Trapped in Their Manor, Twin Dukes Keep Me Captive

Chapter 6:Barbarian

Count spoke fluent, polished French, his pronunciation even purer than that of the tutor my mother the Viscountess Edmond had hired for me at great expense all the way from Paris. For a fleeting heartbeat, I forgot I stood thousands of miles from home in a colonial wilderness, half-convinced I’d somehow been transported back to Ludwigsburg. “My noble lord, I am Eleanor Franquemont Edmond, sworn under the protection of the Duke of Württemberg. A string of terrible misfortunes, all laid plain in my letter to you, brought me to these shores and forced me onto your lands. I believed a generous, high-born lord would take pity on a fellow peeress’s suffering, and so I come before you earnestly to beg your forgiveness and plead for your aid.”

The moment I uttered my full name, the Count let out a scoff. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned far back into his chair. His gesture spoke volumes of his disdain, and as if cued by their master, the attendants lining the walls broke into quiet murmurs and snickers. The sound swelled steadily until it became an unignorable roar of mockery. I cut my formal address short, pinned beneath their sharp, unsparing stares as if I were a performing monkey put on display for jeering crowds. For the very first time in my life, I understood the crushing sting of shame.

“My lord, your household servants show unforgivable disrespect to a peeress of noble blood. With all due respect, such unchecked indulgence ill befits a lord’s dignity.”

The Count lifted one lazy hand, and every sneer and murmur died away instantly. Only his voice echoed through the flower salon. He crooked one finger. “First: a Lieutenant Colonel in British service.” A second finger rose. “Second: you trespassed upon my lands without leave.” A third finger joined the other two. “Third: there exist only two kinds of people on my property—myself, and my chattel slaves.”

He drew out every word slowly, his blue eyes blazing with unmasked, unbridled malice. “By the laws of this domain, I hold full authority over trespassers. I may put you to death, demand ransom, or condemn you to s*****y. Whichever I choose, you possess no ground to bargain with me. There is no second noble lady here. You have always misjudged your station, Eleanor.”

A bone-deep cold washed over my frame, and my limbs began to tremble. Raw, unmitigated terror took hold of me for the first time. “You cannot do this. I am a peeress of the nobility; reducing a noble lady to s*****y is unlawful! I can pay any ransom you name!”

“How delightfully naive you are. From the second you set foot on my land, only two fates awaited you. If you refuse to become my slave, I will gladly string you up on the gibbet.”

It dawned on me then that this man was consumed by boundless arrogance. He cared nothing for the hollow courtesies exchanged between European lords, and saw me merely as an amusement, a toy to torment for his own pleasure as he watched me squirm in humiliation. A spoiled, heartless brute. A fiend. A savage barbarian who knew nothing of noble custom or honour.

“I believe you are cursing me, Colonel. I must say, your brown eyes grow quite striking when you’re filled with rage—so lovely I’m half-tempted to pluck them out and admire them at my leisure.”

I stared hard into his azure gaze. He spoke such monstrous, ungentlemanly words as if discussing something utterly trivial, his tone as light as one asking what to serve for supper. In that instant, I knew this madman was not idly threatening; he was fully capable of carrying out the horrific thing he’d said.

Desperation flooded my mind, and Captain Brand’s warning rushed back to me unbidden. Duke Liane of London owned estates in New Jersey—the patron of Württemberg’s mercenary detachments across the New World! “Even if you refuse to acknowledge my noble rank, I remain a commissioned Lieutenant Colonel of Britain’s mercenary corps. You have no right to decide my fate. I must be brought before Duke Liane, Governor of New Jersey, to stand trial—”

The Count’s haughty composure shattered, and rage flared across his features. He surged to his feet, and I realized with a jolt that for all his soft, pretty boy looks, he stood half a head taller than I. “Fetch my whip.” His voice was soft, sinuous, like a sunbathing serpent coiling to strike.

I stepped back on instinct and turned to run. The attendants shouted in shock, none expecting anyone to dare defy their master’s command. Several sprinted for the grand crimson-and-gilt doors, intent on barring my escape. Yet the exit was never my target. I made straight for the nearest window with the fewest servants crowding around it. I shoved a wide-eyed lady-in-waiting aside, vaulted over a low wooden stool, and knocked over carefully arranged croton shrubs in my wake. I swept every porcelain vessel and lit taper I could reach onto the floor and against the lavish velvet hangings; flames caught the fabric at once, thick choking smoke billowing out as women shrieked and men yelled in broken English to stamp out the fire.

The glass-paned sash was heavier than I’d anticipated, and I strained to heave it open. I glanced down, confirming this was my last, divine chance at escape. Holy Virgin Mary, I give thanks to you!

A manservant in blue-and-white livery rounded the burning tapestry, hurling curses in awkwardly accented French. I snatched up a handful of thorny rose branches set beside the window and lashed out at him, striking wildly with the stems as if wielding a rapier. Before I threw myself through the window, I unleashed every ounce of my fury and my final bitter insult at Ian William Haggers, this barbarian who spurned every code of noble conduct, in all the crude English phrases I knew. “You savage brute! Damn you to hell!”

It seems some words are better left unspoken. Half an hour later, every corner of Colek Manor blazed with torchlight. Enslaved workers carrying flaming brands combed the riverbanks and narrow tracks winding through the cotton fields in search of me. Roughly three hours passed before they dragged me gasping from the river and hauled me back before Count Ian once more.

We stood again within the flower salon, yet not a trace remained of the chaos I’d wrought hours earlier. Fresh hand-woven Turkish tapestries lined the walls, replaced with soft white French velvet drapes. The crystal chandeliers still glowed warm with lit candles, now hoisted high beyond my jumping reach. All trampled floral displays had been fully renewed, every shattered mirror and porcelain piece restored to flawless condition. The attendants still wore their French-style livery; the room was immaculate, bearing no mark of the havoc I’d unleashed.

Save for one small change—four new figures knelt upon the floor. The manservant and maid who had tended to me, the white overseer who first found me by the river, and the steward who’d housed and assigned attendants to my care.

The manor’s lord appeared to have bathed at leisure, clad now in flowing Greek-style silk robes. He rested his head against the chair back with eyes half-shut, while a lady-in-waiting brushed damp strands from his hair. She too wore a sheer Greek gown, and I could not help but think she styled herself after Iphigenia, the maiden sacrificed to the huntress goddess—so vulnerable that her lord or priest could lay her bare and cut her open at any whim.

The men who’d dragged me back dared not disturb their master, nor did they offer me a chair or stool. Ignoring the attendants’ furious glares, I cast aside all pretence of noble bearing and sank flat onto the stone floor, letting river water drip unapologetically onto the costly velvet carpet as I openly drank in the lady’s otherworldly beauty.

Once, soft, lovely women had lain in my arms every single day. All because of one foolish tryst gone wrong, fate had mocked me cruelly. Cast adrift on a savage foreign continent, trapped beneath a lord devoid of all noble honour, I might well lose my life at any moment. I would savour every second of beauty laid before my eyes while I still could.

“Do you find her lovely?” A voice pulled me from my wandering thoughts. “Exquisitely so. A perfect creation worthy of Venus herself, with a figure unmatched in grace and form.”

I had been mentally comparing the sacrificial maiden to every woman I’d ever known, weighing their grace, charm and silhouette. She rivalled Coralie, the opera house’s most bewitching leading lady, and I’d answered without a second thought. It took me several long beats to register who had spoken the question.