Page 174 of Harpy of the Ton
He began to drag her toward the carriage. “I’ll take you in there,” he said. “No need to wait until our wedding night to claim you as mine.” Bella kicked out, but he merely chuckled. “I shall enjoy breaking you.”
“Sir!” Thomas cried. “Someone’s coming.”
Bella glanced up to see a second carriage approach. Dunton squeezed her wrist until she could feel the bones crunching.
“Say nothing, Arabella, or you’ll regret it.”
The carriage slowed to a halt. Then the door opened, and a man climbed out.
Hope swelled within her—any reasonable creature would listen to her plight.
The man leaned into the carriage. “Remain inside until I say otherwise,” he said. Then he approached, and Bella’s hope died.
It was the Duke of Whitcombe—a man who loathed her.
He stared at her, the familiar sneer on his lips. “Dunton,” he said. “What have we here?”
“My wayward fiancée, as you see.”
Whitcombe lowered his gaze to Bella’s torn neckline before resuming his attention on her, his expression cold and hard.
“Your Grace, please,” Bella said. “I—”
“Be quiet,” Dunton said, tightening his grip. “Whitcombe, I’m afraid my fiancée is suffering from a fit of nerves. But she’s under my control now.”
Whitcombe lowered his gaze to Dunton’s hand still gripping Bella’s wrist. “So I see.”
“The little slut thought she could elude me,” Dunton continued. “You know how women are like.”
“Yes, Dunton,” Whitcombe said icily. “I knowexactlywhat women are like. And Lady Arabella deserves to be in her rightful place.”
Bella’s gut twisted with horror. “Please…”
“Hush, my dear,” Dunton said. “Did you not hear what Whitcombe said?”
“Help Millie, at least, Your Grace, if you won’t help me,” Bella said.
Whitcombe glanced toward Millie, who’d begun to stir in Thomas’s arms. Then the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
Bella’s fear gave way to indignation. “You find her predicament amusing?” she said. “Millie is my friend. And even if she is a whore, better that than a duke with no morals who believes that his title gives him the right to destroy the lives of others!”
“Then you don’t love this man?” Whitcombe asked.
Bella glanced at Dunton, then let out a laugh. “Of course not. Iloathehim! You dare ask me about love when you don’t understand the word?”
“And you do?” Whitcombe asked.
“I understand more about love than you ever will.”
“Then tell me,” Whitcombe said. “Tell me whom you love.”
She tilted her chin up and fixed him with a glare. “You deserve no such consideration.”
“Damn you, woman!” Whitcombe said. “Tell me or I’ll leave you to rot as Dunton’s duchess.”
“Very well, if you require satisfaction then you shall have it,” she replied. “I love a gardener—someone you’d call afilthy peasant. And though he may hate me, I love him, and I always will. And I’d rather be alone for the rest of my days, because I cannot begin to imagine loving another when my heart belongs to him. Now please, let me go.”
Whitcombe glanced toward the carriage, then his mouth curved into a smile. “You can come out now!”
