Page 6 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke

Whiteson must have gone in there, that silly cat!

She let out a frustrated sigh as she headed over to the trapdoor. A wooden staircase disappeared down into the depths and Phoebe could not resist the shudder that ran through her.

What is this place?

She called again for the cat, but an answer never came, so she gritted her teeth and began to descend the staircase. Her first step was met with a loud creak and she froze immediately, looking around to see if somebody had heard her. She was now officially trespassing on the property of the Marquess of Wentworth, and if he found her… well, she doubted he would be impressed at all, to put it mildly.

“Whiteson!” she called out again in a soft hiss. “Where are you, you silly little feline?”

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she felt her feet step into something wet. She immediately recoiled, her eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness and the paltry light from a handful of lamps that seemed to be on the last dregs of their viability.

Seconds later, the scene before her broke through the hazy gloom of the cellar. Two rows of barred cells flanked her on both sides. From the closest one to her left, she saw a handcuff attached to the wall and a straw pallet that appeared to be infested with mold. From beneath the straw pallet, a mouse emerged, scurrying close to her feet, and she bit her fist to silence her shriek.

She had heard the rumors about the mysterious Marquess, but she had never thought he would have anactualtorture chamber on his own property—or what seemed like one, anyway. It was certainly not something one would show to the guests when giving them a tour of the estate and she even doubted most of his staff knew of its existence, considering it appeared like it had not been cleaned in ages.

“I should leave,” Phoebe whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the dampness in the still air of the cellar.

Her heart began pounding fiercely, a rapid drumbeat that echoed the tremors racing through her limbs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie sense of being watched in the darkness, and made to turn back towards the safety of Townsend House. But just as she spun toward the stairs and made to flee, she collided into something hard. Fists of steel hooked around her elbow, and Phoebe very nearly screamed.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” a deep and angry voice rumbled from the shadows.

Phoebe gasped and looked up, only to find the livid features of the Marquess of Wentworth. His dark brows were snapped together, his eyes a piercing, icy blue. His lips were pressed into a cold line as he awaited her reply.

“I-I am Phoebe Townsend, my Lord,” she stammered. “From Townsend House next door. I-I w-was looking for my cat—he ran over here, you see. He probably discovered th-that and there were a l-lot of m-mice in there and he thought—”

Phoebe clamped her mouth in horror when she realized that she had just tried to justify breaking and entering into the man’s property by implying that he had a rodent problem!

She hung her head in remorse. “I apologize—that was completely out of turn for me to say—”

Although from all the scurrying and squeaking I have been hearing, this must be a veritable feast for a stray cat like Whiteson!

She watched as his dark brows relaxed into a more neutral position, although his eyes still looked like chips of ice. His fists fell away from her arms and Phoebe shuddered as she ran her hands over her skin there, hoping they would not leave bruises in the morning.

“You… are a woman,” he muttered matter-of-factly.

“Yes, yes,” she nodded emphatically. “That I am… my Lord.”

She heard him snort under his breath and wondered if he doubted the veracity ofthatclaim too. After all, she was rather tall for a member of the feminine population. So tall, in fact, that she towered over almost all the other young ladies in every ballroom she had ever attended.

Yet, she still barely reached his chin and she still had to tilt her head back to watch himglowerat her.

“Well then, you may leave,” he finally bit out. “And do not come poking your nose where it does not belong, young girl. Understood?”

Young girl?

“Truly?” she breathed out in relief instead. “Oh, thank you so much, my Lord! And you can rest assured that I will not tell a single soul what I have seen!”

As I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them that the Marquess of Wentworth had a literal torture chamber on his property! I would sound just like Miss Thomas!

Lord Wentworth looked at her as if he doubted these words, too, but he silently stepped aside and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

“I trust you can find your way back home,” he told her in a curt tone.

Phoebe nodded again. She seemed to be nodding an awful lot tonight.

“Of course, my Lord. I am not a total simpleton, you know,” she blurted.

Once again, she caught him muttering something under his breath and she wondered what he could have been saying.