I don’t know how, Chauncey thought, but she didn’t have the energy to quibble. “Thank you, Mary,” she said.
Chauncey didn’t see Owen immediately, not until he said heartily from behind her, “Good morning, Elizabeth.”
She jumped, feeling gooseflesh rise on her arms. “I am going to breakfast, Owen,” she said, and made to walk past him.
“Not until we have reached an . . . agreement, my love,” Owen said, and closed his fingers around her wrist.
Chauncey stared down at his fingers.
“Tell me, promise me, that you’ll marry me, Elizabeth.”
His fingers tightened painfully. “Let me go, Owen.”
“My parents have procured a special license, my love,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “A minister, a Mr. Hampton, is already here to wed us. Say yes, Elizabeth.”
“What?” she asked in a mocking voice. “We are to be wed before breakfast?”
“You will not toy with me further, Elizabeth,” he snarled, and tightened his grip on her wrist.
Breathe deeply, Chauncey, she told herself. Be calm. “Owen,” she said after a moment, “I will not wed you, not before breakfast, not ever. Indeed, I would not wed you if it meant I had to . . . sell my body! Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice dropping low, “oh yes you will, cousin.” He slammed her against the wall, his hand clutching at the material at her throat. He jerked down, ripping her gown to her waist. She felt his mouth against her ear. “Oh yes, Elizabeth. I’ll take you now. Then you’ll have me.”
She had imagined such a scene in her mind, but the reality of it left her momentarily stunned. Owen was kissing her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She felt his hands grasping at her breasts. He was standing with his side turned to her, and she realized that he thought she would try to kick him.
Owen was dragging her toward his room.
Chauncey went utterly limp. She heard him draw in his breath in surprise, but he remembered what she had done to him the other time. “Oh, Owen,” she sighed, and raised her mouth.
He clasped her hard against him, and his tongue was lunging against her closed lips. She opened her mouth. When his tongue thrust in, she bit him as hard as she could.
Owen yelled in pain. He fell back, clutching his hand over his mouth, and she could see blood between his fingers.
Chauncey grabbed her skirts and ran toward the stairs. She was hurtling down just as the knocker sounded at the front door. Owen was closing behind her, yelling crude curses at her. She realized vaguely that no one was about, none of the servants, not her aunt or uncle, not anyone.
She shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come in!”
The front door eased open, and a small man with bushy side whiskers thrust his head through the door. Chauncey shouted, “Yes, come in! Help me!”
Frank Gillette stared in astonishment at the young lady who was rushing down the stairs toward him. Her hair was disheveled, her gown torn to her waist. Behind her was a furious-looking young man who looked fit to kill.
Good God, he thought blankly, he had interrupted a rape. “What,” he asked firmly, “is going on here?”
Suddenly the foyer seemed to erupt with people. Mrs. Penworthy and her rather unprepossessing spouse flew from the salon to his left. A man whom Gillette believed to be the butler came from the dining room to his right, his black coattails flapping.
“I repeat,” Gillette said sternly, holding out his hand to the girl, “what the devil is the meaning of this?”
“What are you doing here?” Aunt Augusta yelled, her face pale with consternation. “You were not supposed to come again until tomorrow!”
Chauncey felt her terror begin to fade. This was the man with the smell of the city. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Elizabeth, go to your room! I will come to you directly!”
Chauncey stared at her aunt and moved closer to the stranger.
“I am Frank Gillette,” he said in a steadying voice. “Are you, by any chance, Miss Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh?”
She nodded.