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With a mixture of excitement and terror building in her chest, Genevieve sat down at her escritoire, and wrote herself some excellent letters of recommendation. The sooner she was ready to leave, the better it would be.

By the next afternoon, Genevieve had everything ready.

Her letters were written, each one using a distinct style of handwriting.

She had packed two small valises, careful to include all her jewellery.

She did not doubt there might come a time when she would need it.

If she did not prosper at her interview for the job, she would be forced to pawn some at once.

Otherwise, she had packed only the essentials, plus three of her favourite books.

Tomorrow morning she would leave before dawn, before the servants stirred, and no one would know where she had gone.

She wished she could explain to Delia and Wrexham what she was doing, but Delia was staying with her Aunt Lucy, and the duke would not let her get near Wrexham.

She would find a safe way to write to them once she was settled, but for now there was no other choice.

Beset with nerves, Genevieve feigned a headache and kept to her room, not wanting to give anyone the slightest reason for suspicion.

She was certain anyone looking at her would see the agitation she felt, and her entire plot would crumble around her.

But the day passed quietly, and she began to think all would be well until her maid knocked at her door.

“Miss, his grace wishes to see you.”

Genevieve’s heart flew to her throat, and she gripped the bedpost, staring at the door in horror. “But I have the headache,” she called back. “Please send my regrets and—”

“I’m ever so sorry, miss, but his grace insisted that you come… He said he’d come and fetch you himself if he must,” the girl added, sounding wretched. “I’m… I’m very sorry, miss.”

Genevieve took a deep breath, telling herself to keep calm. No one knew what she was about. No one knew her plans. All was well. She just had to pretend that she had come to terms with the marriage and hold her tongue. By the morning, she’d be gone.

“Very well. Tell his grace I will be down directly,” she said, relieved that her voice sounded calm when inside she was a seething mass of anxiety.

“Very good, miss. He said to come to the library.”

Genevieve agreed to do so and took a moment to tidy her hair and smooth down her gown, trying to find comfort in the familiar routine, for surely it was the last time she would do so in this room. Satisfied the old devil would find nothing amiss, Genevieve made her way to the library.

It was a large, bright room, and a huge fire blazed in the magnificent hearth. Genevieve walked to the large wing-backed armchair beside it which faced the large windows opposite, and was the chair her grandfather favoured.

“Grandfather? You wished to see me?”

There was movement as he stood and turned, and Genevieve gasped as she saw not her grandfather, but the man she was supposed to marry.

The Earl of Wendover was a large man, tall and powerful still, despite his age, though his figure was marred by too many opulent dinners and overindulgence in fine wines. His face sagged, showing the unmistakable signs of degeneracy, and his thinning black hair fell in lank curls around his face.

“My Lord,” Genevieve said, fear coiling in her belly like a serpent. “I beg your pardon, I understood my grandfather had sent for me. If you will excuse me—”

“But it is I who sent for you, and I who wish to speak with you,” he said, smiling at her, though the expression fell far short of his eyes. It was more a self-satisfied sneer, insincere and showing too many yellowing teeth.

“Then I shall fetch my maid at once,” she said, making a dart for the door, though she felt certain the earl must have bullied her maid into telling such a lie. “For it would be quite improper—”

Before she could escape, he made a grab for her, moving with surprising speed as his hand clasped her arm, meaty fingers digging in so hard she cried out.

“Not so quick, my lovely,” he said with a chuckle. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

“A ch-chat,” she repeated stupidly, too frightened to think of anything clever to say.

“Yes, a little tête à tête,” he said, drawing her closer.

Genevieve looked wildly around, hoping a servant might be in earshot, or at worst, her grandfather, for surely even he would not let Wendover insult her before they were wed?

“Sefton explained to me about your reluctance to become my bride, which is a terrible blow to a fellow’s pride, you understand,” he said, pitching his voice in a way which she suspected he thought might be soothing but made her skin prickle with alarm.

