his mouth was hush.
Suddenly, a cool breeze wafted about them. Surely he could not mean to take her outside? At night, with only her nightrail under the cloak? The door had been propped open—robbers could have entered. Had he no sense at all?
Lizzie pulled back. She had humored him long enough. Perhaps she did owe him an explanation for how she was going to treat him, but she did not intend to let him take her outside.
She shivered in the cold air. He had tried to get her to leave the day they had to marry. He’d thrown her in the berline and sent her off, eager to be rid of her. He’d tried to frighten her away by threatening to kiss her.
Drat the man! Was he going to throw her out of Felmont’s Folly, in her night attire, for all the world to see? She’d be ruined. A laughing stock!
She jerked out of his grasp and sat down. He could not possible carry her out, not with his injured shoulder.
But he made no move to pick her up, just pushed her over to lie on her side and smacked her bottom with a stinging blow.
Lizzie had never been struck before. The shock of it made her furious. She tried to twist and lash out with her feet.
He struck again.
It didn’t really hurt. He intended to humiliate her, to punish her, to throw her into the night clad in slippers and nightrail.
Tears began. The gag choked her, she coughed and could not catch her breath.
The viscount hauled her up to lean against the wall. He removed the gag. “Hush.” Could he say nothing else?
“Don’t,” Lizzie whispered. “I only wanted to keep you safe. Do you want to die like they did?”
Her words gav
“Hush.” As if knowing that stupid word was not enough, he held her to him. Politely. As if she were his maiden aunt, not his wife.
Lizzie buried her face in his coat. His arm snaked under her bottom and he lifted her from her feet.
Drat the man!