Read He's No Prince Charming (Ever After) Online
Authors: Elle Daniels
He's No Prince Charming (Ever After) (3 page)
“Come now, don’t play the fool. I’d thought you at least had a little intelligence. You’re much more than a bookseller.”
“I
am
?”
His eyes examined her slowly from head to toe. Danni felt as if he could see every inch of her body beneath her petticoats. “Oh, yes. You
are
a shop owner, but what type of shop you run is debatable.”
A ball of tension that had formed in Danni’s chest dropped and landed heavily in the pit of her stomach. Which would be worse to be exposed? Her name or her business? Her only defense was to
deny, deny, deny
. “If you look around, you can see there are only books here, sir.”
“Stop.” His voice was quiet thunder, reverberating through the room and down to the tips of her toes. His face was stretched taut as if he were restraining great emotion. “No games.”
“A-all right,” she stammered, attempting to appease him. “Suppose what you say is true. I have this imaginary, alternate business. What exactly am I supposed to help you with?”
His face relaxed marginally. Instant relief swept through her, but she would be a fool to lower her guard completely. Before she could blink, the man stepped close to her, too close. Danni felt the pulse of his heated skin radiate into the air between them, suddenly warming her. Startled at the sensation, she stepped away, her back pressed tightly up against the counter, his body trapping hers. Her eyes flew up to meet his, their green depths dark and unfathomable.
Slowly, his head lowered until she felt the stirrings of his breath across the rim of her ear. Her breath froze and her body tensed against the onslaught of his masculinity, held immobilized as if under some spell. The scent of fine liquor wafted towards her. She frowned as his rich baritone rumbled over her senses. “You owe me a wife, little one.”
Her mouth went dry.
Oh, God help me!
She knew exactly who this man was—Marcus Bradley, Marquis of Fleetwood.
What was it society called him…? The Beast.
And the man she’d deprived of a bride only two nights ago. One of her worst fears had finally come to pass. A disgruntled member of the jilted party had found her out and now demanded revenge.
Owe him a wife?
He couldn’t be asking her to be his bride, could he? He’d not indicated he knew about her fortune. But if he did, was he here to court her?
In this manner?
No matter what he tried, she would never marry him. To be forever tied to this beast of a man was too much for any woman to bear.
Determined not to be intimidated or to break eye contact, she gathered her courage and placed her hand on the center of his chest to firmly push him away. The contact seared her palm. She fought the urge to curl her fingers into the soft fabric of his lapel. An unidentifiable spark sprung to life in his mesmerizing eyes. Her throat tightened and she turned her head away. In that instant, they both knew she had acquiesced, and he was the victor in their silent battle of wills. “And how am I to repay this supposed debt?”
His head tilted slightly and away, further hiding the grotesque scar along the side of his face. He seemed to hesitate, then drew in a steadying breath.
Confused, her brow furrowed. “Well?”
“I want your help to kidnap an heiress.”
Frozen with disbelief, Danni was not sure she’d heard correctly. “Pardon?”
The imposing giant seemed to step back reluctantly, with a grim smile that she judged was as close to a genuine one as he could produce. “Having an attack of morality, fraud? A little late now that you’ve been discovered, eh?”
“I can assure you I have no idea what you mean, and I do not appreciate such insults, sir.”
“They are hardly insults, little one, when it’s the truth.”
“What truth, exactly, do you speak of?”
His eyes narrowed to jade slits. “Come now. Must you continue this game? I witnessed your little escapade with Anne, and your goals were clear. You help fortune hunters trap young girls barely out of the schoolroom into miserable marriages. I imagine you manage to abscond with a generous portion of their inheritance in the process.”
Danni sputtered with shocked outrage. “That is a blatant lie! I only help trapped women escape unwanted marriages so they may marry for love.”
He scoffed. “Ah, I see. Anne was trapped with me, a peer of the realm who is able to grant her every whim, but she’s
not trapped
with a law clerk sniffing about her skirts for the money attached to her name.”
“And you weren’t marrying her for her money yourself?”
Something flickered in his eyes, something akin to guilt? “She was to retain control over most of it after our marriage.”
Danni’s mind raced with possibilities she’d never considered. Afraid she may have made a mistake, Danni had to ask the one question that mattered. “So you love her?”
The marquis’s jaw hardened. It was the only answer she needed. It was also the answer that reassured her she’d done the right thing. Miss Anne was better off with George.
Danni crossed her arms and lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt. “Ha! You are exactly the type of man you accuse me of conspiring with. I am merely assisting desperate young girls to avoid the likes of you.”
“Well, unfortunately, you now find yourself in the position of assisting the
likes of me
to save your
own
pretty arse. I am still in need of a bride.” He leaned forward, too close again, to emphasize his point.
