Page 3 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

He took a threatening step toward her. “I’ve made my offer. The shop by day and me by night. I’ll even put you up somewhere so your so-called sainted mother won’t have to listen to your cries of ecstasy.” He paused. “It’s both, Miss Wright. Or no employment at all. My reach is far. I can make sure no one else hires you.”

Fury filled her. “My answer is no. I’ll never work for you or pleasure you. You’re a loathsome, disgusting fool.”

Laurel wheeled and before she could take a step, he was on her. Spinning her around. Shoving her against the wall. Pressing his body against hers. Forcing his tongue into her mouth. Nausea rose in her as violent shudders caused her to tremble uncontrollably. With all the strength she could manage, she boxed his ears and thrust her knee into his bollocks at the same time, just as Hudson had taught her to do. Farmon cried out and stumbled from her, murder in his eyes.

“You’ll regret what you’ve done, you little bitch. I’ll see you and your family evicted. Your sick mother dead in a ditch. That brother of yours transported to Australia. No one crosses Julius Farmon. No one!”

Laurel fled, her heart pounding violently. She ran down the corridor and threw the curtains aside, crashing into Mr. Cole.

He caught her before she fell. Sympathy filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Laurel.” He thought a moment. “Take whatever cash is in the till. Go,” he urged.

She grabbed the box and opened it, scooping out what she could and dumping it into her reticule, which sat next to the till. She hated to leave Mr. Cole but was afraid if she didn’t, something awful would happen to her. As it was, she’d made a target of her family with her refusal to become Julius Farmon’s mistress.

She left the store, blindly running, trying to put distance between her and that horrible monster.

But Farmon knew where she lived. Nothing happened in this neighborhood without him knowing about it. How long could she avoid him?

Finally, she slowed and took in her surroundings. She was only a few blocks from their tenement. She picked up her pace and reached home. What was she going to tell her mother and Hudson? Where would they go? How would they live?

She walked up the three flights of stairs and unlocked the door, her hands shaking, and locked it again before leaning against the door for support. She took several long, deep breaths, trying to clear her mind. She would figure a way out of the mess she’d created. She had all afternoon and evening to think about it before Hudson arrived home, tired and hungry. She had a brain, one as good as any man’s. She could do this.

Gradually, her racing heart slowed and Laurel stepped away from the door. She crossed the tiny room and stood before the closed bedroom door, the only other room. Her mother had been bedridden since the heart attack. She’d grown weaker and weaker and eaten less and less. Laurel feared her mother would waste away. Every night when she arrived home, Laurel feared she would find Dinah dead in her bed.

She pushed open the door without knocking, knowing if her mother slept that she wouldn’t hear the knock anyway. Her eyes adjusted to the dim room and she went and sat on the edge of the bed. Her mother’s labored breathing gave her pause.

“Mama?” she asked softly.

Dinah Wright’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled and for a moment, Laurel could see the great beauty Mama must have been years ago before poverty etched the lines into her worn face.

“Hello, baby,” her mother rasped. “How... was... your day?”

Tears filled Laurel’s eyes, thinking how Farmon’s offer had angered and humiliated her. “It was fine, Mama. How was yours?”

She couldn’t tell her mother that she’d been propositioned to become their landlord’s mistress, much less that she’d lost her job because she’d refused Farmon’s advances. Her head spun with worry, wondering how they would manage. Farmon’s words regarding her mother also bothered Laurel. She wanted to ask what he’d meant but her mother had long ago firmly closed the door to discussing the past. With the way Dinah Wright looked, Laurel didn’t have the heart to pursue the matter.

“I’m so tired,” Mama said, new lines creasing her brow.

“Can I warm some broth for you?”

“No. Just sit with me, Laurel.”

She slipped her hands around one of her mother’s cold ones, hoping to warm it.

“You’re so beautiful,” her mother said.

“No, you’re the beautiful one, Mama.”

“You look like... him.”

Laurel went still. Her mother had never spoken of their father. Never. When she and Hudson were young, they had asked why other children had a father when they didn’t. Her mother refused to speak about it, telling them they had her and each other and that was what mattered. As she matured, Laurel came to believe that her and Hudson’s father hadn’t wanted them. Or her mother. She didn’t know the circumstances of her and Hudson’s birth, only that their mother had raised them with an abundance of love and no help from the man who’d impregnated her. Despite Mama’s silence, Laurel had often wondered who her father might be. If he’d forced himself on Dinah. Or if he’d already had a wife. Sometimes, she pretended that he’d been the great love of her mother’s life but he’d been killed tragically. She wondered if her mother had given herself freely to him, only to never see him again. It was a mystery she’d thought would never be solved.

Until now.

“What did he look like, Mama?” she asked softly.

Mama sighed. “Like you. And Hudson. Hair black as midnight. Dark brows. And those eyes.”

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