“It’s—It’s just it was all so sudden,” Genevieve said, knowing better than to insult him to his face. “We h-hardly know each other and—”

“And that’s what the marriage bed is for,” he said, grinning in a way that made her stomach clench.

“So you will listen, child, and listen well. I am paying dearly for you, but if you make it worth my while, we shall rub along well enough. You’ll have lots of pretty things and I’ll take you about to all the fashionable places, so there’s no need to pretend you’re being sold into slavery.

I will have you, Genevieve, for I’ve set my heart upon you, my dear.

I have gone to a great deal of trouble to bring this marriage about, and I would not like to be disappointed.

Bad things happen when I am disappointed, my pet. ”

Genevieve stared up at him aghast, all those rumours about his poor first wife screaming in her ears. “B-Bad things?” she repeated, hardly able to form the words, her heart was beating so furiously.

Wendover pulled her closer, and though she pressed her hands flat upon his chest, pushing him away, she could do nothing to overcome him, for he was far too strong.

“Very bad things,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers so that his sour breath filled her nose.

The stale odour of cigars and brandy and something fishy made her stomach rebel and for a moment she thought she might have the satisfaction of vomiting all over him, but then he spoke again, and she was too scared even to cast up her accounts.

“We will be married on the second day of January, and if you so much as make a peep of protest, I shall make you pay, love. If, for example, you were foolish enough as to run away from me, I should not stop until I found you, and I would make you pay very, very dearly, and for the rest of your days—however many of those might remain to you.”

Genevieve grew cold, the ice in her veins stabbing at her heart as she saw the look in his eyes.

He didn’t know, she reminded herself. He could not know that she was running away, he was only guessing that she might.

Good God, and she had thought her grandfather wicked.

He was nothing compared to this man. She could see it in his eyes, the delight he took in her fear, the enjoyment he found in bullying and overwhelming her.

This would be her life if she married him, the daily torment he would mete out like kinder husbands might give kisses. No, she thought resolutely.

No .

No matter what he threatened her with, she would run, for even if he tracked her down and murdered her as he was obviously threatening to do, it would be preferable to a lifetime lived at the mercy of a monster.

“I understand, my lord,” she said placidly, fighting to make herself calm. “I will obey you, of course. Now that I understand the situation, I will give you no trouble.”

For a moment, she saw irritation flicker in his eyes and knew she had surprised him.

He had thought she would break down and sob, or scream and try to run away.

Instead, she stood serenely in his embrace, though it took everything she had not to struggle and shriek, but she knew now that this behaviour would only lead to worse as it excited him to have her afraid of him, helpless in his power.

“I should think so,” he said, the words hard and impatient, but to her surprise, he let her go.

Of course, there was no fun if he could not make her cry. She did not doubt he would try harder next time, if he were to get the chance.

“Will that be all, my lord? Forgive me, but his grace and I are dining out this evening and I have yet to change. I should not like to keep him waiting.”

It was a barefaced lie, and for a moment she panicked, thinking perhaps her grandfather had invited Wendover to dine with them, but the earl merely grunted.

“Fine. Run away, little mouse. I shall eat you another day, have no fear,” he said, leering at her as his mouth spread in a wide grin.

Genevieve repressed a shudder with some difficulty, but curtsied, refusing to run like the mouse he had labelled her.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said politely and walked out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind her, however, she picked up her skirts and fled, not stopping until her bedroom door closed behind her and she turned the key in the lock.

She leaned back against it, breathing hard, her heart leaping erratically as she fought the tears that filled her eyes.

No crying, she told herself savagely. From now on, she would be strong, she would let no one bully her or intimidate her, no matter who they were, and she would make herself safe.

No matter where she had to go, or what she had to do, she would live her life free of men like the Duke of Sefton and the Earl of Wendover.

Tomorrow morning, she would take control, take hold of her own fate, and leave this horrid tomb of a house. Tomorrow morning, she would be free.

Mr Ludlow looked at Genevieve from over the top of the three letters she had written for herself. He was a small, neat man with close cropped grey hair and a manner that was businesslike but neither unfriendly nor intimidating.