A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(81)

“Well, there is,” he murmured. “But there won’t be.”
So he planned to kill her, then. Anne supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.
“But don’t worry,” George added, almost casually. “It won’t be quick.”
“You are mad,” Anne whispered.
He grabbed her, his fingers grasping the fabric of her bodice and yanking her until they were nearly nose to nose. “If I am,” he hissed, “it is because of you.”
“You brought this on yourself,” she shot back.
“Oh, really?” he spat, tossing her back against the far wall of the carriage. “I did this.” He motioned sarcastically to his face. “I took a knife and sliced myself up, making a monster of—”
“Yes!” she cried out. “You did! You were a monster before I ever touched you. I was only trying to defend myself.”
He snorted with disdain. “You had already spread your legs for me. You don’t get to say no after you’ve done it once.”
She gaped at him. “You really believe that?”
“You liked it the first time.”
“I thought you loved me!”
He shrugged. “That’s your stupidity, not mine.” But then he turned sharply, regarding her with an expression that approached glee. “Oh, my,” he said, grinning with the worst sort of schadenfreude. “You did it again, didn’t you? You let Winstead plow you. Tsk tsk tsk. Oh, Annie, haven’t you learned anything?”
“He asked me to marry him,” she said, eyes narrowing.
George burst into raucous laughter. “And you believed him?”
“I said yes.”
“I’m sure you thought you did.”
Anne tried to take a deep breath, but her teeth were clenched so hard together that she shook when she tried to draw air. She was so . . . bloody . . . angry. Gone was the fear, the apprehension, the shame. Instead all she felt was blood-boiling fury. This man had stolen eight years of her life. He had made her scared, and he had made her lonely. He had taken the innocence of her body, and he had smashed the innocence of her spirit. But this time, he was not going to win.
She was finally happy. Not just secure, not even just content, but happy. She loved Daniel, and by some miracle he loved her in return. Her future spread before her in lovely sunrise shades of pink and orange, and she could actually see herself—with Daniel, with laughter, with children. She was not giving that up. Whatever her sins, she had long since paid for them.
“George Chervil,” she said, her voice strangely calm, “you are a blight on humanity.”
He looked at her with mild curiosity, then shrugged, turning back to the window.
“Where are we going?” she asked again.
“It’s not far.”
Anne looked out her own window. They were moving much faster now than when she’d pushed Frances from the carriage. She did not recognize the area, but she thought they were heading north. Or at least mostly north. They’d long since left behind Regent’s Park, and although she’d never taken the girls there, she knew that it was located north of Marylebone.
The carriage kept up its brisk pace, slowing just enough at intersections for Anne to read some of the signs on the shops. Kentish Town, one of them said. She’d heard of that. It was a village on the outskirts of London. George had said they weren’t going far, and maybe that was true. But still, Anne did not think there was any way that anyone would find her before George tried to carry out his plan. She did not think he had said anything in front of Frances that might indicate where they were going, and in any case, the poor girl would surely be a wreck by the time she reached home.
If Anne was going to be saved, she would have to do it herself.
“It is time to be your own heroine,” she whispered.
“What was that?” George said in a bored voice.
“Nothing.” But inside, her brain was spinning. How would she do this? Was there any sense in planning, or would she need to wait and see how events unfolded? It was hard to know just how she might escape without first seeing the lay of the land.
George turned toward her with growing suspicion. “You look rather intent,” he said.
She ignored him. What were his weaknesses? He was vain—how might she use that to her advantage?
“What are you thinking about?” he demanded.
She smiled secretly. He did not like to be ignored—that, too, might be useful.
“Why are you smiling?” he screamed.
She turned, her expression carefully constructed to appear as if she’d only just heard him. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”
“What am I up to? I’m sitting in a carriage being kidnapped. What are you up to?”
A muscle in his good cheek began to twitch. “Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice.”
She shrugged, accompanying the motion with a dismissive roll of her eyes. He would hate that.
“You’re planning something,” he accused.
She shrugged again, deciding that with George, most anything that worked once would work even better the second time.
She was right. His face grew mottled with rage, sending his scar into sharp white contrast with his skin. It was gruesome to watch, and yet she could not tear her eyes away.
George caught her staring and grew even more agitated. “What are you planning?” he demanded, his hand shaking with fury as he jabbed her with his forefinger.
“Nothing,” she said quite honestly. Nothing specific at least. Right now all she was doing was setting him on edge. And it was working beautifully.