“So you would like to
kidnap
one? You do realize kidnapping is a hanging offense.”
His cold demeanor returned with a vengeance, his eyes transforming to ice. “If that’s your only concern, then we best not get caught. Especially you.”
Danni squeaked, “Me?”
The man nodded, his eyes sliding insolently over her figure before meeting her gaze again. Danni had the sudden, self-conscious feeling that she had been judged and found entirely lacking. She didn’t want it to hurt, but damned it did.
She wrapped her arms protectively, and comfortingly, around her waist. Danni managed to gather enough courage to glare at him.
“I’m a nobleman and as such, I have connections that will protect me. If we are caught, you’re the only one in real danger of hanging.”
“So I’m supposed to risk everything to make you happy?”
“You”—the man’s head dipped, his eyes full of dripping condescension—“won’t have anything left if you don’t.”
Danni stood speechless in the face of such a horrid trap.
“What is your answer, Danni? Will you cooperate with my plan or am I going to spend tomorrow afternoon speaking to every father whose daughter has recently eloped?”
To prove his point, he pulled a stack of newspapers from the pocket of his overcoat. The ball in her stomach turned to lead as she stared at the damning evidence. He had no proof, but even a rumor was enough to reveal her secrets, end her business, destroy her plans for marriage to the earl, and completely destroy her father. Could she sacrifice some unfortunate girl’s future to this fiend in order to save her own father? In order to save all of her future clients? In order to
save herself
? Which was the lesser evil?
She felt absolute despair as she turned her gaze back to the marquis’s unwavering eyes. She should tell him he need not look any further than herself for an heiress, but she was not about to become a martyr. She didn’t wish this beast on any member of her sex, especially herself. Mustering every ounce of hatred for him into her voice, she spat, “’Tis little wonder you’re known as the Beast.”
His features tightened again, his breathing faltered, his eyes flared green flames. His body tensed, and his fists clenched. For a moment she feared she was in physical danger, but then he turned abruptly. “I see that you won’t easily make your decision. You have precisely until ten o’clock tomorrow before I begin my social calls.”
He slapped the stack of articles onto the counter as he left, and the bell ringing echoed through the silence of the emptied shop. Danni watched his retreating form disappear from sight through the shop windows. Her gaze fell to the pile on the counter.
What was she going to do?
Her elder Sisters, gay and vain,
View’d her with envy and disdain,
Toss’d up their heads with haughty air;
Dress, Fashion, Pleasure, all their care.
—“Beauty and the Beast” by Charles Lamb
Marcus stared at the solid oak door barring him from his father’s office, studying the twists and turns of the wood, wishing he could be anywhere but here. He’d stayed away as long as he could, but his father was as relentless as he was ruthless. He waited, mustering the courage he needed to face the man who had made his life hell since he took his first breath. His mind turned with all the possibilities for his father’s summons, but he had not been able to decipher his motive. He lifted his slightly shaking hand, pressing it to his chest, where the letter calling him home was tucked away in his breast pocket. To his ears, the crinkle of vellum was deafening in the eerie silence, which was only interrupted periodically by the slow tick of the clock and the scurrying footsteps of the servants trying to avoid their master.
Finally, he could delay no longer. Taking a calming breath, he raised his hand to knock on the door. The sound resonated down the hall as his knuckles brushed the wood. The force of his knock pushed the unlatched door open on its well-oiled hinges. The smell of stale whiskey wafted from the confines of the room, starting a thread of dread in Marcus’s stomach. The tension was palpable. Pressing forward, Marcus stepped across the threshold into the dim interior. He wasn’t surprised by the melodramatic scene that greeted him. The curtains were drawn tight; their dark color blocked out the light as well as any hope of escape. A fire blazed in the massive marble fireplace, where stone gargoyles guarded the opening as if they were minions of hell come to life, their faces cast in half shadow.
His father’s features were exposed in the same shadows, his face fierce and worn from his years of debauchery. The man who had created him was well known to use all means necessary to intimidate his enemy. That included his own son.
“Shut the door.” The words rent the air, soft and silver quick. Marcus had no wish for the servants to overhear, so he obeyed his father for the moment. However, he was no longer the little boy who feared the man before him. He had spent one and twenty years doing whatever he could to appease the half-shadowed monster before him, but that would no longer be the case. He moved dutifully to stand before his father, keeping the desk between them.
“Sit.”
Marcus remained standing. He knew all his father’s games. And he’d be damned if he was going to march right across the chessboard and into his trap.
He watched his father’s temple indent, his jaw hardening at Marcus’s silent rebellion. The man stood, trying to intimidate him with his size as he’d done when Marcus was a boy. With satisfaction, Marcus noticed he was now taller than his father by several inches. He also knew the moment his father realized it, too. His eyes flashed with barely restrained rage before narrowing to pinpoints.
