Stepping inside the narrow wood-paneled room, no one noticed her at first. She was able to observe Bloodsworth with his two dozen guests undetected. Candlelight played over the ladies in their shining jewels and fine satins and brocades. Even the gentlemen were resplendent in their rich jackets and colorful cravats.

She recognized many of them. They had attended her wedding. The duke sat at the head of the table. She watched with a detached sense of bemusement as he chatted with Joanna, seated to his left. The quintessential English rose with her corn silk ringlets bouncing on either side of her head. She giggled at something Bloodsworth said. Her rosy pink lips curved in the most delighted of smiles.

Dimly, Annalise recalled that he had been charming. Attentive and kind. Now Joanna was the recipient of his attentions. How ecstatic she must be to have finally won him.

One by one gazes drifted her way. The Marchioness of Ridgefield’s gaze landed on her and she screamed, dropping a spoon into her bowl with a resounding clatter. She fell against the back of her chair in a near swoon. Her husband quickly grasped her shoulder to keep her from falling to the floor.

The duke swiveled around in his seat.

Everyone stared at her now. A hush fell over the room.

Her husband pushed to his feet, his eyes wide. His lips worked and she knew he did not know what to say. He did not know what she would say. What aspersions she might cast upon him.

His shock filled her with immense satisfaction. She felt in utter control of the moment—of him. It was a heady thing.

He had not expected for her to stroll back into his world. He thought he had effectively silenced her. Terrified her into running until one of his underlings caught up with her and finished what he had started on their wedding night.

“Annalise!” Joanna cried, rising to her feet. She stepped closer to Bloodsworth, her lovely blue gaze full of panic. She reached for his arm, her fingers grasping the cuff of his jacket as if desperate to maintain some form of contact with him.

The duke lightly shook her hand off, casting her a rather helpless look. “Joanna . . .”

Ah. She recalled Bloodsworth mentioned he had plans in the works. Apparently those plans had involved Joanna. Plans her return had just thwarted.

The duke returned his gaze to her. Only she could see the venom in his eyes as he proclaimed, “Annalise, you’re alive! My prayers have been answered.”

To her credit, she did not laugh. With a brittle smile, she replied, “As have mine.”

She managed not to cringe as he stepped forward to press a kiss to her cheek. His hands held her shoulders. Only she felt the dig of his fingers bruise her through her cloak. Stepping back, he demanded, “But where have you been?”

“A kind farmer and his family took me in. I must have slipped and fell over the boat—”

“Just as everyone suspected,” Bloodsworth declared a bit too loudly. “The wedding champagne had been flowing too freely that night, I fear.” He cupped her cheek. “Dear girl, you were quite unaccustomed to such revelry.”

“Indeed, I could not remember myself at first.” She brushed her head. “I injured my head.”

The duke’s eyes locked with hers as understanding passed between them. She was not denouncing him as a murderer. At least not yet.

Bloodsworth was all action then, making his apologizes to his guests as he ushered her toward the door, eager, presumably, to be alone with his long-lost bride.

“Forgive me. I’m sure my wife is quite spent.”

Everyone murmured understanding remarks, even as their eyes told a different tale. They would all long to hear more of Annalise’s misfortunes.

Only Joanna stood silent, her face varying shades of green. Her father strode forward and seized Bloodsworth’s arm, demanding, “My lord, what of us? My daughter—”

The duke clapped him once on the shoulder. “Please. You are my guests. We shall discuss matters in the morning.”

The older gentleman sniffed, clearly still affronted. He turned his gaze on Annalise, raking her scornfully, obviously annoyed that she had the presumption to be alive.

“Come,” Bloodsworth cajoled. “Do not leave, my friend. You and your daughter have my highest regard.”

A long moment passed before Joanna’s father nodded.

“Very good.” Nodding in satisfaction, the duke led her from the dining room. The instant they cleared the room, his hand on her arm became hard and bruising.

“Quite a spectacle, wife. I did not even credit you with such stupidity.”

“Truly? I think me ingenious.”

“And how do you imagine that?” His feet pounded out his ire as he dragged her up the stairs with him.

“You cannot kill me again after I’ve very publicly returned from the dead, now can you?”

“I’m the Duke of Bloodsworth. I can do whatever I bloody hell want.” He thrust her ahead of him into a bedchamber. She nearly lost her footing from the force of his shove.

She rounded to face him, bracing herself to again be alone with a man who wanted her dead.

He shut the door after them and advanced on her. She held her ground.

“You should have kept your word and disappeared—”

“As you kept your word? You hired someone to kill me.”

One side of his mouth twisted. “He failed, I see. I suppose if you want something done properly, you best see to it yourself.” He brought a hand to her neck. His fingers gently circled her throat, grazing lightly, making her skin crawl.

“Only you did try to do it yourself. And you failed, too.”

The flesh near his eye jumped at her taunting reminder. The only sign that she had annoyed him. “What of your lover?” he asked, the hand still on her neck. “He seemed a rather possessive sort.”

Her chest tightened at the mention of Owen. “He tired of me,” she lied, hoping he believed her. She needed him to forget about Owen.

