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the humiliation, the sly smirks from the footmen, and the compassionate glances from the servants who remembered her father and happier times. How could marriage be worse than what she had already endured?
    A small ember of optimism kindled into life. Her betrothal could be the beginning of a better future, where she would be mistress of her own household—safe and content, perhaps even loved…
     
    * * * *
     
    Angelique’s hopes crumbled to dry, bitter ash when she entered the salon that afternoon and laid eyes on the Marquis D’Arly. The Marquis was old—far older than her stepfather. His white skin clung to his cheekbones like creased wet parchment. He stared at her with pale, cold blue eyes and his narrow mouth twisted into a leer.
    All her strength of will went into holding her hand out to greet the Marquis, but nothing could stop the shudder that passed through her when he bent and pressed his scaly lips to her fingers. As the tremor shook her, he looked up and something bright and febrile flashed in his eyes.
    “Sit down, my dear,” the Marquis said, his voice sounding like the rasp of leaves in a dry winter wind.
    Angelique moved towards one of the delicate, spindle-legged chairs, but her stepfather directed her to the sofa with one jerk of his chin. Then, defying all rules of decorum, he strode from the room, leaving her alone in the salon with the Marquis. He slid onto the seat next to her, the stuffy summer heat worsened by his miasma of age, sweat and overly sweet perfume. His foul breath poisoned the air as he leaned too close. She pressed herself into the cushioned sofa, fighting the urge to gag.
    “So coy!” his whisper grated across her strained nerves. “I am delighted to find you as innocent as I have been promised. Your little cunt will be tight and wet when I take you.”
    Burning with shocked embarrassment and praying she had somehow misheard, she tried to pull away, to put some distance between them. One of the Marquis’ hands snapped out with snakelike speed and held her fast. The other hand slid up her thigh, delving inwards, pressing the layers of her underskirts against her.
    She gasped and began to struggle in earnest, her heart racing. “Let me go. This is not seemly.”
    He laughed, a soundless exhalation of air. “Seemly or not, you are mine. You must smile when your master pets you.” He pulled her hand down onto the rigid rod that lay under the brocaded silk of his dress coat. “My cock is strong and eager to perform,” he gloated. “I paid well for a fresh, young virgin and I will have you—tight and bloody, screaming and moaning beneath me.” His tongue flicked along his wrinkled lips. “You will obey me in all things, and you will take whatever punishment I see fit to visit upon you. If you give me a son to inherit the title, when I am finished with you I will be generous and allow you to retire to live in quiet seclusion in the country.” The hand holding her wrist tightened painfully. “If you do not, I will take you to a very private society to which I belong. Such a tender morsel as yourself will be an acceptable delicacy, even after I have finished with you. The habitués do not mind if the occasional offering is slightly used, as long as she is toothsome when they begin their…festivities.” The look in his eyes chilled Angelique in spite of the room’s warmth. “They enjoy punishing uncooperative girls. You will not be of much use to anyone once they have finished with you.”
    She swallowed down an acidic rush of bile. “I find your conversation repellent, My Lord. I wish you to leave.”
    The Marquis only smiled, a small curve of his thin lips. “You are afraid of me.” The smile grew cruel. “ Bon . I like fear. It adds sauce to my pleasure.” He leaned over her, and squeezed her breast—hard—until she could not hide her pain. “Does it hurt, mignon? You will learn to love the pain, to beg me for it.”
    Angelique shook her head, too enraged to