Page 89 of The Duke of Kisses
Chapter 16
“Just tilt your head back a little. Show me a bit more neck. There you are.”
Fanny’s neck was beginning to hurt from sitting in this position for so long. It had to be going on an hour since she sat down. “I need a respite,” she said, standing up.
“No, no, I’m making excellent progress. Please sit.” He waved his brush at her. “I only need a few more minutes before I’ll be finished.”
Finished? Fanny was fairly certain paintings took several sittings and countless hours. “How can that be?” She moved her head from side to side in an effort to ease her aching muscles. “I think we need to be done for today. I should get back to Stour’s Edge.” She started forward, curious to look at the canvas and see just how far he’d gotten.
His brows darted low over his eyes. “No, you mustn’t. Sit down. Please.”
“Mr. Langley, please understand. I’m tired, and I wish to go.” She kept moving toward the canvas, and he leapt up, startling her with the quickness of his movement. She caught sight of what he’d painted, and terror seized her heart.
It was, in fact, nearly finished, but it wasn’t any sort of painting she’d ever seen. It was of a body lying in a pool of what must be blood, the woman’s neck sliced across into a gaping wound. The woman’s features were muddied—indeed, everything about her was somewhat indistinct. Except for her hair, which was the exact color of Fanny’s, and the dress, which was a dark blue like Fanny’s riding habit.
Gasping, she tried to run past him back to the front of the house, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. He lifted his right hand, and she realized, too late, that he’d exchanged his paintbrush for a knife. Panic leapt up her throat.
His lips drew back to reveal his teeth. “I’m going to carve you up just like your filthy uncle.”
Dear God, what had he done to Great-uncle George? She somehow managed to find her voice. “You killed him?”
“After he brought my poor sister back.” Mr. Langley’s eyes were wild, his lips parted as he breathed heavily. “He’d killed her. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d ruined her. He killed her too.” Tears ran down his cheeks even as his grip on Fanny’s forearm tightened to an excruciating degree.
“Please let me go,” she begged. “I had nothing to do with my great-uncle.”
“I can’t let you marry David. It would be a blight on our family to allow it. Why couldn’t you have listened to Anne and just left him alone?”
Anne… Was that David’s mother? And Mr. Langley somehow knew that she’d threatened Fanny? Had they plotted this together? Did David’s mother know his uncle wanted to kill her? Her fear melded with anguish and desperation.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, trying in vain to escape his grasp.
“It’s already done, dear.” He brought the knife down.
Screaming, Fanny reached for the palette with her free hand. She threw it in his face, splashing paint all over him.
His hold loosened, and she nearly pulled free, but he jerked her back towards him, bringing her face terribly close to his. His lips curled, revealing his teeth again in a ferocious sneer. He brought the knife down as Fanny reached toward the painting table, her fingers searching for any weapon she could find.
The movement brought her out of the direct path of the knife, but it sliced across her right shoulder. Her hand closed around a bottle. She picked it up and turned, smashing it against his head with all her might. The glass shattered, and she kept a hold of the neck, which now had a jagged edge. He staggered back, at last letting her go.
She turned to run, but he grabbed at her dress from behind, sending her tumbling to the floor. The impact sent pain radiating through her shoulder.
She managed to turn over as he lunged toward her. She slid to the right and sliced the broken bottle at his neck. The horrid feeling of the glass slicing through his flesh made her drop the bottle. He pitched forward, and she rolled away from his flailing body.
Without a backward glance, she scrambled to her feet and ran for the door to the front room. She felt as though she were running in place, but somehow got the door open and stumbled outside into the bright sunlight.
The horses were nowhere to be seen, and she practically fell down the steps in her haste. Her vision was hazy, and nausea rose in her belly. Doubling over, she violently cast up her accounts.
She didn’t dare stay here. Forcing herself to move, she ran toward the copse of trees. But she was disoriented and so very sick. As she reached the trees, she tripped, sprawling face-first onto the ground. Pain shot through her as nausea threatened once more.
She had to get up, had tomove. But she couldn’t. Blackness rose and swallowed her whole.
* * *
The trees and fields went by David in a blur. He didn’t pay attention to whether West or the Snowdens kept up with him. He had one goal: to reach Fanny.
He had no idea what was going on, but whoever had pretended to be him couldn’t mean well. Unfortunately, David could only think of a few people that would lure her to the hunting lodge…and that broke his heart.
Urging his horse faster, he finally crested the knoll that would lead him down to the lodge. Smoke curled above the trees. Whoever was there had built a fire. Good, maybe it was something innocent.
