Forged by Desire
Page 31

She’d scored a point; she saw it in his expression. “Unfortunately, his current experiments require a great deal of blood. My investment in the draining factories last year provided too good an opportunity. Nobody would miss the blood here, and I could provide access to the factory for him.”
“And—”
“Enough.” He held up a hand.
Perry’s nostrils flared. “No.” It was the hardest word she’d ever said. But it was easier the second time. “No. I won’t come back.”
“Won’t you?” A silky threat. “Don’t make me kill him, Octavia.”
A chill ran through her, like ice in her veins. “Kill whom?”
“Your lover.”
The world seemed to freeze. All she could see was the Moncrieff’s gaze slowly scanning the article he was reading. As if she meant nothing to him, as if Garrett meant nothing to him. Her throat thickened. “Garrett’s not my lover.”
The paper lowered. “Did I say his name?”
She stared at him, realizing that she’d only confirmed his suspicions. The Moncrieff wasn’t just clever, he was cunning too. “He’s my friend,” she whispered.
“But you love him.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Then why did you come back?”
She lost the ability to breathe. “What?”
“On the train. You were going, weren’t you? Fleeing me. But something he said convinced you to come back.”
The heat drained from her face.
“I have every road, rail, and ship watched, Octavia. Even yourself. So if you think you can escape me this time, I pray, think again.” A slither of darkness blackened those eyes, and she realized that his calmness was just a veneer, as it had always been.
Trapped. She could almost feel the iron bars closing in around her and it hurt, because she realized that for a moment, she’d almost thought there might be a chance. Garrett had given her that, made her believe that she wasn’t alone in fighting this, and the Moncrieff was ripping it away.
“I won’t kill him at first.” The Moncrieff must have taken her silence as doubt. “I’ll take everything away from him to begin with. I’ll destroy any chance he has of becoming Master of the Nighthawks. I’ll take his friends, his reputation, his health. I will cripple him; you know I can. I know precisely what a blue blood can survive, just how much damage the body can—or can’t—heal. I will make him regret ever meeting you, until your name is just a curse in his ears, or what is left of them. Then, and only then, I will kill him.”
“Not even you have the right to murder a man,” she whispered.
“Can’t I? Perhaps I don’t have to.” He smiled. “All I have to do is tell him what I’ll do to you—what I’ve done. I’ve met the man. I made a point of that. It’s always wise to know your adversary. He’s intent on protecting you, my dear, which means he won’t have a choice but to challenge me.”
And she could see it, just as clearly as the picture he painted for her. The Moncrieff had the power to do exactly what he’d just threatened. The only thing she could do was sacrifice herself to protect Garrett. As the Moncrieff no doubt planned.
“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” she whispered, knowing that the words were capitulation.
“I don’t want to be the better man,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it aside. “I’m the Duke of Moncrieff. However, I’m not entirely cruel. I shall give you a day to say your good-byes and gather your things. You will come to my house tomorrow at four in the afternoon, when you will put aside that hideous thing you’re wearing and dress appropriately. Coincidentally, I’m hosting a ball, something of a welcome back to civilized life. You’re to be my special guest.”
He’d never once doubted that she would appear. He must have been planning this for weeks, manipulating her into a position where she would have no choice but to face him. Giving her a day to say good-bye was just a sign of how much power he held over her, nothing more.
“I hate you.”
“That’s irrelevant,” he replied. “I might have given a damn once, Octavia, but nine years of humiliation tends to wear away at a man’s pride. There are a number of ways I could punish you for this, but I simply wish to put this behind me and move on. I have a reputation to regain and you have a reneged contract to fulfill.”
“And what shall we tell the world about my absence?” she asked bitterly. “Since you seem to have thought of everything else?”
“You tripped and hit your head,” he replied, “which led to a temporary loss of memory, and in your disorientation, you fled my manor. You have been living in the city serving as a governess for a merchant banker, until I found you and helped you regain your memory.”
“I’m terrible with children.”
“Use your imagination, my dear. I’m certain you’ll be fine. You seem to have lied your way into the Nighthawks quite adequately. Unless Lynch was aware of your identity the entire time?”
The way his gaze focused on her chilled her. A warning that any answer of hers might only implicate Lynch. “I didn’t find my way to the Nighthawks until three months after Octavia had disappeared. Lynch doesn’t ask questions. He’s not interested in our pasts, only what we can make of ourselves.”
The Moncrieff stared at her for a second longer, then nodded shortly, accepting the story.
“And my father?” she demanded. The words almost stuck in her throat. She would rather face the Moncrieff before she could look her father in the eye again. “I don’t want to see him.”
“Hardly the thing, Octavia.”
“Perry,” she corrected absently.
“Octavia,” he repeated. “I’m afraid that everything you’ve known for the last nine years is about to be buried.”
The words were a chilling reminder of the threat facing Garrett. “I don’t want to see my father,” she repeated. “I won’t. I can’t look him in the eye and lie. Not about this.”
“He’ll want to see you,” the duke replied.
“Then tell him I don’t want to see him.” It was the only way she could protect him.
They stared at each other. The duke gave a short, clipped nod. He could afford to be magnanimous, and if her father didn’t believe her lies, then Moncrieff was the one who would have to deal with the Earl of Langford.
He would do it too.
“Is there anything else?” Perry asked hollowly.
“Not at this stage.”
“Then I have my own conditions.”
Interest flared in his eyes. The man had always been charismatic enough to charm, but few charmed him. He’d always enjoyed the challenge she’d presented. “Intrigue me.”
