The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,18

gaslight.

Perhaps she should change. She wore a silver white satin peignoir with bands of embroidery and lace along the cuffs and lapels, over a matching nightgown cut high to her throat. Aunt Viola had argued against the shade, saying it faded Portia’s coloring. But her stepmother had insisted, calling it virginal and irresistible to a man who’d been married before.

Now the cold threads skimmed over her bones like parchment wrapped around a trout, all decoration and no protection.

Surely everything would go well tonight. Surely her husband would approve of his new bride.

Portia wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and found another meaningless smile for the pale female facing her in the mirror.

A shadow blocked out the wall sconce behind her.

“My dear,” St. Arles intoned with obvious anticipation, “be certain to keep your eyes on me while I instruct you. I married you for your reaction when you learned my true plans.” Anticipation curved his mouth into a hyena’s approximation of happiness.

Her cup rattled into the saucer.

“Clumsy child.” St. Arles yanked her robe down her shoulders and over her arms, then ruthlessly, brutally tightened it around her elbows. Her peignoir’s lapels bit into her nightgown. Lace, meant to be enticing, instead became a burning brand searing her breasts.

She yelped and tried to squirm away. But she couldn’t get out of it, could barely even shrug her shoulders. She stared at him through the mirror, appalled and frightened, her heart beating faster than when she’d watched for Apaches.

“That’s it, my lady, that’s it. That’s exactly how I want you to always behave when we’re alone in bed.” Bright satisfaction marched through his eyes.

“What do you mean?” She tried to pull away from him but his grip tightened. Could she even move her arms?

He dangled his white silk scarf beside her cheek and she shrank away from its dreadful softness. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, the sound glittering with evil. An instant later, he whipped it around her neck like a cravat and tightened his fist in it.

She shook, darkness clawing at her vision, and fought to stand up. She couldn’t scream.

“No,” she croaked, the sound harsher than duty.

“This is your first lesson in how to please me, my dear.” Evil smiled at her through the glass.

“I enjoy my pleasure mixed with pain,” he informed her, his words echoing with far too much prior experience. “After all, orgasm is called the Little Death. I merely prefer my partners gasping on the edge of death. I find it provides both of us a far larger jolt into climax.”

“You’re joking.” The dreadful silk eased just enough to let her speak. Aunt Viola had never mentioned anyone could do something like this.

She pushed against the vanity to stand up but he shoved her back into place, the casual blow slamming her face against the unyielding wood. Tears started in her eyes, burning harsher than her throat.

How would she survive tonight? Or all the nights and years to come? If he consummated the marriage, she could never have an annulment and she’d be tied to this living hell forever.

“Not at all.” He licked his lips, his eyes crawling over her like tarantulas. “My first wife was a widow and she’d been poorly trained by her previous husband. But you’re a virgin so you’ve nothing to unlearn. You’re absolutely perfect.”

“Noo…” She looked around desperately for an escape.

A door or the window, from which she could summon Gareth? She’d been such a fool when she sent him away. Could she reach it with her arms bound?

An iron bar locked around her throat and linen rasped her jaw. Her husband—heaven help her, her husband—dragged his teeth along her ear like a saw testing a log.

Blood dripped onto her cheek, hot and wet as the tears she fought back.

“I’ll mount you the instant you start to lose consciousness,” he whispered like Satan’s wind against her hair.

His grip loosened slightly on the robe. She twisted sideways and slammed her elbow into his groin, barely missing his privates.

“You wretch!” he shouted and jerked away from her.

But she had no time to savor her triumph, let alone use it.

An instant later, the silk rope closed abruptly around her neck and the world went black around her.

“By God, I’ll show you who’s master here,” were the last words Portia heard on her wedding night.

Dawn slunk into the rain-soaked alley behind the hotel, its fitful glow useless as a broken sword on a battlefield. Cobblestones gleamed clean and fresh for once, thanks to the night’s deluge.