Page 97 of Better Love Next Time
Cyril wrenched her up.
Air roared into her lungs. She screamed to Clara. “Run! Ruuuuuunnn!”
“You will never marry my boy,” the earl said, “do you understand? He is reckless and headstrong and defies me at every turn, but he is my son. And I know what is best for him. And you, girl, will bring him, our family, nothing but trouble. What do you think would happen to my eldest son’s political career if it were known there was a Catholic whore in our family?”
“M-My lord, I attend the Anglican service.”
“Again, Cyril.”
Kitty filled her lungs. Cyril shoved her under again.
Clarity flowed within her. Real courage is going forward when the outcome is uncertain, Julian had once said.You have shown great courage.
She pursed her lips. She exhaled, a bubble at a time. She concentrated on her raging heart. She tried to slow its pace. She relaxed her limbs, wasted no energy. What did the earl want? For her to agree not to marry his son. She could agree to anything. It wasn’t binding. This was her life. And agreeing would save her child.
Cyril hauled her up. She choked on the intrusion of air.
“Miss Babbington?” the earl asked, almost kindly.
“I—I will not marry him.”I love you, Julian. I will never forsake you.
“Excellent. Give me your ring.”
I love you, Julian.This means nothing. You know you are in my heart forever, and we will be together.
She yanked the ring from her finger. The earl plucked it away.
“And while we are on the topic of your filthy idolatry, and you so courteous to oblige my fatherly entreaties, allow me to provide more incentive to keep your smutty person from my Andrew, besides your own life. Father Dunlevy. Do you know what will happen to your priest when he is reported?”
Hot tears shocked her cold cheeks. She shook her head, tears marking tiny circles in the water waiting below.
“Perpetual imprisonment, if not death. You would feel terribly guilty wouldn’t you, sending your confessor to his end? And if you do not comply, if you relay to my boy, any of this, you will go to your maker, knowing you have condemned a man to death. Take her to the blanket.”
Cyril pulled her to her feet, dragging her toward the blanket. Clara was gone. The footmen were gone. Upon the blanket sat a lap desk with quill and ink. A towel was shoved at her chest. She was ordered to dry herself and then shoved down to the blanket.
Cyril placed a paper on the desk and inked the quill, opened her fingers, and placed it in her hand.
The earl’s cigar glowed in the twilight, lighting his eyes a devilish black. “You will write what I say to the letter. Dear Julian…”
Kitty wrote out the words as commanded, praying Julian would see immediately that they were not her words. Not the opening and certainly not the ending of sincerely. She wept quietly at the words, what they would do to her love when he read them. If she could not tell him they were lies, he would hate her forever for the agony they created. It would break his heart. His beautiful, independent, stubborn heart.
Cyril took the finished letter and handed it to his lord, who skimmed the page, stuck the cigar in his teeth, and folded it. Eyes narrowed to lifeless slits, the sheer power of his position was forged in every cruel plane of his aging face, in every line of his lean form.
“Well done, girl.” He looked to Cyril. “Kill her.”
“No!” Kitty scrambled on all fours across the blanket, clutching his leg. “My lord, I am with child. Your son’s child. Please. I beg you! Have mercy. Save my child!”
He threw his cigar at her skirt, embers sparking and dying on the pink wool. He kicked his leg free. “Your pleas have no bearing on my decision.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Present Day
Grosvenor Square, London
Julian feignedhis attention on the yellow-haired courtesan relaying a lengthy tale on a subject he could not recall because his mind was on the black-haired widow across the room in Anthony Philips’s London home, Lady Louisa Daniels.
He was being methodical about this.
