Part 1

"Angels don’t linger where shadows dwell for long; they inherently seek the light—and places I simply cannot go."

—Jasper Duvane

Prologue

Valenstone Mansion

Dunhaven Moor, England

1850

The woman swept into Valenstone Mansion’s conservatory, dressed in vibrant green silk. Jasper Duvane, taken by surprise, abandoned the angel statue he’d been admiring and sank into the shadows. He had not expected to be disturbed. He’d actually only just arrived himself, intent on finding some solace amidst a very painful evening.

It was clear now, however, it’d been an unwise risk for him to take. Particularly when a humming crush of almost two hundred people filled the mansion’s ballroom. That a person should wander from the crowd and burst in on him, as this lady had just done, was something he should have predicted.

More the fool he for not better gauging the probability.

A little panicked that she might have seen him, Jasper glared at her through the dark. She was leaning against a glass-paned window, near to the trellised jasmine. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath. Her expression, however, remained unguarded, vulnerable.

And he knew then, for certain, that she was ignorant to his presence. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in possession of nearly as much composure. In fact, it was more likely that she would have fled the room at once, horror filling her eyes as surely as the moon filled the night sky…

Relieved to have avoided such a scene, Jasper relaxed. Moments of stillness and silence spread out between them. And he used those quiet minutes to study her from his sequestered position amongst the potted ferns and palms.

She was a lovely creature; he couldn’t help but notice. Her skin was as gossamer as ivory silk, and her eyes and hair were as dark as Valenstone’s intricate woodwork. She was probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld—a wandering angel unwittingly lost in a house built for the damned.

And why was she wandering it? It made no sense. Shouldn’t she be in the ballroom, twirling obliviously with some eager-eyed fop?

The fact that he himself wasn’t in attendance, didn’t matter. The ball that night wasn’t for him; it was for the residents of Dunhaven Moor! Masquerading as a glittering soiree, it was really just a charity event where his most recently completed painting was to be auctioned off, the proceeds benefitting the Norworth Foundling Hospital—a cause that befitted his own foundling roots.

But this woman…

If she wasn’t interested in dancing or the auction, why was she at Valenstone at all?

He narrowed his eyes, and he wondered…

Could it be that, unlike all the others, she’d grown suspicious? Had she begun to wonder why the owner of Valenstone was not attending his own charity ball—and was she looking for him now?

Or was it something else?

Had she sensed Valenstone’s hidden darkness? Was she somehow aware that there were secrets tucked away there, hidden deep inside its black belly? Was she seeking them out, wanting answers?

Perhaps she was braver than he knew…

Jasper shifted his weight beside the ferns, unsettled once again. He scrutinized her face, looking for any sort of officiousness to her countenance that he might have overlooked. But as before, his suspicions were quelled at once: he found her to possess nothing but an air of absolute innocence. Whatever the reason was that she’d ended up in the conservatory, it had nothing to do with the ball, the auction, the house, or him.

So what was it, then?

Slowly, the woman walked across the moonlit room. The off-the-shoulder gown she wore consumed much of the space around her; she had to work hard at sidling past the assortment of kentia and pale heliotropes. Ultimately, she settled in front of the marble statue he’d only just deserted.

Her eyes roved over the angel’s calming features, gently clasped hands, and folded wings. Then she sank to the stone-laid floor. Her skirts formed a cloud of green silk around her. And it struck him then that she was praying. It was done silently, of course; he could not hear her. But he knew.

He used to pray too.

A long, long time ago.

Immediately, Jasper felt he should leave; she deserved her privacy in such a moment. Nevertheless, he could not move. He was held riveted where he was, mystified by the sight of her. The artist in him threw up an appeal to take advantage of the moment. And he soon found himself beginning to paint her in his mind’s eye, coloring the moment in vivid shades of ivory and deep evergreen.

But then he saw it: a tear. It raced down along her cheek, shimmering and clear.

Jasper tore his gaze from her as tension gathered in him like a storm. Like praying, he himself had not cried in many years. But he remembered enough of it to know that he’d wished to be left alone with his feelings—just as she was trying to do now.

Go, he thought. It is time to go. Leave her.

In rigid silence, he turned away.

How? she suddenly wept, and he looked back, freezing where he was again.

Her bare shoulders had begun to shake with her breath. How could I have been so blind? she whispered. What have I done to deserve a fate so cruel?

Curiosity ablaze, Jasper gaped at her. She spoke of the cruelty of fate. He knew about that only too well. Surely her fate couldn’t be worse than his own, though…

Not all fates are deserved, sweet angel, he thought gloomily.

Just then, the conservatory door swung open. Both of them looked to see a handsome gentleman with a severe expression looming in the doorway.

"Emily, the man snapped. Bloody hell, there you are. I have been looking everywhere for you."

The woman—Emily was her name—stood up. She didn’t appear very pleased to see her new companion. Indeed, her face paled as he rushed toward her, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close.

