Lord Claudius, the Baron of Sulta, which is a town across the plains of Campestria near the southern border. He used to spend summers with our family at the country estate, and has always been quite envious of my brother, almost to the point of obsession.
“Hello, Claudius,” I sigh. “Good to see you’re still quite the little creeper.”
He grins, tipping up his glass and draining the wine. “And you, Your Highness, still lurking in the shadows. Still hiding from your brother like you did when we were kids?”
Chuckling, I spin around to face him, dwarfing him with my shadow. “Were you even invited tonight, little man? Or did you sneak your way in to be close to Michael?”
I reach out, gripping his shoulder. “Maybe if you put on a dress, you can trick him into thinking you’re a whore, and he’ll let you slurp on his cock the way you’ve dreamed of for years.”
His face drops into a furious scowl and he rips himself from under my hand, storming away without another word. My eyes follow him as he walks to the center of the ballroom, tapping the shoulder of the young man dancing with Lady Beatreaux, and replacing him, his grubby fingers gripping her waist and pulling her into him.
Anger eats through my skin from the inside out when he touches her, her smile becoming forced, eyes flashing with unease.
Normally, I’d enjoy her discomfort. But only when it’s at my hands.
He dances them around in a simple foxtrot, his palm moving farther down her waist until he’s skimming just above the curve of her ass.
I’m two seconds from shoving my way through the ballroom and flaying every single one of his fingers, but before I can, she extricates herself from his grip.
He bows as she moves away, heading across the shiny tiled floor and out into the hallway.
Anticipation tightens my muscles as his beady eyes stalk her, and I see the moment he makes the decision. He stumbles his way across the floor, following her out of the ballroom doors.
I glance at my brother, expecting him to be seething with rage, but instead, he’s busy looking off to the side of the room, making eyes with one of the servant girls standing against the far wall.
Disgusting.
Cracking my neck, I weigh my options. I could follow them or I could ignore it.
Sara Beatreaux is not my problem.
Normally, I wouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
CHAPTER 30
Sara B.
I feel him behind me before I see him.
I’ve barely made it to the door of the ladies’ washroom when I’m spun around and pulled into a dark corner off the main hall, pressed against the stone.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, glaring at the ruddy face of Lord Claudius. His wine-soaked breath is putrid, even more volatile now than it was when we were dancing.
This is the last straw of my sanity, after having been paraded around on the arms of several men, dancing until my feet went numb. When Marisol had me practice, I had assumed it was to dance with my husband-to-be, not with everyone else attending.
But Michael has barely spared me a glance all night. He gave a halfhearted speech about how his cousin had been ill long before this evening, and how he was lucky to have me at his side through the sorrow of his loss, but since then, he’s been a ghost, pawning me off as if I’m an obligation he can’t wait to be rid of.
“You’ll regret this when you’re sober,” I try again, pushing against the lapels of his tuxedo.
“You’re a beautiful woman, milady,” he slurs. “No one would blame me for sampling the goods.”
“His Majesty would blame you,” I reply, panic creeping through my muscles. “You’d be put to death.”
His fat fingers slide down the front of my ball gown, scrunching the satin and lace, his forearm pressing against my windpipe, increasing pressure until my airway starts to close.
“No one would believe you.” He chuckles. “You’re practically begging for it.”
Sharp razors slice down my throat as I struggle to breathe. I glance down the hallway as best I can, hoping to see anyone around to calm the situation.
But no one is here.
His hips press against me, the thick ridge of his erection prodding my stomach as his palm grips my sides. I attempt to move my arms, hoping that I can get to the daggers on my thigh, but his body weight is bearing down and I have no control of my limbs.
My father taught me to be proficient in swords and daggers, and my aim with a pistol is almost perfect.
But he didn’t train me well enough for this.
I allow my body to go lax against him, hoping that if I stop fighting, maybe he’ll loosen his grip. He grunts, thrusting himself into my belly, grinning as spittle flies from his mouth onto the side of my neck. He pulls at my skirts, the sound of the fabric tearing like an arrow to my chest, fear bleeding in to mix with the beats of my heart. He continues his trek until my stockings are exposed, running his hand underneath my chemise, his meaty fingers slipping to the inside of my thigh, bypassing the lace frill of my drawers until he meets my skin.