imagination. They would disappear, leaving her to heal in solitude.
The length and breadth of her body burned. An ember crashed to the cruel, hard ground.
Everything hurt.
From the tense muscles at her neck to the throbbing pulse screaming inside her head, she was a mass of punishing sensation. She didn’t even like to think of her belly and the roiling agony pulsing within.
“This laudanum was very poorly mixed,” the older voice said. The tones were firm, yet reedy with the effects of a long life. “’Tis almost entirely opium.”
There was the rustle of fabric, a drawn-out silence. The other voice, slightly shaking now, asked, “You don’t think she tried to—to end it all?”
The acidic pain humming through her flesh indicated this was all too real. But who had tried to destroy herself? It was foolishness to toss aside so carelessly the only gift one had. Life.
Mary struggled to think who could have attempted such an unforgivable thing. At the asylum, only one girl in the three years she had been there had triumphed against the keepers’ watching eyes. The girl had died, hanging at the end of her twisted bedsheet, a pathetic figure dangling in her icy room. That was the last night they’d had coverings for their hard sleeping pallets. Henceforth, they had been stripped of anything that might have given them escape from their wretched existence. Even spoons had been deemed contraband, reducing them to animals, scooping their gruel into their mouths with blackened fingers.
“No, I don’t think she did,” the softer voice finally replied. “We will have to ask her, of course, but the doctor who prepared this tincture should be hanged and quartered.”
Mary winced as faint light pierced her aching eyes. Despite her attempt to suppress it, a low groan escaped her throat. She’d taken laudanum, too.
It couldn’t be her laudanum they were speaking of?
“Mary?” one of the men called urgently through her haze.
She longed to roll away from him, but she could barely flutter her lids. As she fought to keep them open, she caught sight of the ivory ceiling painted with gold leaf.
Gold leaf and plasterwork?
Where was she? She somehow knew the elaborate decor. Even if she did know one of the voices, she couldn’t recall who the people in the room were or what they might do to her. “Wh-who?”
A weight pressed down on the bed. Fighting the agony in her limbs, she grabbed the sheets and struggled to pull away.
She had to leave before anyone tried to hurt her. She had to get free—
A warm hand circled her fingers. “It’s Edward.”
Instinct commanded she fling the hand away, but she stilled, a warm sort of unfamiliar hope giving life to her heart. Edward?
She slowly turned toward the man sitting beside her on the wide bed. Jet-black hair fell over his hard brow. Black eyes stared down at her, intense with a hint of wildness that verged on the frightening. A faint shadow of black beard dusted his square jaw and the V of skin, bared by his unlaced linen shirt, exposed taut muscles.
Every bit of him looked imperious and entitled, even in dishevelment. Yet a haunted air played at the planes of his face.
The duke.
A fresh wave of horror crashed through her. This man was meant to protect her and she’d—
She couldn’t even recall what she’d done. One moment she’d been standing by the fire waiting for him, terrified of how she’d respond to being alone with him and the advances men always made, and in the next the world had rattled out of her control.
“Forgive me,” she begged, then felt the rock of self-loathing spasm in her stomach. Once she had been petted and loved, and had had everything she could ever want, before she even knew she wanted it. Now she had no power at all. And had to beg forgiveness for every moment of her weakness.
Why did she have to keep doing things to be forgiven for? Hate laced through her heart. Hate for the man who had done this to her. Her father had longed
The length and breadth of her body burned. An ember crashed to the cruel, hard ground.
Everything hurt.
From the tense muscles at her neck to the throbbing pulse screaming inside her head, she was a mass of punishing sensation. She didn’t even like to think of her belly and the roiling agony pulsing within.
“This laudanum was very poorly mixed,” the older voice said. The tones were firm, yet reedy with the effects of a long life. “’Tis almost entirely opium.”
There was the rustle of fabric, a drawn-out silence. The other voice, slightly shaking now, asked, “You don’t think she tried to—to end it all?”
The acidic pain humming through her flesh indicated this was all too real. But who had tried to destroy herself? It was foolishness to toss aside so carelessly the only gift one had. Life.
Mary struggled to think who could have attempted such an unforgivable thing. At the asylum, only one girl in the three years she had been there had triumphed against the keepers’ watching eyes. The girl had died, hanging at the end of her twisted bedsheet, a pathetic figure dangling in her icy room. That was the last night they’d had coverings for their hard sleeping pallets. Henceforth, they had been stripped of anything that might have given them escape from their wretched existence. Even spoons had been deemed contraband, reducing them to animals, scooping their gruel into their mouths with blackened fingers.
“No, I don’t think she did,” the softer voice finally replied. “We will have to ask her, of course, but the doctor who prepared this tincture should be hanged and quartered.”
Mary winced as faint light pierced her aching eyes. Despite her attempt to suppress it, a low groan escaped her throat. She’d taken laudanum, too.
It couldn’t be her laudanum they were speaking of?
“Mary?” one of the men called urgently through her haze.
She longed to roll away from him, but she could barely flutter her lids. As she fought to keep them open, she caught sight of the ivory ceiling painted with gold leaf.
Gold leaf and plasterwork?
Where was she? She somehow knew the elaborate decor. Even if she did know one of the voices, she couldn’t recall who the people in the room were or what they might do to her. “Wh-who?”
A weight pressed down on the bed. Fighting the agony in her limbs, she grabbed the sheets and struggled to pull away.
She had to leave before anyone tried to hurt her. She had to get free—
A warm hand circled her fingers. “It’s Edward.”
Instinct commanded she fling the hand away, but she stilled, a warm sort of unfamiliar hope giving life to her heart. Edward?
She slowly turned toward the man sitting beside her on the wide bed. Jet-black hair fell over his hard brow. Black eyes stared down at her, intense with a hint of wildness that verged on the frightening. A faint shadow of black beard dusted his square jaw and the V of skin, bared by his unlaced linen shirt, exposed taut muscles.
Every bit of him looked imperious and entitled, even in dishevelment. Yet a haunted air played at the planes of his face.
The duke.
A fresh wave of horror crashed through her. This man was meant to protect her and she’d—
She couldn’t even recall what she’d done. One moment she’d been standing by the fire waiting for him, terrified of how she’d respond to being alone with him and the advances men always made, and in the next the world had rattled out of her control.
“Forgive me,” she begged, then felt the rock of self-loathing spasm in her stomach. Once she had been petted and loved, and had had everything she could ever want, before she even knew she wanted it. Now she had no power at all. And had to beg forgiveness for every moment of her weakness.
Why did she have to keep doing things to be forgiven for? Hate laced through her heart. Hate for the man who had done this to her. Her father had longed
Similar Books
