The Sum of All Kisses

“I should think you would be grateful,” Lord Ramsgate said. “Isn’t she what you wanted?”

“Not like this,” Hugh ground out.

“I’ll have the two of you locked up tight in here for at least an hour,” his father continued. “She’ll be compromised in full whether you do the deed or not.” Lord Ramsgate leaned over and leered. “All will be well. You will get what you want, and I will get what I want.”

“What about what she wants?”

Lord Ramsgate quirked a brow, then cocked his head to the side, then shrugged. Apparently that would be all the thought he would give to Sarah’s hopes and dreams. “She will be grateful,” he decided. He started to say something more, but then stopped, tilting his head to better aim his ear toward the door. “I do believe she’s arrived,” he murmured.

Hugh didn’t hear anything, but sure enough, a moment later an insistent knock sounded at the door.

Hugh pulled furiously against his bonds. He wanted Sarah Pleinsworth; dear Lord, he wanted her with everything that he was. He wanted to stand up with her before God and man, slide his ring onto her finger, and pledge his eternal devotion. He wanted to take her to bed and with his body show her everything that was in his heart, and he wanted to cherish her as she grew heavy with their child.

But he would not steal these things from her. She had to want them, as well.

“This is so exciting,” Lord Ramsgate said, his mocking tone perfectly calibrated to make Hugh’s nerves stand on end. “Dear me, I feel like a schoolgirl.”

“Don’t touch her,” Hugh snarled. “By God, if you lay a hand on her . . .”

“Now, now,” his father said. “Lady Sarah is going to be the mother of my grandsons. I would never dream of causing her injury.”

“Don’t do this,” Hugh said, his voice choking before he could add, please. He did not want to beg. He had not thought he could stomach doing so, but in this, for Sarah, he would do it. She did not wish to marry him; this much was clear after all that had transpired with Daniel earlier that morning. If she entered the room, Lord Ramsgate would lock her in and seal her fate. Hugh would gain the hand of the woman he loved, but at what cost?

“Father,” Hugh said, and their eyes met in shock. Neither could recall the last time Hugh had addressed him as anything other than “sir.” “I implore you, do not do this.”

But Lord Ramsgate just rubbed his hands together with glee and walked to the door. “Who’s there?” he called.

Sarah’s voice came through the door.

Hugh closed his eyes in anguish. This was going to happen. He couldn’t stop it.

“Lady Sarah,” Lord Ramsgate said the moment he opened the door. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Hugh turned and forced himself to look at the doorway, but his father was still blocking his view.

“I’m here to see Lord Hugh,” Sarah said in as cold a voice as he’d ever heard. “Your son.”

“Don’t come in, Sarah!” Hugh yelled.

“Hugh?” Her voice rang with panic.

Hugh thrashed against his bindings. He knew he wouldn’t break free, but he couldn’t just lie there like a bloody lump.

“Oh my God, what have you done to him?” Sarah shrieked, and she pushed past Lord Ramsgate with enough force to knock him into the door frame. She was dripping wet, her hair plastered to her face, the hem of her gown muddied and torn.

“Just getting him ready for you, my dear girl,” Lord Ramsgate said with a laugh. And then, before Sarah could utter a word, he stepped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Hugh, what happened?” Sarah asked, rushing to his side. “Oh my God, he tied you to the bed. Why would he do such a thing?”

“The door,” Hugh practically barked, jerking his head to the side. “Check the door.”

“The door? But—”

“Do it.”

Her eyes grew wide, but she did as he asked. “It’s locked,” she said, twisting back to face him.

Hugh swore viciously under his breath.

“What is going on?” She hurried back to the bed, immediately going to the bindings on one of his ankles. “Why did he tie you to the bed? Why would you come here to see him?”

“When my father issues a summons,” Hugh said in a tight voice, “I do not ignore it.”

“But you—”

“Especially on the eve of your cousin’s wedding.”

Her eyes flared with understanding. “Of course.”

“As for the bindings,” Hugh added in a voice full of loathing, “they were for your benefit.”

“What?” she asked, mouth agape. Then: “Oh, drat, ouch!” She stuck her index finger in her mouth. “Bent back my nail,” she grumbled. “These knots are monsters. How did he get them so tight?”

“I was not able to struggle,” Hugh said, unable to keep the self-loathing from his voice.

Her eyes flew to his face.

But he turned away, unable to look at her when he said, “He did it while I was unconscious.”

Her lips formed a whisper, but whether she made actual words or mere sound, he did not know.

“Oil of sweet vitriol,” he said in a flat voice.

She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

“Soaked into a cloth and pressed against a face, it can render a person unconscious,” Hugh explained. “I’ve read about it, but this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure.”