The sight of them made Jasper wither a bit inside. They were beautiful together—Emily with her angelic loveliness and the stranger with his golden good looks. And yet, Jasper didn’t feel much like painting this particular image…

More like burning it.

I am furious with you, the man said hotly into her face.

I’m sorry, I—

He gave her a firm shake, silencing her. Do not waste your breath. I have no desire to hear another one of your dismal apologies.

I didn’t mean to alarm you, Clinton.

"You don’t mean to do a lot of things, and yet you still do them. Hear me well when I say this: you are not permitted to ever disappear like that again. Do you understand me?"

I only wanted a moment to—

"I do not care, damn it all! he swore down at her. Just don’t do it again! You have no idea what you just put me through. He took ahold of her elbow. He began guiding her roughly past the vining jasmine on the trellis in his pursuit of the door. Come—the carriage is being pulled around for us as we speak."

We are leaving already? she breathed.

We must, yes.

But the auction—

Has ended. Clinton stopped, turning to face her again. The moon revealed his eyes to be a startling shade of blue. The painting is yours.

What?

The painting for auction. The one of the morning sky—you said you liked it.

…You bought it for me?

Yes.

She looked stunned.

"But clearly that was a mistake, he bit out. I’d thought to cheer you up; you have been looking so grey and morose these days. But you’re determined to be miserable anyway. I can see that now."

Clinton, I—

Don’t. We will discuss this in the carriage. For now, we must go—and hurry, at that.

Hurry? What is so amiss that we must dash off in such a state?

Other than your good sense, you dimwitted woman?

…Don’t be cruel, she whispered. I said I was sorry.

He glared at her.

Tell me what is wrong, Clinton. Why must we leave in a hurry?

Apparently Mr. Duvane hasn’t been seen for several days. Not even his servants know where he has gone.

But the ball—

Was carried out in a final effort to see if he would show up, or so I have been told, he said, cutting her off again—a hateful and dismissive habit of his. Needless to say, he didn’t show. And now that the auction has ended, everyone has been given instructions to leave Valenstone. There’s going to be an investigation.

Dear God…

"Oh, go on, he muttered. Send your prayers, Emily. Just be sure you send them in gratitude. This turn of events has actually worked to our benefit. He cast her a grin. That painting I bought you will be worth triple what I paid for it should Jasper Duvane never turn up. As a matter of fact, it’ll be worth even more than that should he turn up dead."

A savage sneer twisted Jasper’s features, making them even more irregular than before. How can this angel permit herself to be associated with this devil? he wondered furiously. I cannot fathom it.

Enough questions now, Clinton said. We cannot stay here any longer.

Jasper’s gaze honed in on Emily, and everything else blurred as he realized he was looking at her for the last time. And he was quite right, too; with merciless swiftness, she then fled through the doorway and was dashing away through the hall with Clinton, leaving Jasper in the braided palms and ferns—alone.

He listened for a while, disoriented by a strange sense of bereavement. He wanted to charge after them, to demand that Emily leave that man’s side and never return to it; she did not deserve to be dominated in such a way.

Could that have been the real reason why she was in the conservatory? Had she been trying to get away from him? And when she’d fallen to her knees in prayer, had it been about the same thing? Who was Clinton to her, anyhow?

Though it was agonizing to be plagued by such questions, he knew he must make peace with them remaining unanswered. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to ask them, for he wouldn’t ever see her again. And once the servants and the constables left—for surely, they would after their search of the mansion proved fruitless—he wouldn’t see anyone again at all.

Emily had spoken of cruel fates. The cruelty of his fate was to be utterly and completely alone—for good. He was fated to endure an existence that would never go beyond Valenstone’s walls. The world outside and all the people in it were simply out of his sphere of reality.

His soul darkening with the night, Jasper cast a despondent look at the angel statue. Already it looked different to him. Before, it’d been an anonymous seraph. But now he found it held a keen resemblance to Emily—as would the many other depictions of angels that decorated the mansion, he assumed.

Perhaps then, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t end up feeling quite as lonesome as he’d feared. Either that, or he was going to feel worse, forever haunted by a woman whose sorrow he was incapable of alleviating. Only time would tell.

And God help him, he had plenty of that.

Turning, Jasper moved toward the wall behind him. He disappeared into it before anyone could come upon the horror that was hiding in the conservatory.

Chapter 1

Masks

Dunhaven Moor, England

Six years later…

1856

What are you doing over here all alone?

From her chair, Emily Mathers’ dark gaze swung up at the woman who’d suddenly appeared on her right. She repressed a grimace. It was Agatha Shaw. The middle-aged woman had been making her rounds through Mrs. Beeton’s drawing room all evening, inserting herself into every private conversation and thought.

Thus far, the guests had been humoring her. And to their credit, her reputation as a ruthless gossipmonger made it an intimidating concept not to yield to her; no one wanted to be the subject of ridicule upon her viperous tongue.

However, that evening, Emily wasn’t feeling nearly so obliging. What she longed for most was to be left alone. It was why she’d chosen the single chair at the back of the drawing room, after all; she’d hoped it’d be enough to secure her isolation.