“You are to marry this season.”
His father’s announcement could not have shocked him more. He stood in stunned silence, his mind whirring, trying to understand. Then he saw his father’s lips curl back into a knowing, cruel sneer.
Damn him!
How could he know of the vow Marcus had made to himself when he was but a boy? On that cold night, as he lay bleeding and crying in the tower room of Fleetwood Manor, his family’s seat, he’d sworn never to marry. He’d pledged never to carry on the line that his father treasured so. Treasured above all else, including his own son’s welfare. During all those years in hell, Marcus had known he would survive the abuse, the beatings. He’d known because he was the precious heir, the one who would carry the title on into the future. Marcus’s greatest revenge would be to refuse to marry, to deny his father the legitimate heir he craved.
“I will not.” He steadily met the eyes that looked so much like his own.
His father nodded with a wicked, spiteful grimace. His next words confirmed Marcus’s suspicions. “I thought not. I do not appreciate your defiance, Marcus.”
He stood still, his head held high, refusing to succumb to his father’s insults.
“Is it because of your ugly mug? Any decently bred girl would faint upon first glance at you,” sneered this man who had sired him.
Fists clenching, he resisted the urge to trace the scars running across his face. The wounds his father had put there.
“Not to worry, I have already arranged the match for you. Gel’s a bit young, but they can be trained easier then.”
Marcus refused to comment on his father’s harsh words. He could only thank his stars that he now had the legal power to refuse his demands. “No.”
The short fuse of his father’s temper burned out, lighting the cannon. The man’s fist caught Marcus off guard, sending him reeling back into a glass table. Sharp, agonizing pain burst along his back as he landed in the pile of shattered glass. He gasped, fighting to bring his senses back to order. Dark red blood dripped from his nose, the tang of iron and salt trickled down his throat.
I should have been ready. I used to be able to read his drunken rages better.
His father didn’t hesitate, but again charged towards him. Even in his old age, still a raging bull. Time seemed to slow as Marcus watched his father’s foot approach. Memories of the years of abuse beat his senses, causing him to choke and gasp with anticipated pain. He felt the sting of the whip across his back; he could hear the screams of the little sister he tried so hard to protect. He could taste the salt of his tears. He could see his father’s face looming over him—smell the alcohol that stained his breath.
The present returned in an audible rush to his ears. His father’s roar bounced off the walls, “You will marry the damned chit and give me an heir! The Marquis of Fleetwood line will live on.”
Marcus’s mind and body finally responded. He rolled away from the kick and jumped up to his feet, catching his father’s fist before it could land another blow. With a swift wrench, Marcus had his father by the throat, crushed backed against the bookshelves. Heart pounding in his ears, Marcus watched as spittle spewed from his father’s gasping lips. His mind was blank to everything but revenge. He pressed hard, feeling the spasming esophagus against his palm, his own fury matching his father’s.
Marcus stared fiercely into his father’s purple face, recognizing their similar features. His gaze was caught and held by the man’s green eyes. Marcus could see his own twisted and frenzied features mirrored in them. Shaken, he let go, stepping back, unaware of the soft crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. He’d never come so close…so close to killing anyone before. He stared at his hands, his whole body shaking with what he’d almost done.
“You’re worthless! I’m ashamed my title will fall to you!”
Marcus met his father’s gaze again and for some strange reason he almost pitied the man. “I will not marry. You may do what you like, but I will never give you a damned heir!”
Marcus turned to leave, his mind and body numb.
“Marcus.” He didn’t want to stop, but the tone in his father’s voice made him turn to face him. The marquis slowly straightened, his hands running over his clothes, ineffectively ironing out the wrinkles. He raised his head and met Marcus’s gaze shakily. Marcus was struck by how old and pitiful he suddenly seemed. A foreboding sneer slowly twisted his mouth. “You will regret this, I promise. There is more than one way to get what I want.”
Marcus didn’t respond. Nothing his father could say or do would change his mind. He stepped over the threshold and out of the marquis’s life.
“My lord?”
Marcus awoke with a start. He blinked back the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Hovering above him was the concern-wrinkled face of his valet. His owlish blue eyes were looking at him with a carefully neutral expression.
“May I fetch you anything?”
Groaning, Marcus sat up, realizing he’d tossed and turned his way out of bed during the night again. The wooden floor had warmed under his heated skin while he slept. Clutching at his throbbing head, he inhaled deeply, catching the lingering rose scent of Miss Green still clinging to him.
It smelled of everything he could never have.
“Damn,” he muttered. Marcus welcomed the anger. “Draw a bath.”
He could not stand another moment with her scent engulfing him.