He angled his head, considering her. His hand skimmed down her neck, flattening over her heart. “Indeed? A shame he took what was rightfully mine.”

Revulsion swamped her. She lifted her chin defiantly. “The opportunity for that has passed, Your Grace.”

He laughed bitterly. “True. Even assuming I could stomach staying married to you . . .” He surveyed her. “You’re still a lowborn bastard.”

“So let us rectify matters.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “Without killing me.”

He laughed. “I confess I find you much more intriguing. You aren’t quite the dull object I married months ago. And your looks are much improved.”

“I’m suggesting a divorce,” she snapped, recalling Owen’s earlier words.

“Impossible. We haven’t grounds for divorce—”

“Adultery.”

He blinked. Lifting the back of his hand to his mouth, he laughed.

She had surprised him. She angled her head and pushed her advantage. “That would qualify as grounds for divorce, would it not? And the shame would be mine.” She held her breath, waiting.

He considered her for a long moment, no doubt contemplating that a divorce on the grounds of adultery would place the shame on her and make him the sympathetic party. She did not care one whit for her reputation as long as she was free of him.

“There would still be a scandal.” He tsked his tongue. “Much too ugly. It would ruin my chances with Joanna.”

Annalise cocked her head. “Joanna has always been enamored of you. She would overlook it.”

“I’m not concerned with her. The chit is thoroughly mine . . . of that I have no doubt. Her father is quite another story.”

“Agree to a divorce or I shall walk out of this room and announce to everyone that you tried to kill me. That would likely cause a greater stir and send Lady Joanna’s father running.”

His hand was suddenly at her neck again, tightening around her throat. “You dare threaten me, you little bitch. I’m the Duke of Bloodsworth. What are you but a lowborn upstart? Any tale you spin will be discounted.”

“Oh, but the gossip,” she wheezed. “How you should hate that.” She scratched at his hand until he eased his grip.

He pushed his face close to hers. Spittle flew onto her cheek. “You think yourself so clever?”

“It’s a question of which scandal you prefer. At least a divorce gets you rid of me.”

His face twisted into something feral and desperate. Eyes glittering with a malice that sent a bolt of fear down her spine, he pressed closer, his cheek brushing against hers. “I think I shall keep you. There’s pleasure to be had in torturing you for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

She went cold and felt the blood leech from her face.

His voice slithered around her. “I might not be able to kill you, but there are fates worse than death, you know. Abuse and punishments. Shall I show you?”

She didn’t have a chance to react.

He forced her back until she collided with the bed. He shoved her down and straddled her. It was all horrifically familiar. She scratched fiercely at his hand. Her breath escaped in hard, desperate pants as her nails scored him, but it was as though he didn’t even feel her.

He looked down at her, his lips curling back from his handsome face. “Go ahead. I like the fight.”

From the flare of his nostrils, she knew he spoke the truth. He wanted her resisting him.

But she couldn’t simply surrender. She saw Owen’s face in her mind. Tears burned her eyes. He would want her to fight. She couldn’t not fight.

With a choked sob, she struck him across the face. The sharp crack rang out in the room.

He grabbed both her wrists, securing them and pinning them above her head with one hand. His other hand caressed her face, drifting down her throat. Reaching her breast, he fondled her roughly through her gown.

She snarled and snapped her teeth at him. He jerked his face aside, chuckling. “No worry. I shan’t leave a mark on you. At least not where anyone can see. There will be no talk. You shall look quite presentable in the morning.”

He lifted the hand from her breast for the barest moment before his knuckles crashed into her side.

She cried out, the air expelling from her lungs in a great, pained whoosh.

He grabbed the front of her gown and yanked. The rip of her dress was an ugly and obscene sound on the air. His eyes glittered wildly down at her, his lips curved in a cruel smile as he fumbled at her skirts.

Dazed from the blow to her ribs, she struggled to recover . . . to move, to fight. She kicked, thrashing her legs. It did no good.

He wedged himself between her thighs. His hand slid up her stocking-clad thigh and his breath came harder, faster, in her ear. “You feel good, Annalise.”

“No,” she growled, wrenching her hand free. This would not happen to her. She clawed his face, grunting in satisfaction at the bloody scratches welling on his cheek.

He laughed, his eyes wild, and that’s when she knew he was truly unhinged. It would take more than her fingernails to his face. She slammed the base of her palm into his nose. He howled, blood spurting, showering her. His hands flew to his nose.

She squirmed out from under him. On her feet, she turned for the door, stopping when she came face-to-face with Joanna.

The girl looked from Annalise to the duke, her eyes taking in everything. “Bloodsworth!”

He whirled around at the sound of his name.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He stumbled up from the bed, hands still pressed to his bleeding nose. “Joanna, darling. What are you doing in here?”

Joanna pointed at her. Annalise attempted to cover herself, but her gown hung in tatters in front of her. She gave up and clutched at the bedpost.

“You told me you never wanted her . . . that you had to marry her.”

“I did.” Bloodsworth waved his blood-smeared hands soothingly. “What are you doing here? We’ll talk in the morning.”