Apparently, she’d been wrong.

As Mrs. Shaw prattled on, Emily glanced longingly toward the window. The moon hovered outside, its pale, stoic face observing her in silence. It must be after seven o’ clock, she presumed. It wouldn’t be long now before dinner was announced. And then, after that grueling experience, she would finally be permitted to leave for Whitmore Park, her own residence.

For hours, she’d wished to take her leave early, perhaps claiming fatigue or the onset of a headache. But those were excuses she’d used too many times before. Not to mention, there was a particular person in attendance that night who’d expressly warned her not to use such excuses again. Not, unless, he’d given her specific instructions to do so.

Emily’s eyes slid reluctantly across the crowded room—and landed upon the very man who’d begun to occupy her thoughts. Her husband, Clinton Mathers.

With a roaring laugh that consumed the room, Clinton commanded everyone’s attention—even more so than Mrs. Shaw and her ostentatious chattering. Moreover, people actually liked Clinton. He was a charismatic, well-established member of the landed gentry. And with thick blonde hair and a towering build, he was also strikingly handsome.

Looks, money, and presence, however, were not always indicative of one’s true character. In reality, each trait had the capacity to mask the wickedest of hearts—as was the case with Clinton, unfortunately. It’d been a difficult lesson for Emily to learn.

But how could she have known?

She’d met him seven years ago, when she’d been but eighteen years old. By then, both her parents had died from cholera. And with no mother to warn her and no father to protect her, she’d been easy prey indeed. Particularly as she’d been left in the care of her Great Aunt Adelaide—a woman who, being ancient and near death herself, was more than eager to see her new charge married off.

Clinton’s notice of Emily couldn’t have been better timed.

She’d been too brokenhearted to consider how vulnerable she truly was—or how enticing of a lure she presented, being attached to a generous dowry of thirty thousand pounds and all.

Oh, but if only she had known then what she knew now! She would have turned Clinton out on his ear at the very start. And if Great Aunt Adelaide’s feathers were ruffled by that, so be it! It would have been a much better alternative to the life she led now: married and miserable.

Abruptly, Clinton looked at her. Emily’s heart mantled with frost, and she tore her dark gaze from his burning blue one.

"Mrs. Mathers, Mrs. Shaw snapped, I get the distinct impression you are not listening to me at all!"

Emily returned her attention to the woman standing at her side. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Shaw, she apologized. I am distracted.

You most certainly are! I was beginning to wonder if you’d stuffed cotton into your ears.

How I wish I had…

Did you manage to catch a single word I said? Mrs. Shaw demanded.

I am afraid not.

Gracious me, you are quite the featherhead. I do not know where to begin now. Let me see…

Oh, please, do not trouble yourself. I’m not listening anyway.

Mrs. Shaw gasped, and Emily stiffened.

Drat. Had she actually just said that aloud?

"Pray, what did you just say to me?" Mrs. Shaw sputtered.

Emily sighed. Too late now. I said do not trouble yourself. You needn’t repeat a word; I am having difficulty listening.

The fan that had been palpitating beneath Mrs. Shaw’s chin stopped. What a profoundly rude remark!

Forgive me, Mrs. Shaw. I do not mean to offend you. It’s just…I am not very good company tonight. That is all.

"Perhaps you should have taken that into account before deciding to attend this dinner party!"

Emily smiled thinly. Feel no obligation to remain with me. I will not take it as an insult.

Oh, is that so?

Yes.

"Well, I’ll have you know, Mrs. Mathers, that I was warned not to come near you. In fact, I was told by more than one person in attendance tonight to leave you to your solitariness. So often are you seen moping in corners and ignoring polite society—when, that is, you are even seen at all! But I took pity on you; I’d thought you were the one being shunned, not the other way around! I see now, however, that my concern was misplaced. I should have listened and stayed away."

Emily’s cheeks heated. Perhaps you should have.

Mrs. Shaw gasped again. Upon my word, what a cold little fish you are, she breathed, snapping her fan shut altogether. Your poor husband. How you were able to land him, a man of such fine quality, is beyond me. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Mathers.

Emily watched as she was then deserted without a backward glance. She blinked, looking away. Oh, well. There was no use in defending herself. And there was even less use in arguing over Clinton’s character. No one would believe her anyway. It was only behind closed doors that his true nature was ever revealed.

Relieved to be alone again, but annoyed that news of her spat with Mrs. Shaw would soon circulate the room, Emily sighed. A short while later, a bit of fortune befell her as one of the footmen entered the room, a tray of wineglasses in his hands. She waited her turn, then signaled for a glass. Normally, she did not drink. But that night, she was willing to make an exception.

Here you are, the young man said, handing over a glass of dark red wine.

She flashed him a quick smile. Thank you, sir.

Of course.

Soon alone again, she sipped at the heady drink. Warmth curled through her, settling low in her belly. She looked lazily around the room. But then her eyes relocked with her husband’s—and her sense of peace crumbled.

