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“Shut your mouth, you bitch!” the man growled, all previous lilting mockery gone. He was furious now, and that made Grace’s blood run even colder. She bucked against him, but it was no use. She was corseted tight for an evening of dancing, not ready for a physical fight.

He lifted her slightly, then slammed her back into the ground, which was thankfully soft. Even so, the jostling motion made Grace go half limp. She couldn’t get a full breath, not with her corset and the man’s hand, which partially obscured her nose, too, and she was starting to panic?—

He dragged her to her feet again, this time more carrying her than walking her, his movements rushed, his breath panting against her ear.

“I’m not about to lose my pay because you can’t cooperate,” he grunted.

They were nearing the mews now, and Grace could hear the soft whinny of horses. She could not get into a carriage—or whatever other dreadful conveyance this man had in his possession. She began to squirm in earnest, even though each movement made her ribs twinge. Wherever the man had put his knife, it wasn’t at her throat, and that was all that matters.

“Would you bloody stop it?” he asked as they approached a run-down hack, indistinguishable from any other in London. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Grace might have laughed at his put-out tone, as ifshewere the one being unreasonable. “They’ve paid to get you back alive, so there’s no need for any fuss.”

There was agreatneed for fuss, though the news that she was to be returned alive was, she supposed, positive. Telling her was a mistake on the man’s part, however. She fought even harder, knowing he would not kill her—and fearing what he might do to her before he returned her. There was a great chasm between “alive” and “unharmed,” after all.

“Jesus,” he grunted. He wrestled her to the ground, pressing a knee to her back to keep her down while he forced a cloth into her mouth as a gag. She bucked against him, but he was too heavy, too strong, too well-prepared. As soon as the gag was inher mouth and he had the use of both of his hands, he bound her wrists, then her legs, her efforts to kick him off hampered by her skirts.

Then, once she was bound and trussed like a prize pig, he hauled her over his shoulder and dumped her in the back of the hack, dropping her unceremoniously on the floor. Again, the air left Grace’s lungs in awhooshof pain.

He looked down at her for a moment as she struggled into an upright position. There was only a dim light from the moon, but Grace thought, to her utter bafflement, that she’d seen this man at Society events. A Mr. something—not a lord, but someone on the fringes. Even so, he was not who she’d suspect as a kidnapping deviant.

“You’d best be worth the money,” he gritted out, shaking his head at her. “Bloody useless duke’s daughter. It’s time to be worth something for once in your life.”

And then he slammed the carriage door closed. She heard him jump up to the seat in the front; she only realized there was another driver when she heard the low murmur of voices. There was little more for Grace to do except lay there, bruised and terrified, as the vehicle bumped and rattled along for hours, each turn of the wheels taking her farther and farther from home—and from any hope of rescue.

CHAPTER 1

“Thatis Lady Grace Miller? Goodness. I can scarcely believe she’d show her face, after everything…”

Grace pretended not to hear, though the matrons gossiping behind her hadn’t even bothered to lower their voices. She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her lukewarm ratafia, before grimacing at that, too. When would someone come up with a better drink to have at these wretched affairs?

She turned to her friend and now sister by marriage, Frances, Marchioness of Oackley.

“Frances, darling,” she said. “Where is that husband of yours? He used to smuggle a flask into these events as a matter of habit; do you think he still does so?”

Frances arched an eyebrow. Grace’s friend was losing some of her shyness since her marriage to a future duke. Apparently having half thetonbow and scrape for her favor had made herrealize how utterly fake it all was—which had, in turn, made her realize the pointlessness of feeling bashful around such people.

Grace envied her, in a way. After all, it had taken a much more painful lesson for Grace to learn about the insidiousness of theton.

“I don’t believe so,” Frances replied. “But I suppose it’s not impossible.”

On Grace’s other side, her friend Emily Hoskins, the Countess of Moore chuckled.

“Try Benedict,” she suggested. “He positively loathes these events and only came tonight because I forced him to. He might have decided some liquid courage would improve the evening.”

Emily’s tone was light and teasing, but Grace found it was a struggle to summon a smile at the unspoken words. Emily had forced her husband to come to the ball so that Emily herself could attend, and Emily only wanted to attend to protect Grace from the endless gossip. And Grace had attended because…

Well, that was the most frustrating part of all. Grace didn’t know why she was putting herself through all this. If she’d ever suspected that she could simply slip back into her normal life, after her years kept held captive in that hovel in the north, the past few weeks had put a definitive end to such a delusion.

She supposed she came to these events for lack of anything better to do. Her father pushed her to show her face, to show how brave and unaffected she was, even in the wake of such dreadful hardship. He kept insisting it would help her become adjusted to her regular life again, but Grace knew the real reason he wanted her out and about was to reinforce his own political career. After all, if Grace was brave and stalwart, no doubt it was because she’d inherited it from her father, the venerable Duke of Graham.

Nobody could say she’d gotten such qualities from her mother, after all. Penelope Miller had spent the time since her daughter’s return either bursting dramatically into tears or nodding so hard at anything her husband said that Grace genuinely feared that, one of these days, her mother’s head would fall right off.

“Benedict really didn’t have to come,” Grace told Emily, her voice pitched low. “You don’t have to make your husband miserable on my account.” She glanced at Frances. “I’d include you in that, but Evan is my brother, so he should be miserable on my account, actually.”

Frances gave her a small, knowing smile, as if she recognized that Grace’s attempts at humor were more bravado than actual good cheer.

“Oh pish,” Emily said, linking her arm through Grace’s. “It’s good to give them something to complain about.”

“Indeed,” agreed Frances, taking Grace’s other arm. “Goodness knows they can’t complain about their wives; we’re perfect.”