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“I have always desired you, Emma. From the moment my foolish brother presented you at that absurd wedding breakfast with your innocent eyes and your ripe figure. He was a fool who did not deserve such a prize—but I shall remedy his neglect most thoroughly.”

Emma’s mind emptied of all thought save one: that this man, this creature who threatened her child and spoke of her as though she were a possession to be claimed, must never touch her.

Never.

Even if resistance meant her demise.

“I will not,” she said quietly, finality in every syllable. “I would sooner die than submit to you, Sidney Bickford. And should you force the issue, I shall ensure that every person in that ballroom knows precisely what manner of man you truly are before the night is through.”

Fury contorted his features, transforming his ordinarily bland countenance into something almost demonic in the moonlight. The pistol rose, its barrel pressing painfully into the soft flesh beneath her ribs.

“You forget yourself, you stubborn wretch,” he hissed, shoving her into the shadows of the summerhouse. “Your wishes in this matter are entirely irrelevant. It would be a shame if you were suddenly deemed unfit, even hysterical, too dangerous to be around him. Is that truly the fate you would choose for him? To be separated from his mother forever?”

Emma’s back struck a solid surface—a supporting column or wall, she could not be certain in the darkness.

Sidney pressed closer, his wine-soured breath hot against her face as one hand grasped her throat, the other maintaining its grip on the pistol.

“You have exhausted my patience,” he growled, his fingers tightening around her windpipe. “Now, you will remove that gown, or I shall remove it for you.”

Emma’s vision began to darken at the edges as his grip constricted her breathing. Her hands rose to claw ineffectually at his wrist, panic overwhelming strategic thought as basic survival instinct took over.

“Such spirit,” he observed, momentarily loosening his hold enough to allow her a desperate gulp of air. “My brother never mentioned that particular quality. Perhaps he never bothered to discover it. But now, I believe I shall enjoy watching that fire burn as I penetrate you, over and over again!”

Sidney’s triumphant smile was the last thing she registered.

“Now,” he whispered, his face looming grotesquely in her narrowing field of vision, “when I am finished with you, perhaps you will appreciate the wisdom of compliance.”

CHAPTER32

“His Grace, the Duke of Westmere,” announced the butler with unmistakable relief as Victor strode through the entrance, Argus hot on his heels, the hound’s bearing suggesting he expected to find Tristan around each corner.

Victor’s arrival at Cuthbert Hall was met with a palpable air of disquiet. The staff moved with the nervous energy of those anticipating calamity, their usual disciplined efficiency giving way to evident unease.

“Where is Lady Cuthbert?” he demanded without preamble.

“Her Ladyship is not in residence this evening,” the butler replied, his composure belied by the anxious glance he cast at the housekeeper. “She and Master Tristan have gone to attend Lord Sidney’s ball at Thornfield Manor.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “How long ago did they depart?”

“Not more than an hour, Your Grace. Martha accompanied them.”

“Fetch my horse,” he instructed. “Immediately.”

Victor ran outside and within moments, the stable boy appeared, leading Victor’s stallion.

The animal sensed his rider’s tension, dancing sideways as Victor swung himself up into the saddle with military precision.

“Thornfield Manor,” he directed tersely. “The quickest route.”

“Through there, Your Grace.” The lad pointed toward a narrow bridle path. “It’ll bring you to the south garden in less than a quarter-hour.”

Victor handed him a bag of coins. “Send word to the Marquess of Knightley. Tell him where I have gone, and tell him to come immediately.”

With these final instructions, Victor urged his mount forward, Argus racing ahead.

As they plunged into darkness, Victor found himself possessed by a cold, focused rage—the clarifying fury that preceded battle when all extraneous concerns fell away.

Find Emma. Protect Tristan. Ensure Sidney Bickford never threatened either of them ever again.