Beside the blazing fireplace, Clinton looked dangerously aglow. The flames illuminated his strong features, reflecting in his gaze and igniting his fair hair. His lips curled into a taut, sidelong smile as he looked at her. But there was no cordiality behind the expression. No affection or tenderness. It served more as a warning than anything else. But why she needed such a warning, she could not yet fathom. What had she done?

God, he must have heard about Mrs. Shaw already…

Suddenly, he began to approach her.

Oh, dash it all, she fumed, her stomach filling with dread.

Setting her wineglass on a small table nearby, Emily turned her attention to the paisley print of her burgundy gown and waited.

He came to stand directly before her. His body blocked out the room and its chattering occupants. Emily. He placed his hand under her chin and tilted her head back. It took every ounce of her willpower not to recoil from his touch. You’re pale.

Am I?

Very. Is anything wrong?

Only my entire life. Nothing.

You have been sitting in the corner since we got here, he remarked.

Yes.

Is there a reason for this?

I wish to be left alone.

Left alone at a dinner party? His eyes narrowed a fraction. Do you not want to be here, then?

I would have rather stayed at home with Clara before she went to bed, she said honestly, frowning. Just thinking about her six-year-old daughter made her heart swell painfully. But I know how much you enjoy these gatherings. I came to support you.

Continuing to hold her chin in a firm manner, Clinton cast her another one of his uneven smiles. How thoughtful of you, he mused. But you wouldn’t have been able to see Clara anyway. You know she is exclusively with Nanny Bess after four o’ clock.

Emily bristled at the mentioning of her daughter’s nanny. Surely, Bess was a wonderful caretaker. But even still, Emily did not care for her. Because not only had Clinton taken the woman as his mistress—deplorable man; Bess could have him!—but Emily was viciously jealous of the time Bess spent with Clara.

Laughter, playing, nurturing—every moment belonged to the dearly favored Bess!

Emily got to see her daughter once, maybe twice a day, if she was lucky. And it was that loss of time that was the worst of her current miseries. Because she was not raising her own child; someone else was. Bess was. Emily just didn’t fit into her own life anymore. She’d became a spectator to it, floating from one day to the next without purpose or direction.

Clara will be available again tomorrow at teatime, Clinton said, studying her.

Emily blinked away a few steadily forming tears. I know.

At present, you are here at Belcourt. Enjoy it.

I am enjoying it just fine from my seat.

…So you will not get up at all?

Not until dinner is announced, no.

Why? he demanded.

I feel tired, for one. And for two, these people do not like me, Clinton. I do not have the energy required to convince them to feel otherwise.

You do not have the energy, or you do not have the desire? Something tells me it’s more the latter.

Does it really matter?

"Yes, it matters."

His grip tightened on her chin. With careful consideration, Emily took his fingers and removed them from her face. Perhaps you should have left me at home, then.

I have left you at home for the past two weeks.

Yes, and you very well know why.

As do you, he replied acidly. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you were being just as disrespectful then as you are now. Need I punish you in the same manner, as well? Are you determined to be shut away for another two weeks as you hide your face in shame?

She fell silent.

Indeed, he continued, you seem more intent on humiliating me this evening than ever before.

Humiliating you?

Quite.

If you are making reference to my behavior with Mrs. Shaw, I swear to you, I had no intention of being rude—

I am not referring to that flustered old bird, he snapped.

Emily’s brows lifted in surprise. Reputation was, to Clinton, an exceedingly important concept. That he was casting aside Mrs. Shaw’s scathing review of his wife meant one thing: he was even angrier about something else.

Why are you upset, then? she asked, deciding to be brave.

You know what it is.

I do not.

His eyes blazed with blue fire. I’ll give you a hint: it is the real reason you are sitting in the corner, away from everyone.

What in the world are you talking about?

"Emily, my dear, you think you are so discreet, don’t you? he snarled, keeping his voice low and his face passive. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you with that footman?"

Emily gaped at him, stunned. Though, she supposed she really shouldn’t be so astonished; an overly suspicious mind was usually driven by a guilty conscience—and God knew he was most certainly equipped with one of those!

Do not pretend ignorance, he said when she failed to respond. It is most unbecoming.

I was only asking him for some wine—

Lying, cunning flirt, he said with soft violence, making her cheeks heat. I know what you were doing. That desperate little smile of yours, the way you looked up at him—it was shameless and pathetic.

Clinton, what you are accusing me of is absurd.

He leaned over her. She could smell the whiskey on him then. Like a scented cloud, it cascaded over her, surrounding her.

Yes, he whispered. It is absurd, isn’t it? He positioned his mouth by her left ear. And if you ever do it again, your face will feel the back of my hand. He thumbed her right cheek—the very place where he’d struck her most recently. His favorite place to strike her in general. "You will be indisposed for a great deal longer than two weeks. You’ll have to be tucked away for the rest of the season—and from Clara. Have I made myself clear to you?"

Emily’s blood boiled. What a vile tyrant he was! To threaten her with violence, as though she needed any reminder of how willing he was to punish her!

Emily, he murmured warningly.

