Page 15 of My Dark Duke

Lillian scrunched her eyes so tightly against the memory of that night that she saw stars, but she could not ward off the memories.

Mr Hope had stepped inside to the kitchen, ostensibly to discuss Lillian’s future. Old Lord Bailey had been generous to allow Lillian to stay on so long after her father’s passing, the new baron might not be that way inclined. She was a burden, a dependent on the estate’s coffers and a distantly related one at that.

Lillian had been startled by his words. Not because she had not been expecting them - she had known she would have to leave when old Lord Bailey passed - but because they had come so soon. The baron must not have even been cold, when Mr Hope had come to seek her out.

“His Lordship might allow you to stay, should you decide to prove yourself useful to him,” Mr Hope had finished, his watery eyes watching her closely.

Though he had made no untoward moves, or said anything particularly debased, Lillian had understood exactly what he had meant.

She had tilted her chin defiantly and glared at the odious Mr Hope, so he would know just how little thought of him.

“I would rather choke,” she had snapped, which, in hindsight, had been a poor choice of words.

Mr Hope had lunged for her and grabbed her by the neck. Lillian still recalled being momentarily frozen by shock, until his hands at her throat had begun to constrict.

“Stuck-up little madame,” Mr Hope had growled, as the air had left Lillian’s lungs.

He had pushed her against the wrought-iron stove and the heat from the dwindling fire within had burned through her skirts, igniting her will to live.

She had grappled behind her for something - anything - with which to defend herself. Her hand had clasped the handle of the cast-iron kettle and she had lifted it and swung it at Mr Hope’s head.

The first blow had stunned him. The second blow had forced him into retreat. The third blow…

Lillian curled into a ball and drew the blankets tightly around her, as she recalled how the third blow had toppled Mr Hope over, so that he fell backwards, his head hitting the flagstone floor with a nauseous crack.

Silence had then filled the kitchen, a deathly one.

Mr Hope had lain on the tiled floor, completely still. For a moment, she had watched him, searching for signs of life, before panic had taken hold. She had killed a man, worse, she had killed Lord Bailey’s man. There was no familial love there; he would make certain that she was punished. Her pleas of self-defence would fall on deaf ears.

Lord Bailey would gladly inform the authorities that Lillian had attacked Mr Hope whilst being evicted. He would paint her as mad, as a deranged woman fit for Bedlam - and he would be listened to, for the word of a man - a titled one at that - was worth far more than the word of a woman.

She had to leave. Despite her panic, she had seen that there was no other way. She had to flee.

It had taken her no more than a quarter of an hour to pack what she needed into a battered portmanteau. Some clothes and undergarments, a bonnet and a mob cap, her mother’s locket, her father’s Bible, and the remaining moneys from the tithes her father had collected before his untimely death.

After that, she had left, without a backward glance at the house she had called home for the entirety of her twenty years on earth.

Though the road had been cloaked in darkness, she had traveled along it with ease. When the morning’s light had broken, a farmer on his way to Maidstone had offered her a lift, and from there she had caught the stagecoach to London.

She had lived in a daze ever since, her mind heavy and muddled, as she trudged her way through each new day. The only moments of brilliant clarity had occurred in the presence of the duke. His presence was too commanding to escape even Lillian’s notice; his cruel beauty demanded attention.

Was Thorncastle the answer to her current predicament? He had offered to house her, to protect her, to care for her - for a price, of course.

Lillian had a vague idea of what it was that happened between a man and woman in the bedchamber, but she had never imagined herself partaking in the act - especially with a man who was not her husband.

Her earlier chills subsided, as she recalled her embrace with the duke. As she recalled the feel of his body against hers, she became warm and flustered, as that same strange ache sprang to life between her legs. If Thorncastle was the only one who could soothe that longing, perhaps he could soothe her other longings too?

A safe house, a warm bed, a few weeks rest for the bone-crushing weariness which followed her…

The door to the room creaked open and Lillian heard the sound of Sally’s footsteps pattering across the wooden floor. The other woman made minimal noise, as she changed into her night garments and crawled into the bed beside Lillian.

“Night, Mary,” Sally whispered, so low Lillian guessed she assumed her already sleeping.

Earlier she had been convinced she would not sleep through the night, but as Sally’s breaths slowed and steadied, Lillian found herself lulled by the comforting sound of another at rest.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment, she thought, as the heaviness of her eyelids became too great to fight against.

As she drifted into unconsciousness, Lillian imagined a strong pair of arms holding her.

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