Shuddering softly, Marcus’s aching eyes drifted shut as his mind conjured Miss Green’s face. He’d imbued a glass of courage before meeting the fraud. It had been the only way to voice his thoughts aloud. The only way to make sure he could carry out his plan. He had not, however, counted on his reaction to her.
The moment he’d walked into the bookstore, his gaze had been caught and held by caramel eyes, wide with fear. He’d meant to be pleasant and persuasive, but the emotions that flickered across her oval-shaped face enraged him. For some insane reason, he’d harbored the small hope that she would be different, tough and fearless, even though all evidence pointed to her underhandedness. He’d been wrong. Worse than her reaction to him was his reaction to her—his wondering, lustful thoughts.
Even as he’d baited and insulted her, he’d imagined her lustrous mahogany hair cascading around her. He’d envisioned her full lips bruised with passion, her eyes sparking with love rather than anxiety and fear. It had taken almost all his strength to control himself when her soft palm had pushed against his chest. She’d been seeking her space, but the beast within him had only wanted to close the last inch, gather her close, and never let go. Only recalling how she had ruined his plans stopped him.
One month of precious time. Wasted
.
Marcus rose from his spot on the floor, forcing his stiff body to obey. He wrapped the cool cotton bedsheet about his naked form. Too agitated to remain in one place, he began to pace the room as servants entered and exited to fill a large tub with heated water.
The moment he’d left the infernal bookstore, if one could call it such, he’d gone and drowned himself in fine brandy. Liquor much too expensive for the purpose he used it. The entire time he’d drunk, he had thought of his father. The man he’d hated his entire life. The man he was glad was dead. The man who had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
He still had trouble believing his father could be so dastardly clever. He had found a way to get him married after all. The damned man was well aware of Marcus’s love for his sister. It was this weakness, after all, that often caused beatings. Sometime between their confrontation and his death a year ago, his father had contracted a marriage between Caroline and the Duke of Harwood, a man of far worse temper and reputation than even their father. The match had to be finalized, or the breech of contract conditions would beggar the Fleetwood estate. Marcus’s only choice was to marry an heiress to secure enough finances to break Caro’s betrothal. Then, with the duke’s signature, the contract could be declared null and void. He could not allow Caro to suffer a married life that would be far worse than her childhood.
He’d been so close to securing his sister’s safety, only to have it snatched away by a tempting fraud and the bespectacled clerk who’d swept his fiancée out from under him. Damn his father’s codicil anyway. Damn Anne. And, most fervently, damn Miss Danni Green.
The sound of sloshing and an enraged shout drew Marcus from his reverie. One of his footmen stormed from the room, wearing what appeared to be the hot contents of one of the buckets. He heard Weller’s shout of apology before the sound of pouring water resumed. The footman’s lethal glare in his valet’s direction made it clear that the footman did not accept the older man’s regrets.
Marcus ignored the disruption. Chaos surrounded the clumsy valet. The servants should know to keep a wide berth. He shifted the direction of his pacing, his stiff body moving with aching slowness. Groaning, he clasped hands to his aching head as sunlight poured mercilessly through the open curtains, turning on his heel away from the light to collapse onto the chaise. Bitterness rose, constricting his heart, angry at his current state, even though much of it was his own doing. He had been such an imbecile.
Miss Green had made a fool out of him, but so had Miss Anne Newport. He’d been stunned to discover her making off in the night with her lover. When he’d proposed to her after contracting with her father, it had taken some convincing to get her to accept, but he’d thought she cared a little for him. He knew that it had been her father who’d wanted the marriage more than she. After all, the family would gain his title in exchange for her dowry. The arrangement was a business matter, not one of the heart.
How could he have ever believed her excuses of continuing illness that had prevented him from calling on her recently? He should have known something was wrong. If fate hadn’t put him in that spot two nights ago, at just the right time, he would never have known about Gretna Green Bookings.
When he’d left Miss Green with his ultimatum, he’d felt an all too familiar tug on his conscience. Not for blackmailing that manipulative woman of course, but for his intended “bride”… essentially, his victim. He didn’t want to do this, but what choice did he have? He had to do it…
For Caro.
“Would you like your customary glass of brandy?”
Marcus glanced up. Weller’s head popped into sight, an eager look on his face. “God, yes, Weller. And, please, try not to break anything today.”
His valet ignored his directive, promptly tripping over the Persian carpet on his way from the small room to the sideboard. He crashed into the morning tea service, sending it, and himself, to the ground. Despite watching the china fall, Marcus jolted as if struck. His gaze shifted in a panic about the room, his entire body on alert to defend himself. His constricted lungs allowed only breaths in short gasps, his hand pressed to his chest in an effort to control the surge of his heart. He felt ridiculous.