It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(99)

Though she still couldn’t clearly see the expression on St. Vincent’s face, she heard the gravely apologetic note in his voice. “I had no choice in the manner of your delivery, darling, or I would have made certain that you had been treated more gently. All I was told was that if I wanted you, I should come to collect you without delay, else you would be disposed of in some other manner. Knowing the countess, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had elected to drown you like a cat in a sack.”

“Countess,” Lillian repeated faintly, still finding it difficult to maneuver her thick, swollen tongue. Saliva kept flooding her mouth, an aftereffect of the ether. “West-cliff …tell him…” Oh, how she wanted Marcus. She wanted his deep voice and loving hands, and the hard warmth of his body against hers. But Marcus didn’t know where she was, or what had happened to her.

“You’ve met with a change of fate, my pet,” St. Vincent said softly, stroking her hair again. It seemed that he could read her thoughts. “There’s no point in asking for Westcliff …you’re out of his reach now.”

Lillian floundered and strained to sit up, but all she succeeded in was nearly rolling onto the floor of the carriage.

“Easy,” St. Vincent murmured, holding her in place with only the lightest pressure on her shoulders. “You’re not ready to sit on your own yet. No, don’t. You’ll make yourself ill.”

Though she despised herself for it, Lillian couldn’t prevent a whimper of distress as she collapsed back into his lap, her head falling weakly against his thigh. “What are you doing?” she managed to ask, panting for breath and striving to keep down her gorge. “Where are we going?”

“To Gretna Green. We’re going to marry, sweet.”

It was difficult to think past the nausea and the instant panic. “I won’t cooperate,” Lillian finally whispered, swallowing and swallowing.

“I’m afraid you will,” he replied evenly. “I know of several methods to solicit your participation, though I would prefer not to cause you unnecessary pain. And after the ceremony, an expedient consummation will make the union permanent.”

“Westcliff won’t accept it,” she croaked. “No matter what you do. He’ll…he’ll take me away from you.”

St. Vincent’s voice was soft. “He will have no legal right to you by then, sweet. And I’ve known him far longer than you have, which is why I know that he won’t want you after I’ve taken you.”

“Not if it’s rape,” Lillian choked, flinching as she felt the easy slide of his palm over her shoulder. “He wouldn’t blame me.”

“It won’t be rape,” St. Vincent said gently. “If I know one thing, darling, it’s how to…well, I won’t boast. But rather than quibble over technicalities, I can assure you that although Westcliff won’t blame you, neither will he chance the possibility of his wife giving birth to another man’s bastard. Nor would he be able to accept a woman who has been defiled. He will—with reluctance, of course—inform you that it would probably be best for all parties concerned to leave things as they are. And then he’ll go on to marry the proper English girl that he should have chosen in the first place. Whereas you”—his finger traced the curve of her trembling cheek— “will do just fine for me. I daresay your family will reconcile themselves to me fairly soon. They’re the sort to make a virtue of necessity.”

Lillian did not happen to agree with his analysis, at least where Marcus was concerned. She had a good deal more faith in his loyalty than that. However, it wasn’t a theory that she cared to test—especially the unwilling consummation part. She lay still for a long minute, discovering to her relief that her vision was clearing, and her nausea had eased slightly, though the pools of bitter saliva kept collecting in her mouth. Now that her initial confusion and the first flush of panic were over, she was able to harness her sluggish mind sufficiently to think. Though part of her longed to explode with rage, she couldn’t see much benefit for herself in that. Much better to recover her wits, and try to think rationally.

“I want to sit up,” she said flatly.

St. Vincent seemed admiring and surprised by her calmness. “Slowly, then, and allow me to support you until you get your bearings.”

Showers of white and blue sparks veiled Lillian’s vision as she felt him maneuver her until she was braced in the corner of the carriage. More saliva, a surge of weakness, and then she managed to collect herself. Her dress was unfastened, she saw, with the front gaping open to the waist to reveal the crumpled chemise underneath. Her heart kicked anxiously at the discovery, and she tried unsuccessfully to tug the edges of the gown together. Her accusing gaze lifted to St. Vincent’s face. His expression was grave, but his eyes were light and smiling. “No, I haven’t ravished you,” he murmured. “Yet. I prefer my victims to be conscious. However, your breathing was weak, and I feared the mixture of an ether overdose and a very tight corset might be the finish of you. I removed the corset, but I couldn’t quite fasten your gown.”

“More water,” Lillian said raspily, and took a cautious sip from the leather skin that he handed to her. She stared at St. Vincent stonily, searching for any vestige of the charming companion she had known at Stony Cross Park. All she could see were the dispassionate eyes of a man who would hesitate at nothing to get what he wanted. He possessed no principles, no sense of honor, no human weakness. She could cry, scream, beg, and none of it would move him. He would stop at nothing, even rape, to achieve his ends.