“I’ll fulfill my contract as your thrall, which means you have every right to my blood. But I won’t give you my flesh rights.” She had once, before she’d known the true depth of the monster before her.
“Challenge accepted,” he purred.
Suddenly her temper snapped. Perry had the blade to his throat before she even knew what she was doing. The Moncrieff didn’t even flinch. “You will never bed me again,” she ground out harshly. Blood welled as the tip of the knife dug into his pale flesh. “If you touch me, I will kill you.”
Her gaze dropped, drawn despite her hatred for him to the sudden droplet of blood that ran down his throat. Something stroked over the back of her hand. His thumb.
“I like this change in you,” he whispered. “Why don’t you taste it?”
Their eyes met, his thumb digging into the back of her hand, forcing the edge of the knife across his throat. Blood welled.
Perry staggered back, dropping the knife. All she could see was the line of blood across his throat, the scent of it flavoring the air. She could almost taste it in her mouth.
“I won’t force you, Octavia. I won’t have to. You think you can control your hungers? Your passion? I know just how deep it runs. How much it aches to hold it back.” He smeared the blood across his hand, drawing her hypnotized gaze again as he sucked it from his fingers. A hint of darkness crept through his irises and Perry took a half step toward him.
She realized what she was doing and froze.
“When you are beneath my roof, you will take your blood from me, or not at all,” he stated, tugging a snowy white kerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his throat. “In return, I shall not demand your flesh rights or touch you in any manner other than is necessary for the blood-letting.”
“I’d rather starve.”
“Then you will,” he replied, lowering the handkerchief. There was no sign of the wound. His CV levels must have been astoundingly high.
“Keep Hague away from me. If I see him, I’ll kill him.” How confident she sounded. Inside, she trembled, but the duke nodded as if accepting her terms. “You will also cause no harm to Garrett or any of the Nighthawks, either by your own hand or anyone else’s, or by any political maneuvering.”
“I won’t need to. Unless they move against me.”
Which would be her task to manage. Perry gave a brief, abrupt nod. “You’ll give me your word?”
“You have it.” A look of dark satisfaction shadowed his expression.
Perry suddenly felt tired. This was the moment she’d been running from for years. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.
“Then I will see you on the morrow.” The strength was starting to wash out of her, leaving her knees quivering beneath her. A certain sense of hopelessness settled over her. She needed to get out of here. She needed to walk, to clear her head, to be alone to think.
“Octavia?”
She paused on the threshold and glanced over her shoulder at him.
“I shouldn’t care to be pushed on this. You’ve been given my terms. If you don’t appear tomorrow at four, then you will regret it.”
The finality with which he said the words made her shiver.
***
Perry couldn’t return to the guild. Not just yet. Instead she walked out into the heavy rain, barely feeling the icy sting of it on her face and head. People hurried past with parasols and umbrellas, and one poor girl selling oranges shivered on the corner, holding a bedraggled newspaper over her head.
She walked for hours, not knowing where she was going or why. The rain came down like a curtain, obscuring the world and sinking through her clothes until the wet leather clung to her clammy skin and her teeth chattered with the cold. She staggered to a halt and looked up, staring at a white Georgian manor in Kensington. Suddenly she knew where she’d been going.
Perry shivered in misery as she waited for someone to answer her knock. At this time of night, most blue bloods would be out doing the social rounds and she would be lucky if the servants let her in.
Footsteps sounded, then an imperious-looking butler cracked open the door. Butter-yellow light flooded out, and for a moment she felt like she’d found her balance again.
“Yes?” the butler intoned.
“I need to speak to Lynch.”
An imperious eye raked over her. “His Grace is not at home.”
Perry pushed past, dripping water all over the white marble floor. She couldn’t stand to be out in the rain a moment longer.
“What’s the problem, Haversley?” A voice rang out.
Lynch strode to the edge of the gilt balcony above the entry, his gaze raking over her. His knuckles tightened on the rail at her appearance and he turned to the butler. “I want drying cloths and a flask of blud-wein sent up to my study, and a bath drawn in the guest chambers. Have something of Rosalind’s laid out for her.”
“Your Grace—”
Lynch took the stairs two at a time. “If I wished for your opinion, I would have asked for it.”
He caught her by the arm as she swayed, his nostrils flaring. “Bloody hell, you’re freezing. What have you been doing?”
“I need to talk to you,” Perry said hoarsely. “I need your help.”
He gave the butler a glance to warn her and nodded. “Upstairs. The fire’s lit in my study. We can speak there.”
Somehow he got her up the stairs. Perry was so cold, she was shivering almost violently by the time he helped her through the door. He pressed her into an armchair, despite her protestations about being wet.
The butler reappeared with several maids, and Lynch conferred with them quietly before returning with some towels. He dragged her coat and boots off her and dried her as best he could.
Finally he knelt in front of her, his dark head bent as he took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?
“You had to know,” she whispered. “You’re not stupid. You had to know who I was. And the investigation closed shortly after I found the Nighthawks. You’ve never given up on a case before, not like that.”
Lynch stared at her for such a long time that she thought perhaps she’d been mistaken. Then he jerked his head. “Do you need me?”
The power of the Duke of Bleight against the Duke of Moncrieff. It was a tempting offer. And it might have worked.
But it would also draw Lynch and Rosalind into Moncrieff’s schemes. And who knew what the Moncrieff would do? If he was having her watched, then they were good at what they did, for she hadn’t seen them. Which meant that one of his men could potentially get close to Garrett. Or perhaps they were already close enough to hurt him.
“No,” she whispered miserably. She had run from the duke years ago. It was time to pay her dues. “But I do need you to do something for me.”