Page 47 of Harpy of the Ton
She shook her head. Perhaps there was a reason why her memory was yet to return. Her life was so dreadful that her mind, in an act of kindness, had obliterated it.
But now it was before her, in all its horror.
“Come on, love,” he said.
“Sweet Lord!” she cried. “Can’t you say anything other thancome on, love? Is your command of the English language so restricted?”
He chuckled and steered her toward the door. “Come on, love—your palace awaits.”
Curse him!He was goading her.
But she wouldn’t rise to it. Summoning as much dignity—and courage—as she could muster, she entered the cottage.
A narrow hallway awaited her, with a door either side and a tiny staircase at the end. The Beast led her through the first door, into a parlor—or something resembling a parlor. It was a small, low-ceilinged room filled with mismatched furniture—a sofa that looked on the brink of collapse, a leather chair with scuff marks on the arms, and a threadbare rug. A sliver of light struggled across the room, picking up a host of dust motes that swirled angrily as she moved about. The walls, covered in stains, were bare, save for a set of candle sconces, and cobwebs clung thickly to the corners of the ceiling, spreading out in tendrils to conquer the upper part of the walls.
“Sweet Lord!” she cried.
“I know,” he said. “It’s luxury compared to our last home. But nothing’s too much for my Bella.”
Was he jesting?
“Is thisit?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the odors—the cocktail of damp, dust, and something that indicated the existence of a dead rodent beneath the floorboards.
“No, that’s not it, of course!” He laughed. “There’s two bedrooms upstairs, together with my study. “And”—he puffed out his chest with pride, reminiscent of a strutting bird showing a prospective mate a particularly delightful nest—“we’ve a privy at the bottom of the garden so you can see to your needs in the fresh air.”
See to your needs.
“Must you be so coarse?”
“Better that than refer to your takin’ a piss.”
She shuddered, but he merely laughed, then led her out of the parlor.
“The kitchen needs a little work,” he said.
After showing her that cesspit of a parlor, if thekitchenwas the room he’d singled out as needing a little work, what state must it be in?
“But,” he added, “with your resourcefulness, you’ll easily manage your chores in there.”
Chores.
There it was again, that dreadful word, and all the implications that came with it.
“What do you mean…” she began, but a volley of shrieks interrupted her.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs, and the building seemed to vibrate. Then two pairs of feet appeared at the top of the staircase, followed by the bodies of two…
Two what?
Feral creatures—wild beasts in rough-spun smocks, dark breeches, and thick boots—descended the stairs. One of the creatures lost its footing and slid the rest of the way, landing in a heap at the bottom.
“Bugger!”
“Ha ha!” the other cried in a singsong voice. “Bobby’s landed on her arse!”
“Piss off, Billy!”
“Piss off yourself. Or I’ll stick a spider in your breeches.”
