Brutal Serpent: A Dark Regency Romance, page 1
Brutal Serpent
A DARK REGENCY ROMANCE
KATE RAVEN
Contents
Author’s Note:
Disclaimer:
1. St. Erth
2. Catherine
3. St. Erth
4. Catherine
5. St. Erth
6. Catherine
7. St. Erth
8. Catherine
9. St. Erth
10. Catherine
11. St. Erth
12. Catherine
13. St. Erth
14. Catherine
15. St. Erth
16. Catherine
17. Catherine
18. St. Erth
19. Catherine
20. St. Erth
21. Catherine
22. Catherine
23. St. Erth
24. Catherine
25. Catherine
26. St. Erth
27. Catherine
28. Catherine
Epilogue
Author’s Note:
This is a dark Regency romance, which means that the romance itself is dark and toxic. This is an arranged marriage “villain gets the girl” book, and there are a lot of dark triggers in this romance. Please be sure to check out my detailed t/w list on my Instagram page here to make sure you are comfortable with this content.
Disclaimer:
Portions of this book are historically accurate.
CHAPTER 1
St. Erth
It didn’t really matter what my future wife looked like. Even though she didn’t know it yet, I was going to marry her even if she was gnarled and marked up with smallpox. As long as she was a virgin Wendover with a working womb, nothing else mattered. Miss Catherine Wendover was 19 years old to my 36, and she was the final missing piece in my years-long revenge plot.
I watched her across the crowded London ballroom, my eyes locked on my future wife as the dancing couples whirled past. She looked younger than I expected, even though at 19 she was a year past when she’d be expected to marry. The little Miss Wendover was dressed fashionably enough, in a delicate white satin ballroom gown with gossamer golden ribbons.
Fascinating, especially since I knew the high and mighty aristocratic Wendover family were flat broke, and just barely outrunning their creditors. And, thanks to me, they were about to run out of fools willing to loan them money. The Wendovers were betting everything on Catherine’s London season, on their only daughter making a wealthy match.
Good.
Their desperation meant they’d fall into my trap even easier.
Everything else about little Catherine Wendover was unfashionable. She had bright, burnished auburn hair, wound into a heavy updo, a tiny stature instead of tall elegance, and soft brown eyes. Instead of looking eager and happy to dance, she hung back from the crowd that pressed close to the dance floor, looking shy and nervous.
Ordinarily the kind of woman I wouldn’t look twice at.
But she didn’t need the kind of sparkling conversation, elegance, or wit I looked for in my mistresses.
She needed only to be a Wendover. And a virgin. After that, she just needed to be a wet cunt for me to fill, and a healthy belly for me to swell with a baby. Then my revenge against the family would be complete.
It would of course also gain my revenge to marry her and slit her throat after the vows. But that would only be a partial revenge. I had something much worse planned. It would be much more satisfying to force her to bear my child instead.
As my eyes remained fixed on Catherine, I could see others taking notice. I was one of the matrimonial prizes this season. Even the most finicky aristocratic mamas wouldn’t turn her nose up at the great wealth of Viscount Alastair St. Erth. Even though I bought my way into the title I looked the complete gentleman.
Looks are deceiving.
But the Wendovers won’t realize this until it’s too late.
Until their daughter is trapped in my snare.
Some of the other ladies hid their smiles behind their fans, whispering eagerly to each other. I had never singled any London lady out for particular attentions before.
Who was I looking at? Who would I be procuring an introduction to? I could feel the whispers across my skin.
The only one not looking at me was little Catherine Wendover.
It was time to make my move, and I didn’t anticipate any problems. I could already see her mother, Lady Julia Wendover, practically licking her lips. I’m new money. I’m the gentleman who bought his title. Bought it with dirty revolting working money, made from my enlistment in the navy, and the prizes I seized from rival French ships. I’m not well-born like them, but most of the London Ton is perfectly happy to greet me, invite me, curry my favor.
Beg me to marry their daughters.
Especially desperate, dilapidated aristocratic families like the Wendovers.
My long strides were lean and silent as I walked toward Catherine Wendover.