At last, she nodded. Yes. I understand.

She could hear him smile. Good. Now, get out of the damned chair and take a turn about the room with me.

Emily glared blindly over his shoulder. Something inside her wanted to fight back—just a little. He’d gotten her to surrender beneath his irrational accusation of flirting. She wanted to win a battle too.

Thank you for the invitation, she managed in a shallow voice. But I would rather sit.

To her dismay, he fastened his hands like talons on the armrests of her chair, pinning her in place. He looked down at her. Their gazes fused. They must have looked like a lovesick pair, the two of them—it was surely the image he sought, no doubt.

But if the others in the room only knew…

"My, my, my, he breathed. You are especially defiant this evening, Emily. That tilted, serpent-like smile flitted across his features again. Whatever shall I do about it?"

Her heart hammered beneath her ribs. Must you do something?

I definitely think so.

Just then, before another word could be said, the butler arrived and signaled for dinner. All around them, couples gathered and filed out of the drawing room. Clinton, however, remained in the same position, holding her hostage in the chair. And she knew then that what he really wanted to do was strike her then and there. That they were in a public place was her only saving grace.

Clinton, she began.

But he pulled back, releasing her from the cage he’d formed around her. Emily took a long, deep breath. Then she stood from her chair.

For the sake of appearances, Clinton offered her his arm. For the sake of avoiding another argument, she begrudgingly accepted it. However, an unresolved cloud of tension had already formed over their heads—and it followed them out the door and into the dining room.

Emily could only hope it would dissipate before they returned home.

Chapter 2

Behind Closed Doors

The carriage ride home was a silent one.

Emily bore it well, despite the fact that she had no idea what Clinton was thinking. But then again, he’d been difficult to read all throughout dinner. He’d conversed, ate well, and drank a lot. But he hadn’t looked at her much at all.

Even now, in the carriage, his blue eyes remained fixed on the window, his expression blank. A glimmer of hope joined her anxiety, warring with it, taming it. Perhaps she would get lucky that night. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. He’d forgiven her before; he’d chosen to overlook whatever paltry crime he’d accused her of.

Sometimes the alcohol he consumed actually worked to her benefit. It would sedate the beast within, ultimately rendering him too inebriated to even walk. More often than not, though, the situation was quite the opposite; he would sink into a drunken rage, perhaps only half-aware of himself as the black parts of his soul became exposed by his lowered inhibitions.

At present, it was simply too soon to tell which version of the man she was going to get.

The sedate beast or the rage-filled one.

As the carriage pulled up to Whitmore Park, Emily gazed out at it dispassionately from her window. If she chose to look beyond its being her literal prison, it was a very grand house. Settled on a sprawling, yet isolated country estate, it was an expansive two-story house made of pale white stone and rich brick. Along its front were twelve windows, four towering colonnades, and a recessed portico. And before the main entrance, from the portico, was a tumbling flight of steps.

Her attention narrowed on the steps. How quickly could she ascend them without making it look like she was running? She was going to have to measure every step.

Emily slanted a look in Clinton’s direction. Much to her relief, he was still refusing to look at her. So, when the coach veered to a stop, she waited with bated breath for the coachman to climb down and open the door. When he did, she exited first. Having heard their arrival outside, a row of servants waited for them. Not one person looked at her or even spoke to her at all—something that usually added to her sense of invisibility in the most mortifying way. Not that night, though. That night she was grateful for their snubbing; she didn’t want to be seen at all.

She swept into the house in an inconspicuous rush, moving beneath the high, vaulted ceiling and onward through the main hall. She headed straight for the wide mouth of the imperial, double staircase, which unrolled from the second floor on both sides. Then, holding the skirt of her gown in her hands, she began traipsing up the stairs.

Despite how badly she wanted to get away, Emily went slowly ahead and listened. Was he following her? Was he going to corner her upstairs and demand a confrontation? Or would he turn left and saunter into his favorite room, the study, and drink himself into a stupor?

To turn left promised a sedate beast—usually.

To take the stairs promised an enraged one—always.

Left. Left. Oh, please, go left!

Her heart gave a grateful leap when she heard the study door open and shut in the hall to her left. She skittered the rest of the way upstairs. Inside her room, a cozy atmosphere greeted her. A massive and comfortable bed loomed against one wall. A writing desk, armoire, and dressing mirror were scattered about in the middle. And on the right, beside the roaring fire, a treat along with some tea and water were laid out on a table—her nightly indulgence before bed.

Eager now, for she could smell the rich gingerbread, Emily decided not to wait for the assistance of her lady’s maid and began undressing herself. As she moved about, her gaze settled on the familiar painting of the morning sky above the fireplace. It was a habit of hers, to seek out its peaceful colors and smooth, heavenly clouds. Sometimes, it was her only source of solace in the world. She didn’t even realize she was looking at it most of the time; her attention just naturally gravitated toward it when she was upset. Which was usually when Clinton was in the room—yet something else she did that angered him.

