The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(67)

Reggie froze. Her fingers curled reflexively around the note given to her by Cleo, and she clung to the name scrawled there to keep from lifting her head.

For the moment she did, it became real. He became real.

“But then,” the owner of that voice taunted, “this would not be the first alcove we’ve stolen within, would it?”

Oh, God. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and blot out that hated voice.

Reggie bolted forward, but his bulky frame blocked the only path to freedom.

The blackhearted devil shot a hand out, catching her upper arm in an unrelenting grip.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out at the pain of that hold.

No. No. No.

“Oh, forgive me.” That purred apology was anything but, husked in lurid tones that had once seduced a younger, more naive, stupider version of herself. Now she sensed the evil contained within. “It’s not Miss Spark, though. Am I correct . . . Miss Marlow?”

Her stomach pitched. I’m going to be ill . . .

Say something. Order him gone. Order him to the Devil.

Her mouth went dry as terror clawed at her mind, robbing her of rational thought.

And by the feral grin on Lord Oliver’s slightly fleshier face, he well knew it and reveled in the upper hand he’d wrested from her.

He raised a hand, and she recoiled, hunching her body protectively.

You little whore . . . you will do whatever I tell you to do . . . and with whomever . . .

With a smirk, the duke brushed a ginger curl back from his brow in an affected gesture.

He was toying with her, as he’d always done.

“Get away from me,” she whispered, and she hated her own inherent weakness for the threadbare quality to that pitiable command.

A flute of champagne dangling between his white-gloved fingers, he swirled the contents in the slightest circle. “Tsk, tsk. And here I’d thought there would be great joy at being reunited with your former love.” He sipped at his drink.

And through the terror and misery of having him step back into her life, a seething and potent fury swept her. A welcome, deserved hatred that shook loose the shock and brought her back up. “What do you want?” she demanded.

He paused; it was an infinitesimal slip of time but one she saw and took strength in.

Reggie wasn’t the young, weak girl she’d once been. Broderick had helped her to see her own strength and worth. She’d not let a cad like Lord Oliver bully her about. Not any longer.

“That’s hardly the greeting for the man you were to marry.”

She seethed. “The man who made me a whore.”

Lord Oliver touched his spare hand to a chest. “You wound me, love.” He lifted his glass and toasted her. “I never made you anything.” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “You saw to that all by yourself.” As casual as if he were raising a lady’s finger for a requisite kiss, he grabbed her right breast, squeezing hard.

Her skin crawled, and for a horrifying moment she was transported back to another time. And she was that small, pathetic creature too afraid to say no to even his filthy touch. Fearing the inevitable backhand. The unexpected fist.

Break and belittle. It had been a tactic he’d wielded with militaristic precision.

It chased off her fear, leaving in its place fury. Color burnt her cheeks. Not this time.

Snarling, Reggie swatted Lord Oliver’s hand, knocking his hold loose. With her opposite palm, she unsheathed her dagger and touched the tip of her blade to his throat.

He blanched, going absolutely still.

And mayhap she’d been shaped in Mac Diggory’s image, for she reveled in the stark terror spilling from his slightly soft frame. “I’ll ask you one more time, what do you want with me?”

Lord Oliver swallowed and forced a chuckle that sent his throat muscles bobbing.

Under that slightest of movements, the lethally sharp tip of her dagger pierced his skin. A single crimson bead wound a trail down his creamy-white flesh, staining his cravat with a minute drop.

“Come now, Regina,” he cajoled, those same tones he’d used when coaxing her out of her virginity. “Surely you don’t intend to slice a duke’s throat in the alcove of another powerful peer.”

“You’re a duke now,” she said dumbly.

“Indeed,” he purred, his relish clear in even that two-syllable reply.

She faltered but made no move to lower her knife. Of course his ascension to a dukedom had been inevitable, but still, this understanding elevated him to all-powerful in ways he hadn’t been before. “I’d rather swing than allow you to hurt me.” Again.

Never again.

“Ah, but what about the family which has taken you in?” Her heart wound a path from her chest, dipping to her stomach, and then crashing to her toes, along with reality. “I, along with all Polite Society, understand Mr. Killoran seeks a proper match for his sister. A scandal in a ballroom between us?” He flashed a wide grin; the cloying hint of garlic and sweetness on his breath set her gut to churning. “Why, I trust that would ruin all hopes. Don’t you?”

Reggie stood immobile, breathing hard and fast. Wanting to tell him to go to the Devil and provide a path for him to get there.

And yet he didn’t threaten her . . . he threatened Broderick and his family.

Silently cursing, she let her arm drop. “What do you want?” she asked succinctly.