Page 45 of Bride of the Fae Duke

Walford’s grip on her throat loosened.

Nellie gulped in a desperate lungful of breath, almost crying with relief. Another impatient ruffle followed, metal on wood. She didn’t dare to flee, didn’t dare to move as her would-be murderer glanced back and forth, visibly hesitating … and then he stepped away from her, raking his red hair in place with a cramping, shaking hand.

‘Not a word,’ he hissed. ‘If you accuse me of a single thing, I’ll tell them you were trying to seduce me. Want to see who they believe: a steward or a housemaid?’

She didn’t have the air to respond, managing half a nod with her fingertips still clinging to the dressing room key. Walford frantically pulled his sleeves back into place and stumbled to the door, just as a third burst of pounding landed against the wood …

Nellie tugged the key from its hole.

And then she was after him.

On the tips of her toes, holding her breath … Past the desk and past her empty trunk. Past her messy bed. Crossing the last open yards separating her from the man who’d tried to murder her a moment ago …

Walford yanked open the door.

Then froze, blinking at the threat waiting for him in the corridor. No Othrys. No guards. Instead, all that stood at the threshold of the room …

Anne, rosy-cheeked and fawn-eyed, a heavy silver candlestick clenched in her trembling fist.

A single moment of stunned paralysis, and Nellie was already moving.

Up swept her arm as she leapt forward, the heavy cast-iron weight lending satisfying heft to the swing. And down, before Walford could recover, before he could turn and realise she was no longer where he’d left her – iron meeting skull in a wet, sickening crack, sending the bastard crumpling to the floor.

She swung again, even while he was still falling.

And again, dropping to her knees beside him.

And again. And again. For Isaure and her drawings, for Colette and her books. Down, down,down– she could no longer stop, the sickening squelches blurring in her ears as rage and vengeance took over. For Jeanne and Alis and Blanche and Rosamund, lying cold in their graves. And for Othrys,alwaysOthrys, dying over and over again …

‘Eleanor!’ a voice bellowed.

She faltered.

The red haze over her eyes lifted.

The clump of red hair and bloodied mush beneath her was barely even recognisable as a head anymore, nothing but a grotesque, misshapen mess. Her hands were covered in blood.So was the key between her fingers,somuch blood, as if the iron itself had started bleeding …

‘Eleanor?’ that same voice said again, more choked now.

It couldn’t be him. It couldn’tpossiblybe. He was celebrating midsummer day with the other nobles of the city and wouldn’t return until hours past midnight, just like every other member of the household … but she looked up, and divines help her, itwasOthrys, standing wide-eyed in the doorway. Blue hair ruffled. Tanned cheeks flushed. One arm around Anne, pressing her face into his coat to shield her from the gore and blood, the other pressed over his mouth, as if to smother his own shocked cries.

‘What in the world,’ he whispered, voice choked, ‘have youdone, Eleanor?’

‘Hello, husband,’ Nellie said, lowering the bloodied key to the floor. A wild, violent grin curled her lips, as heated as the fury thumping through her veins. ‘I broke your curse.’

Chapter 16

Itwassixinthe morning. The sun had set and risen again. Outside, the city had gone exhaustedly quiet after even the most determined merrymakers had finally left for their beds; inside Locke Manor, on the other hand, the constant coming and going of guards and other visitors had not slowed for a heartbeat. Doretha had swept in for a few minutes, confirming the absence of curses. Mrs. Radcliffe, thin-lipped and stiff-shouldered, had appeared to vouch for Nellie’s sanity and sense. A letter by Sir Percival was found among Walford’s private papers, confirming that his former steward was, indeed, his illegitimate son.

And now Nellie was sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs. Hartnell and a cup of warm milk, still shivery despite the balmy night and the blanket an attentive guard had wrapped around her shoulders. Anne had been given a cup of valerian tea and put to bed, but Nellie couldn’t bring herself to go to sleep – not yet, not until …

Othrys.

She rhythmically nodded along with Mrs. Hartnell’s agitated rattling, listening for the shreds of his voice she’d caught from elsewhere in the house all night.

He’d barely exchanged a word with her after ushering her away from Walford’s corpse and calling in the guards – he’d had plenty to do, she supposed, and yet it stung that he was doing it without her. Even if there was not a single reason she would be involved. Even if she knew their marriage was a simple charade and the truth behind the curse would not have changed anything about it.

Even if it seemed rather likely, really, that he was already kicking himself for getting himself stuck with a housemaid, now that it turned out he could have loved anyone he wanted.

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