Who would have thought a man could be jealous of a painting? Clinton found a way. If ever she was too diverted by it, he actually made threats to sell it or burn it if it meant keeping her attention on him when he spoke. He’d bought it for her, and she loved it. But over the years it’d become just another thing for him to utilize as leverage against her.

Sighing, Emily hurried, tossing clothes onto the floor without much care for anything other than getting herself into her nightgown as quickly as possible. She was ready to eat, go to bed, and put the whole dismal evening behind her.

Donned in nothing but her chemise, drawers, and stockings, she turned for the dresser armoire that contained her clothes. As she did, she paused before the dressing mirror. Another sigh escaped her. A deeper one. One full of disappointment and resignation. She hated looking at herself. Oh, she was attractive enough, she supposed. Her skin was fair, her face comely, her figure both slender and gently curved. However, in her dark gaze there was an unmistakable wealth of misery. And there was no hiding it; she carried it with her everywhere she went.

No wonder people warned Mrs. Shaw to stay away.

Emily turned from her reflection, no longer wanting to see the image of the woman she’d become. But before she could take a step, the door to the bedroom opened with a bang. And there, hulking the doorway, was Clinton.

Oh no, she thought, her heart plummeting. So much for sedation…

Clinton…what are you doing here?

His bloodshot eyes raked over her—burning and deep, deep blue. Is this not my bedroom as well as yours?

O-of course. It’s just that I thought you had retired to the study for your nightcap.

I had. He waved a tumbler of whiskey in the air. I decided to bring it here.

Gradually he entered the room, shut the door, and locked it behind him.

I am not yet dressed, she mumbled, already feeling frantic.

I can see that.

Clinton lifted one caustic eyebrow. He began to saunter in her direction. Emily tensed but refused to retreat from him. She knew it only excited him, similar as a wolf became excited in the hunt for its game. Fortunately, he stopped mid-approach. They stood apart from each other, separated by several feet in the center of the room.

We need to finish our conversation, he said.

Our conversation?

The one we were having at Belcourt.

…I thought we had finished it.

You’d hoped we had.

Her stomach pitted. Can it wait until morning?

He shook his head. Then, rather slovenly, he tossed his head back and finished the contents of his glass. You misbehaved tonight, Emily.

I—

Without warning, he threw the tumbler past her head where it hit the wall with a resounding crash! Glass shattered and splintered through the air like diamond dust. "You humiliated me!" he roared.

She cringed at the volume of his voice, even though she’d known, by now, that it was coming. Clara, darling, if you wake up to this, I am so sorry…

Clinton, she said, her mind now filled with the image of her daughter, I did not mean to embarrass you.

Yes, you did, he spat with disgust. "You deliberately defied me! First, you batted eyes at that deuced servant boy, and then you refused to get up and behave properly, even though I demanded it! You knew I would be watching you tonight, Emily. You knew everyone would be! His nostrils flared as he jutted an index finger in her direction. You made a fool out of yourself and a mockery of me! Imagine what people think of me now. No, I’ll tell you what they’re thinking: Clinton Mathers is married to an unfeeling woman who sits in corners and flirts with the servantry!"

I was only—

"Stupid! You were totally and unforgivably stupid!"

Lower your voice.

Clinton rolled his shoulders back as if to loosen the tension that gathered there. Then he began approaching her again. Emily, he said, I’ve thought long and hard about how I should handle this. I spent the entire night turning over possibilities in my mind. And I have come to a decision.

Panic laced through her. She eyed the room. Would she make it if she ran to the door? What if she threw herself from a window? The ground was not too far below…

Regrettably, she already knew calling for help did no good. The servants had long since learned to ignore her pleas. They served Clinton, not her. A maid or two would only ever arrive once he was gone. But by that point, Emily no longer wanted them there. She hated their pitying glances, their silent tenderness as they cleaned her up. It was all rather useless and only added to her degradation. If she was going to be abandoned to the violence, she’d rather be abandoned to the aftermath as well.

You need a lesson in marital obedience, he said, coming upon her at last.

You needn’t teach me a lesson, she said. It isn’t necessary.

Oh, I disagree; I think it is very necessary.

Clinton, please, I have not betrayed you.

"Ah, there it is—the begging, he mocked. Spare me. You sound like a child who’s just been caught with her hand in the sugar bowl. Being a mother, you should know that even a child must be given a consequence if her actions warrant one."

His hand snapped out like a viper and locked onto her right wrist. He jerked her closer. She stumbled forward, any chance of escape disappearing like smoke in the wind.

Clinton, that hurts…

Good, he said through his teeth. The pungent scent of alcohol rode the heat of his breath, wafting over her face.

God, save me…

Release your hold on me, Clinton.

No. In fact, I have a mind to hold on to you for a great deal longer. He leaned in, his other hand caging the back of her head. And much closer.

W-what do you mean?

"Only that it’s time for me to remind you how a wife is expected to honor her husband. Something I have not demanded from you for a long, long time now…"

Realizing what he meant, another rush of panic made her vision go dark. Not once since the consummation that’d resulted in Clara had he brought up their lack of marital intimacy. He had left her alone, preferring, instead, the company of Bess—and other women, she presumed, as well.

