Caraval (Caraval, #1)(68)

“No,” Scarlett said. “You will not touch him again, because I will not do another thing unless you release him this moment.”

Scarlett turned to the count. He did not appear as if he was enjoying this. Wrinkles marred his perfect forehead. But he did nothing to stop the governor, and just the sight of him, standing there in his crimson cravat and silver boots, made her ill to her core.

Tella had been right. You think your marriage is going to save you, but what if the count is as bad as Father, or worse?

Scarlett didn’t know if Count d’Arcy was actually worse than her father, but in that moment he felt just as vile. He no longer held her hand softly as he had in the haberdashery; his grip was firm, assured. The count had more strength than he let on. He had the power to stop this if he desired.

“If you let this happen”—Scarlett paused to meet the count’s eye, searching for a trace of the young man she’d exchanged so many letters with—“if you use the threat of his punishment to control me, I will never obey or respect you. But if you let him go, if you show some of the humanity I read in your letters, I will be the perfect wife you paid for.” She recalled Julian’s words in the tunnel and added, “Do you really want a bride who will only sleep with you because another man will be tortured if she doesn’t?”

The count’s face flushed. Scarlett’s heart beat faster with every darkening shade on his visage. Frustration. Embarrassment. Wounded pride.

“Let him go,” the count grit out. “Or our deal is over.”

“But—”

“I won’t argue this.” The count’s elegant voice turned rough. “I just want this done.”

Governor Dragna did not look pleased to part with a toy he’d barely played with. Yet to Scarlett’s surprise, he released Julian without further argument, shoving him toward the door. “You heard him. Leave.”

“Crimson, don’t do this for me.” Julian shot a pleading look toward Scarlett. “You can’t give yourself to him. I don’t care about what happens to me.”

“But I care,” Scarlett said, and though she wanted to look at Julian’s beautiful face one last time, to show him how she thought he was the furthest thing from a scoundrel or a liar, she didn’t dare meet his eyes. “Now, please, leave, before you make this harder.”





30

The crooked halls of La Serpiente felt shorter than Scarlett remembered. Already she and Count d’Arcy were on the fourth floor, right outside her door.

There were so many ways her plan could go wrong.

The count held her glass key, but he looked down at her before placing it in the lock. “Scarlett, I want you to know, this wasn’t how I intended things to be between us. What happened in those tunnels, that wasn’t me.” His eye met hers, far gentler than the way he’d looked at her in the hat shop. For a moment she could almost see something beneath his over-polished appearance, as if it was just another type of coat he wore for show, and in reality, he was as trapped as she was. “This marriage is very important to me. The thought of losing you made me go a little mad. By the time we were in the tunnels I wasn’t thinking clearly. But things will be different once we’re married. I’ll make you happy, I promise.”

With his free hand the count brushed the silver lock of hair from her face, and for a dreadful moment Scarlett feared he was going to lean down and kiss her. It took every ounce of strength she’d gained this last week not to run, or cringe.

“I believe you,” Scarlett said. Though no words could have been further from the truth. She knew what happened in the tunnels could drive people to madness, twist their fear to make them do things—or allow things—they might not normally. But even if he kept her safe from this point on and never lifted a finger against her, no universe existed where Count Nicolas d’Arcy would ever make Scarlett happy. Not when the only person she wanted to be with was Julian.

Fear clutched her insides as the count opened the door to her room.

Again, she thought of all the ways her plan could go wrong.

She could have misread Julian.

Julian could have misread her.

Her father could come back and listen on the other side of the door—she’d heard of such deplorable things happening.

Her palms grew sweaty as she followed the count into the heated chamber. The massive bed, which had looked so inviting the first time she’d seen it, now looked like a silent threat. Its four wooden posts made her think of a cage. She imagined the count drawing the curtains and trapping her inside. She glanced at the wardrobe, hoping Julian would appear from the hidden door on the other side, or possibly burst out from inside. It was large enough to hold a person. But the doors were shut, and they remained that way.

It was only Scarlett and the count and the bed.

Now that it was just the two of them, the count moved differently. His overbred sophistication was completely gone, replaced with clinical precision, as if this were a business matter he needed to wrap up.

He took off his gloves first, dropping them on the floor. Then he began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, creating tiny pops that made Scarlett want to retch. She couldn’t do this.

Watching her father hurt Julian, Scarlett had finally understood what Julian had been trying to tell her in the tunnels earlier. She had grown up thinking her father’s abuse had been her fault—the result of what happened when she made a mistake. But now she could clearly see: Her father was responsible. Nobody deserved his punishments.