Sutton's Sins (The Sinful Suttons 2)

He had been handsome as well, though his looks were diminished in her memory now by his villainous deeds. She had no doubt he could have had his choice of demimondaines or diamonds of the first water. However, he was the sort of man who thrived on power. Specifically, his over others. And that was a different beast entirely. It was a beast

she knew well enough, thanks to Cousin Bartholomew

“I ‘m not such a man,” he said.

She did not doubt Rafe Sutton wielded his charm as if it were a weapon. Between his undeniable good looks and the magnetism of his presence, he could likely woo even the most devout devotee of propriety.

“Nonetheless, I could not be certain of that at the time,” she managed primly.

“And so you took matters into your own hands. A former, regrettable circumstance, you said. What happened?”

There was a hint of menace in his voice, and she could not be certain whom it was directed toward. Persephone shifted, dreadfully uncomfortable in the confines of this carriage, not knowing where he was taking her or why.

Speaking of Lord Gregson was not a particularly easy feat, either.

She inhaled slowly, collecting herself for fear the terror would return, clogging her throat. “My previous situation involved a gentleman who believed it was his right to do whatever he wished with the governess of his younger sisters.”

Her position in the Earl of Landsdowne’s household had been one of many unhappy tenures as governess over the years she had spent running from her cousin. However, it was burned upon her memory for a reason aside from her displeasure.

“Whatever he wished.” Mr. Sutton’s voice was cutting now. “He forced himself upon you?”

Persephone swallowed that rising sense of panic, never far whenever she thought of what had happened in her small room that evening. “He attempted to do so.”

His nostrils flared, his hands clenching into fists—the only two movements he made. He might have been fashioned of stone save for the sound of his voice. “Who?”

“Viscount Gregson.”

Just saying his name made the bitter taste of bile rise in the back of her throat. He was a despicable, vile scoundrel. Little wonder the governesses before her had fled their posts.

“Lord Gregson,” Mr. Sutton repeated. “Tall cull, with dark hair? Eldest son of the Earl of Landsdowne, yes?”

She had not supposed Rafe Sutton would be familiar with Lord Gregson. Her blood went cold, panic setting in. Surely they were not friends? Her heart was pounding faster, her mouth going dry.

“I was hired as the governess to Lord Landsdowne’s younger daughters,” she acknowledged. “Whenever he was in residence, he made certain to make advances, which I ignored. But he refused to accept my denial. One night, I woke to find him in my room. I was attempting to fight him off when my cries alerted some of the other members of the household, and he mercifully stopped. His body was so heavy atop mine, pinning me to the mattress. I remember his breath, hot and smelling of sour wine. I was trying to get away, but he would not allow it. He was stronger than I was, and he kept telling me I was a forward chit, that he knew I wanted him…”

The words trailed off as emotion overwhelmed her.

She gagged.

In a swift flurry of graceful movement, Rafe sat beside her on the bench, his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of comfort. “Are you going to cast up your accounts?”

Mayhap. She could not speak at the moment. She was remembering Lord Gregson’s breath, the sweat dripping off his brow, the clammy hand clamped over her mouth. How difficult it had been to breathe, to scream. She had bitten him as hard as she could, and the taste of his blood, coppery and strange, had filled her mouth.

Repulsive.

His hands had been everywhere. And he had told her to keep still, to be quiet.

Cease moving. You want this. You know it as well as I.

But she had not wanted him. Nor had she encouraged any of his many advances. His excuses to find reasons to be near her had been troubling. The night she had arisen to his presence in the darkness of her room had been utterly terrifying.

“Deep breaths, Miss Wren,” Mr. Sutton was urging her now, jolting her from the violence of her recollections to the present.

The carriage was still swaying over bumpy Mayfair roads. His hand passed up and down her spine in slow, steady strokes. She obeyed, dragging air into her lungs, and with it his masculine scent. Time to tamp down the memories. To force them into the box in the dark corners of her mind.

“I spent the rest of that night hiding in the library. In the morning, I gathered my belongings and I left.”

“Slow and steady now,” he said, his voice gentling, becoming almost tender. “Lord Gregson ain’t here. He can’t ’urt you.”