She took a steadying breath. I am not interested.

I do not care. This is not a lesson in interest, but humility. One that is clearly overdue.

Clinton, I—

His mouth crashed over hers, silencing and claiming her with one brutal kiss.

No! she gasped, managing to turn her face from his.

Yes!

"No!"

"Yes! You are my wife; you are obligated to obey me!"

She shook her head at him.

Very well, he growled. I suppose I don’t actually require your permission. He released her wrist and began pulling at her chemise.

White-hot fear nearly leveled her where she stood. "Clinton! she cried, her hands rising to stop his. Stop!"

His left hand curled viciously into her hair to hold her still. She froze, wincing in pain. God help her! She had known Clinton was capable of many horrible things. But she couldn’t have ever imagined he’d do something like this. His savage attempt to steal the last of her dignity was the lowest point he’d ever reached. She didn’t know how she would manage to recover if he succeeded…

"Clinton, you are not thinking clearly! Please, release me!"

He ignored her, continuing his fumbling attempt to disrobe her. She could feel the ribbon on the top of her chemise finally come undone. No! She struggled against him, fierce now.

Stop! she tried again and, grabbing ahold of his hair like he held hers, she pulled—hard. "I said stop!"

Damn you, you insolent woman!

Before she could prepare herself, he lifted his right arm and backhanded her across the face. The impact was explosive, and her head snapped to the side, sending her senses reeling.

Clinton wasted no time; he took advantage of her momentary disorientation and hauled her across the room. She shrieked as he flung her onto the bed. And then he was upon her, doing his best to still her frantic flailing.

"Cease fighting me!" he thundered.

Emily couldn’t see anything. Her hair was tumbling all around, and her mind still spun from having been struck so hard. But deep inside, a fire had been lit. She could not, would not cower to him. Not like this—not ever.

And so the moment hung them over a precipice. The possibility of failing made her feel wild with desperation. She only needed one good kick, and he would go flying backward. He only needed one opportunity to hit her again, and she would be rendered immobile…

No, no, no, no!

Crying out like a feral animal, Emily flung one stockinged leg out—and she felt her heel slam into his groin. A sound she’d never heard before tore from Clinton’s throat. A ferocious, howling sound. He rolled off her.

Victory!

Emily flew off the bed. And yet, she hadn’t made it more than five paces before she could feel the back of her chemise in his clutches. Survival instinct caused her to reach out for anything she could get her hands on. The writing desk chair knocked over. A glass lamp fell and shattered. At last, a bronze candlestick holder filled her palm. She wrapped her fingers around it. Then, turning, she swung it at him. It slammed into his temple, jarring him backward and onto the floor—where he then remained, utterly still.

Through her hair and a haze of adrenaline, Emily gaped down at him. His eyes were closed, his face, placidly calm. From his left temple, a trail of blood eased from a small wound, sliding into his golden hairline.

God Almighty…have I killed him?

Trembling, Emily peered lower. And then she saw it—his chest was rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath. She exhaled and dropped the candlestick holder onto the floor beside him.

Not dead, she thought, but sedated at last.

Emily rocked on her heels, her mind spinning with the events that’d just transpired. She turned, batting her hair from her face—but went entirely still again as she saw herself in the dressing mirror. If she’d hated the sight of herself before, she was mortified by it now.

Her chemise was untied, loose, and falling off one shoulder. Her hair hung in chaotic waves about her bare arms. And along her right cheekbone, a wicked bruise had already begun to form.

Shame crowded the corners of Emily’s heart, pulling the shadows in, darkening her thoughts. A few hot tears leaked across her cheeks. She wiped them away, caressing the swollen bruise with trembling fingers. It was an awful injury—yet, it occurred to her that it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

He had tried to violate her.

She met her eyes in the mirror. That monster, she whispered.

And out of the dying inferno that had been her desperation, a new fire burst into existence. It raged inside her, brighter, more brilliantly than anything she’d ever felt before. How dare Clinton try to do such a thing to her? Was he really so debauched, so corrupt? It was unimaginable that he’d resorted to such depravity!

In an instant, Emily felt her shame become overthrown, burned away until there was none left. She was done! She had no room or space in her spirit for his behavior! It was disgraceful what he’d tried to do. It was disgraceful what he’d been doing for years already! And it was not her shame to take ownership of; it belonged to Clinton. Let his appalling conduct stain his conscience. She was through! It didn’t matter what he threatened her with when he awoke; she would not take it without a fight.

Oh, how I wish I was gone before I had to face it at all, though! He cannot threaten me with retaliation if I am not even here…

The thought danced through her head. And she found herself standing up straighter as a response. It wasn’t the first time she’d had such a thought. She’d often fantasized about vanishing without a trace and starting a new life somewhere else. Somewhere far away, where she and Clara could begin again with new identities, where no one knew them at all. She’d gone as far as plotting the storyline they must play.

