Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(15)

Her wide, green eyes, vibrant in this sleeping garden of drab browns and withered moss, plumbed his. “You must know that I haven’t a choice, Your Grace. If you are a dishonest man, no pain you could visit upon me would surpass that which I’ve already endured. Forgive me for my honesty, but you are the lesser of all evils, as far as I can discern.”

Her gaze didn’t flinch from his, and he knew then that some of the enigma that was Daisy Vanreid had been revealed to him. An unfamiliar sensation, troubling and tense, rose within him as full realization settled. There was only one conclusion here that made sense.

Gently, he touched her elbow, not wishing to cause her further distress. “Has your father hit you, sweet?”

She looked away in a clear sign that he had guessed correctly. “Of course he hasn’t.”

“Miss Vanreid,” he pressed, catching her stubborn chin and guiding her face back to his. “Daisy. If I’m to help you, then you must be honest with me. Has your father inflicted violence upon you?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes.” Shame steeped her tone.

There it was again, that coiled sensation in his chest. The tightening in his gut. A grim, raw fury lit within him. Her father had struck her. More than once. He’d caused her pain, done her violence. A primitive urge to defend her rose, battling to supremacy over every other emotion. Even over his work as a spy. He didn’t question it. Didn’t think twice.

“He will never raise a hand to you again once you’re my wife,” he vowed, his voice shaking with the furor trapped inside him. “This I swear. Nor will I ever abuse you in any fashion.”

These were promises he could make her.

Jesus, they were the only promises he could make her.

Miss Vanreid—the vibrant, flirtatious beauty who had never stepped down or batted a lash since he’d been watching her—trembled beneath his touch. The cynic in him reminded him that it could all be a ruse. Someone as bold and laissez-faire with her reputation as she was seemed at odds with the vulnerable, frightened woman before him now.

His training, however, led him to believe in her sincerity. Perhaps the true act was the Daisy Vanreid she showed the world, because inside she was terrified and desperate to escape her father’s clutches. So desperate she’d throw herself into the arms of any man who’d catch her.

“I can’t be certain he will allow a union between us, Your Grace,” she whispered, as though she feared her aunt could somehow distinguish their dialogue even from within the elegant townhouse at their backs. “For some reason, he has been determined that I should marry the Viscount Breckly. Aunt Caroline says they’ve reached an understanding for my hand. The announcement of the betrothal was only awaiting my father’s arrival.”

There was something suspicious indeed about Vanreid’s determination to wed his sole daughter to an aging reprobate. He would hazard a guess that the impetus had something to do with Breckly’s ancestral estate in Ireland. He was quite an influential man in his home country. Clearly, Sebastian would need to further investigate the connection between the two men.

Miss Vanreid seemed to be the sacrificial lamb binding them. And reluctantly from the looks of things. He couldn’t blame her. No one as lovely, youthful, and alluring as she ought to be saddled with an elderly oaf for a husband. The mere thought of Breckly in her bed was enough to make Sebastian bilious.

“I find it curious that you believe your father would prefer a mere viscount to a duke who is much nearer in age to you.” He searched her expression for any sign that she knew more than she let on.

But her mossy eyes never wavered from his. “As do I, Your Grace. There seems to be a reason for my father’s preference in suitor, but I cannot think of anything to recommend Lord Breckly at all.”

“Nor can I.” He noticed that a small tendril of hair had willfully escaped from her coif to curl against her ear, and before he even realized what he was about, he caught it in his fingers. It was every bit as silky and soft as he’d imagined it would be, and damned if he didn’t conjure up an image of her with her hair unbound, those golden waves falling past her shoulders. Nude. In his bed.

Good God.

He went rigid in his trousers. It was an effect she seemed to regularly have on him. One that he couldn’t control regardless of the serious nature of his assignment or the fact that he still couldn’t trust her and had no intention of being a true husband to her. The sooner they could be granted an annulment, the better. But first he had to manage to marry her.

“I don’t want to marry Lord Breckly,” she said suddenly. “My father… when he returns, I don’t know what he will do.”

Her words effectively chilled his ardor. He tucked the errant curl behind her ear, severing their physical connection, for it clouded his judgment. “Do you have reason to fear him?”

She closed her eyes, her breath hitching. Her lids fluttered open again, unshed tears glistening and turning her eyes an even brighter shade of green. “I cannot be here when he returns. I won’t. Neither will I marry Lord Breckly. I will do anything, Your Grace. Anything.”

Her vehemence struck a chord within him. The truth was that Carlisle had procured a marriage license by registrar. The cagey bastard had already had it in hand before he’d even deigned to inform Sebastian of the necessity for marrying Miss Vanreid. It would never cease to amaze him just how much could be accomplished—how many laws and rules could be ignored, cast aside, and broken—in the name of keeping England safe. The League was shadowy yet omnipotent.