Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Give me my bonnet,” she told him. “It’s there by your feet.”
“Ask me with a civil tongue, so help me, Ophelia, or I’ll stop the carriage and find a birch tree to cut a switch right now.”
She thought she’d explode from the indignity of it. How many more hours to Oxfordshire? She would lose her mind. “Please, Lord Wescott, will you hand me my bonnet?”
“No, I will not. I can’t see your face at all when you’re wearing that blasted thing. You may have it back when we stop to rest and stretch our legs.”
He would not even hand her her bonnet. Why, by God, must he wield power over her in all things? It was the extent of what she could bear and still keep her composure. Her tears overflowed her will and rolled down her cheeks, silent, but so copious he could not help but notice. She turned as far from him as she could, staring out the window, seeing nothing as she wiped at the tears with her second-best pair of gloves. Hateful. So hateful. She hated him beyond reason. He was so utterly cruel and unfeeling. She had let him touch her once, caress and kiss her, and get so close to her it felt like magic, but now, it was all she could do not to throw herself from the carriage to be away from him.
I despise you. How she wanted to scream it at him, but she couldn’t. Over the past week, she’d lost three things that mattered: her voice, her virginity, and her freedom. She feared she would never be happy again, that she had lost that ability along with her vaunted voice.
She put a hand to her throat and tried to stop crying, for it would solve nothing. A man as hard and unkind as the Marquess of Wescott would not be moved by tears, and they were not helping her at all, aside from giving her a headache. In time her lids grew heavy, and she closed her eyes and rested her head against the bolster at her side.
It seemed only minutes later that Lord Wescott nudged her awake. “We’re here,” he said.
“Here?” She blinked up at him, wondering why her head rested on his shoulder. “At the coaching inn?”
“At Wescott Abbey. You were sleeping so soundly, I let you be when they changed the horses.”
How had she ended up sleeping against her husband, rather than the bolster? She could hardly believe she’d done so the whole way to Oxfordshire. She felt groggy as she sat up and put her gown to rights. He handed over her bonnet and she arranged it atop her sleep-disordered hairstyle as well as she could. Only then did she look out the window to see the country house belonging to the marquess.
House? No, it was hardly a house. It looked more like a sprawling, ancient castle, the thick stone walls rising three stories high, washed by time and sunlight. There were great, round towers at each corner of the house, with high windows and sloping peaks, and massive, carved battlements along the roof line. A vast lawn and manicured gardens surrounded the structure, bringing modern order to its archaic wildness. Her family’s country retreat was grand, but not on this scale.
She gawked at the stone edifice, half expecting a parade of knights to issue from the wide front doors. Instead, lines of servants appeared, walking down the imposing staircase and taking up places alongside the entrance. All of them were dressed in Wescott livery, like the servants at his grand home in town.
“Let me help you down,” he said, alighting before her. He held her hand as she emerged from the carriage, the polite and doting prince now that everyone could see. She didn’t feel like much of a princess, with her wrinkled skirts and aching bottom. She tried to walk normally as he led her to the castle’s entrance, where a stern-faced butler bowed to welcome them.
“Good afternoon, Dorset,” said her husband. “This is my new wife, Lady Wescott.”
“My lady,” said the butler, bowing low again. “And my Lord Wescott. We congratulate you and the marchioness, and wish you a warm welcome home.”
Ophelia wondered if the servants knew why they’d married. It had happened so quickly, they must have an idea it was somehow improper. She tried to smile as Lord Wescott led her past them, but could not achieve a natural effect, so she looked down at the stairs instead. Bewigged footmen pushed open the huge double doors at the top, and Wescott ushered her inside.
The home looked as ageless within as without, with a soaring stone entry hall lit by a massive hammered-iron chandelier. She wondered how many centuries old it was. Directly ahead, a wide staircase led to the second floor, where high, leaded windows let in filtered light. The whitewashed walls displayed large velvet tapestries, and the wood furniture was imposingly sturdy and plain.