XVI. – Remembrance
Adet's sister loathed her and made it well known; the woman barely fed her and only came up to her prison to leer and taunt, throw insults at a miserable aristo who would soon find her head detached from her body.
Yvonne had lost count of the hours spent in this miserable attic, praying to God to send her Anthony to rescue her. But if she never saw milord again, at least she had the memories – the perfect, blissful memories of those three days with him at one of Sir Percy Blakeney's northern estates. The feel of Anthony's skin against hers, the feel of his lips roving hungrily on her breasts and throat with sheer need for her, the feel of him making love to her. So unlike Pierre Adet's attack four years prior. So unlike anything she had ever dreamed of. So real. If Life was to be cruel and horrible…then at least she had those heavenly memories of her Anthony. And if God was good, then perhaps it he would deliver her back to her husband.
Anything, she thought sorrowfully, would be better than a tiny attic without windowpanes, for the icy wind was bitter and cut her delicate skin. Anything better than bandying words with Adet, arguing fruitlessly over his ridiculous proposal that she marry him to save her own life. Of course she would rather die than marry Adet!
Besides, she was already a married woman. She was Lady Dewhurst. She would never be anything else.