Emily would introduce herself by a new name: Emma Wright. She would claim to be a widow in need of work to help support her daughter. And as far as employment went, she’d often considered her options while reading the morning newspaper, combing over job advertisements. However, she’d only been playing at idle dreams; there’d never been any true conviction behind her plotting. It’d just seemed so impossible.

But that was before.

Everything felt different now. She felt different. Stronger. Changed by having fought for the sanctity of her virtue—and won.

Hmmm…

Emily left the mirror and moved toward a wooden chest in the corner—the only bit of privacy granted to her at Whitmore. Removing several personal items, papers, and childhood trinkets, she eyed the extra-large carpetbag that lay hidden at the bottom. Then she pulled the bag out. It’d been her mother’s. Emily had sent for it after her parents’ deaths, knowing that it, above anything else her mother had owned, was a treasure she must recover.

Reverently, Emily brought it to the bed. Her hands caressed the familiar material, her fingers trailing over the blue and white Persian design. It had two handles, a short one for her hand, and a long, sturdy one for her shoulder. It was also very large and durable, so it could fit an enormity of things that varied in size and weight.

But perhaps her favorite detail was the silver clasp positioned at the top. For engraved on it was a wreath of garland around the initial D, for Davis, her maiden name. It reminded her of who she’d been before losing her parents, before marrying Clinton and becoming his wife—a mere apparition of her former self.

She’d been happy. At peace. Hopeful.

How she longed to feel that way again…

Emily opened the bag and peered inside. It was quite full already. But fortunately, it was with things she would need. Because once, after a particularly degrading incident with Clinton, she’d actually packed it in haste. She’d known she would not leave him, of course. But the action of packing had served as an outlet for her frustration. It was something to do. A way to relieve her helplessness and stagnation.

And yet she’d not overlooked a single thing; it was now a ready-made escape bag, simply waiting for her to take it and go.

Biting her lower lip, she looked everything over.

Inside, there was a tin of hairpins; a brush and mother of pearl hair comb; a nightgown and paisley shawl; an assortment of chemises, drawers, stockings, and petticoats; a dress and nightgown for Clara; a packaged bar of her favorite rose-scented soap; two more tins, one of walnuts and one of sweetmeats; a mason jar filled with pickled peaches; a canteen for drinking water; and a bag of accumulated pin money and jewelry, collectively possessing enough value to survive on—at least for a while.

Emily picked up the shawl and stroked her injured cheek with it. Her eyes slid shut. Well—she supposed this was her moment. But could she truly seize it? Could she take her daughter and finally do what she’d been dreaming of for years: escape Clinton for good?

It was an intimidating prospect, for Clinton would hunt her if she disappeared. Secretly, though; anything to avoid a scandal…

And yet, I no longer care what he decides to do, she thought. I am a free human being with a will of my own. She replaced the shawl with great care into the bag, her spirit coming to a decision right then. It is time I take that will and use it! It is time for me to go!

Brimming with determination, Emily marched across the room, stepping over Clinton as she went. She flung open the doors to her armoire dresser. Before selecting a dress, she snatched a set of low-heeled boots and quickly shoved her stockinged feet into them.

Then she turned to her discarded evening gown and undergarments on the floor. She scooped up a petticoat and slipped it over her chemise and drawers. Afterwards, she donned her front-fastening corset, her cage crinoline, and several more petticoats.

At last came the task of putting on her getaway dress. She eyed her armoire critically before spotting her mourning gown shoved into the back. It was the same one she’d worn to her parents’ funeral. She stepped forward and removed it.

Consisting of three pieces—a voluminous, three-tiered skirt and two matching bodices, one for day and one for evening—it was made of lightweight silk. She caressed the fabric thoughtfully, thinking first of her parents, then of her future.

I suppose Emma Wright will make her debut to the world after all, she thought, and a thrill raced through her.

Emily put on the skirt, smoothing the tiered flounces with the palms of her hands. Then, after rushing her evening bodice over to her bag, she slipped into the daytime Basque-waisted one. Its front-facing buttons, high collar, sweeping pagoda sleeves, and white undersleeves possessed a jacket-like coverage that would serve her well in the cool night air. Specifically when the nearest coaching inn, The Black Rose and Birch, was a good six miles southwest of Whitmore Park. Settled in the market town of Millwood—the only market town within walking distance—it was still quite a hike to get there. And that was if Emily even managed to get there directly.

As Emily fastened the eyelets along the front of her bodice, she began to ponder the direction she would go once she secured a coach. She wanted to go far—as far away as possible. Her mind scanned over the job advertisements she’d read in the paper that morning. There’d been one that had caught her eye. Which one was it again?

A country schoolmistress—that’s what it was! A charity schoolhouse was opening in Westbeck. They needed someone to help run it for the local children. It wasn’t a high-paying position at all; that was for certain. But it was discreet and desperate enough that they couldn’t be too terribly selective or formal in who they chose.

They just needed someone.

She was someone, indeed.

Additionally, she felt more than qualified enough for the task. Even though her education had been only to secure her a husband and the coveted title of