The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(69)

And through her terror came the realization. “You need me to be silent,” she murmured.

It was empowering, having something this man sought . . . and needed. It gave her strength and made her more than the downtrodden, spiritless girl she’d once been. He caught her by the throat, crushing her scream into silence. With a bored air, he backed her against the wall.

Reggie clawed at his hands as he clenched and unclenched his fist, that merciless game where he teased her with her own air.

“Every fist you ever took was because you were deserving of it.”

Look what you made me do . . . This is all your fault . . .

Struggling to drag a breath of air into her lungs, she searched for her knife, but he slammed his body into hers, quelling her efforts.

“Let me be clear, Regina,” he whispered against her ear. “I intend to marry Killoran’s sister.” He gave her throat another squeeze, emphasizing that point and promise. “And if you say so much as a word, then I’ll see your employer, Mr. Killoran, knows precisely the manner of woman he’s entrusted his sister’s care to.” He released her, and she collapsed against the wall, dragging air into her lungs. “Tell me, do you think he’ll prove so magnanimous toward a whore who’s threatened his sister’s reputation and stood between that sister and the title of duchess?”

With that last taunt, he left.





Chapter 18

Ticktock. Ticktock. The end is coming. Make no mistake of it.

It had taken mere moments after their arrival for one fact to become indefatigably clear to Broderick—Reggie’s gown had been a mistake.

It hadn’t been an error because she was in any way undeserving of the fine French satin . . . but because it had done precisely as she’d predicted: it had earned her the attention of every rake, rogue, scoundrel, and cad present.

Including me.

By God, I am my father in every way. A bastard whose treachery against Lord Andover and his household had revealed not only a thief but also a man who’d taken his pleasures amongst the earl’s staff while holding the threat of a sacking over them if they didn’t fulfill his wishes.

Loathing for the depraved bastard who’d sired him rooted around his insides, as sharp now as it had been years earlier when he’d learned the extent of his father’s failings . . . and evil.

Standing on the fringes of the ballroom, a glass of champagne held forgotten between his fingers, he looked around.

Where in blazes had she gone?

Across the dance floor, he did a purposeful sweep for her.

Nor did his worry stem from the fact that Reggie Spark had become an opponent to be carefully watched and her actions monitored—at all times.

Rather, Broderick’s irrational response was born from a primal jealousy at the way those bloody nobs had leered at her all evening.

Because of me. I’m the damned one who insisted on—

“Searching for someone?”

He cursed, spilling the contents of his glass, and faced an amused Cleo.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

A servant rushed over, relieved him of the empty flute, and darted off. Waving off the next footman who came bearing a silver tray of champagne, Broderick tugged out his kerchief and dusted off his fingers.

His sister arched an eyebrow.

“Where’s Regina?” he demanded.

“What . . . ?”

“Don’t play games with me.” He’d seen her not even twenty minutes ago taking a turn about the damned floor with Reggie. He, however, had mistakenly relaxed his guard, trusting Cleo would cut any gent who came near. She’d gone soft. “You were far better at subterfuge before you married,” he muttered.

“Lost ’er, did ya, guvnor,” she taunted, and heat crept up his ears.

Actually, he had. Somewhere between her stroll with Cleo and his exchange with the Dowager Duchess of Argyll, who’d sprung Ophelia from Newgate.

Suspicion darkened Cleo’s eyes. “Why does it matter where she’s gone off to? Reggie ain’t one who’d run around the host’s home filching finery.”

He bristled. “Of course she’s not.” No, Reggie had always possessed a gentility that made her better matched to a ballroom than a gaming hell. Who had she been before they’d met? He’d always simply accepted that her secrets were her own, but now . . . he wanted to know. Broderick raised a hand, briefly concealing his mouth. “Have you not noticed how they’re eyeing her?”

Cleo blinked slowly. “Who?”

Bloody hell. She required new spectacles. “The damned gents present. They’re ogling her.” He gnashed his teeth. Or they had been before she’d gone and sneaked off.

His sister whistled. “Ya’re mad. There weren’t nobody ’ere eyeing Reggie.”

Broderick had noted the bounders the minute she’d descended the damned staircase and the candles’ glow had toyed with the lustrous strands of her crimson curls. “Oh, trust me,” he gritted out. “They were.”

His sister emitted a snorting sound.

His frown deepened. “Do you find something amusing? I know what I saw.” Broderick jerked his chin in the direction of one of their best patrons, a consummate rogue and dedicated gambler. “Lord Cavendish played the devoted brother and joined his sister and the young lady’s companion.”