My Honourable Viscount - Lords of Reluctance Book 2

Chapter Two

Sir George grabbed her arms and shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “How dare you! Have you not had food in your stomach? A roof over your head? You have not even begun to pay for living off my largesse. Payment in full is now due. Marriage to Lord Markham will accomplish this quite nicely.” He was breathing so heavily that Sophie thought he might expire.

“No, I will not marry a rake!” Sophie cried, wrenching herself out of her uncle's grasp. She turned, lifted her skirts, and fled up the stairs.

The sound of heavy footsteps followed, but she managed to reach her room before her uncle caught up with her. She cowered under his fierce expression. He opened the door, grabbed her arm, and pushed her inside. Catching her slipper in the carpet, she fell to the floor in a tangled heap of dove grey muslin. She scrambled back further into the room as he advanced, until she found herself pressed up against the bed.

“You will marry Lord Markham,” he snarled. “It will not be so terrible. He will probably ignore you, as he will be getting his pleasures elsewhere. I hear he has a lovely mistress, a petite blonde. A young widow, I believe. Much more to his taste, I imagine, than a tall brunette. But no matter, he will take you; I have made sure of that.” He advanced further until he loomed over her, his hands on his hips and solid legs spread apart. He could not have chosen a more intimidating pose.

Sophie shrunk back further against the bed, until she had almost crawled under it. “H-how?” she asked.

Sir George relaxed his stance, a smirk appearing on his face. “You do not need to know.” He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. The unmistakable scrape of the bolt as it slid into place sounded a death knell to Sophie's future. She had no escape.

Sophie slowly rose from her position on the floor and pulled herself up onto the bed. The decor of the room did nothing to alleviate the melancholy that descended like darkness over her soul. With its dark colours and heavy mahogany furniture, the bedchamber did not contribute to emotional well-being. She felt as though she were in her own version of purgatory.

She lay down on the bed and curled up into a ball, wondering why her uncle was treating her this way. Apart from her outburst, she had accepted every one of his dictates with unfaltering tolerance, believing he was her guardian and she was to obey him regardless. She had not done anything that warranted punishment of this magnitude. For that was what it was, a punishment. One that would last for the rest of her life. Her cousin Clarence often came home with tales of Lord Markham and his friend Lord Rutherford's exploits of debauchery. And her uncle confirmed it. How could she marry such a man?

“Oh, Papa, I wish you were here,” Sophie sobbed, hugging her knees to her chest.

Completely exhausted after the emotional turmoil she experienced throughout the day, she fell asleep with tears still wet on her face.

* * * * *

 Abandoning the curb he had held on his temper for the last two days, Lord Markham slammed his study door hard enough to shake the wall. Emptying a glass of brandy in one long gulp, he poured another, and then paced the floor.

Damn Sir George! Why did he have to manipulate his father into such an untenable position? And damn himself for thinking the baronet might be a reasonable man. Sir George Fulham would never be reasonable. The man was an insufferable boor, who had the audacity to demand an audience with Lord Markham and his father on Tuesday next at three of the clock.

“Of all the nerve,” he spat, emptying and refilling his glass. Did the man have no concept of rank? Obviously not. A baronet could never dictate to an Earl and his heir in such a manner. But this one did, and there was not a thing that could be done about it. Sir George held all of the cards.