She doesn’t know it yet, but by virtue of who she is, she’s doomed.
She’ll never have a day free from my will, my cruelty, ever again.
As of today, she’ll be mine to punish for her family’s sins.
My fury is endless.
My revenge will be lifelong.
She’ll never be able to escape it.
CHAPTER 2
Catherine
London balls were often comfortless and grim affairs, and tonight was no different. I felt the beginnings of a headache as I tried to fan myself. It was the middle of June, the dance floor was crowded and hot, the stomp of dancing feet throbbing in my head. I felt uncomfortably sticky and irritable, my thick curls plastered to the back of my neck.
But I tried to hold myself how Mama had taught me: head held high, neck kept long and elegant, hands arranged into a pleasing shape in front of my snow-white gown with the elegant ribbons.
The season was winding down in a few weeks and I still didn’t have an offer of marriage. Oh, I had met a few very pleasant shy gentlemen who made tentative overtures to call, but they had all turned out to be rather unfortunately situated, with no money whatsoever, and Papa told them that any future offers of marriage would be firmly declined.
I had to make a good match. But I couldn’t show that on my face.
My face had to look like I loved nothing more than this sweaty, boiling, sticky ball and all the noisy, jostling couples.
The humiliation of possibly having to come back for a second London season scalded at me, and I didn’t even know if we would have enough money for that.
Although Mama and Papa and my brother Millward tried to keep the truth from me, I knew that our financial needs were pressing. Our ancestral home of Wendover House, our shrinking lands, our entangled finances. They were all riding on me to find a good match. Someone who would feel honor-bound to help my father and brother pay their gambling debts and keep Wendover House from the creditors.
But such a paragon of all the virtues had not appeared and I wasn’t sure if he ever would.
Out of the ballroom window I saw the dirty waves of the Thames River in the distance. For one wild moment I wanted to throw off my bonnet and run, run as fast as I could and stow away on a boat, ride down the Thames until we reached the sea. Then I’d emerge and beg to stay on as the ship’s cook and we’d sail the world, far away from the gossip of the Ton and the endless insipid conversation at the balls.
But it was just a foolish dream. I didn’t even know how to boil water, let alone cook for a bunch of sailors.
I was talking to the gentle Mr. Smythe, a lawyer distantly connected with our family. He was of medium height, with sandy brown hair, and he seemed like a nice, boring man. However, I knew a match with him was impossible. Like any of the other shy men who had paid me even the slightest of attentions this season, he didn’t have enough money and he was not comfortably situated enough to pay off my family’s debts.
Mr. Smythe was just informing me of a new type of bookkeeping he was trying when I heard a throat clear behind me.
“Miss Catherine Wendover?” someone asked, and I whirled around, startled.
It was our host, Sir John Buckridge, and he waved a hand beside him, indicating a man standing there.
“Miss Wendover, Viscount St. Erth begs for the honor of being introduced and to have your hand in this next dance.”
I heard stifled gasps beside me.
I felt a heated flush of embarrassment spring to my face.
Was this some kind of a joke?
I’d never seen this man before in my life, and I looked up at him in confusion.
Viscount St. Erth was very tall, with broad shoulders and powerful thighs. He was dressed in a fashionable superfine coat of soft yellow buttercup. His hair was that rare bright golden blonde shade, thick and lustrous and pulled back with a simple leather tie. His handsome face was tanned, with high cheekbones, sharp lines, and a strong jaw. His eyes were a bright cornflower blue, and there was a small smile on his face, but his eyes were cold. I felt a little uneasy shiver go down my spine.
There was no reason a man who looked like that should be paying attention to me.
I didn’t think I was being overly modest, but there were many prettier, cleverer, and more accomplished ladies here tonight. And ones without the baggage of my family.
I dipped a curtsey in acknowledgement and said what was proper, but I felt terribly shy with so many eyes on me. When the Vis
His hands were strong, with lean, tanned fingers, and, to avoid looking at his face, I looked at his hands. They weren’t at all the hands of the typical gentleman, crisscrossed and scarred with strange lines.
The Viscount didn’t seem inclined for conversation, though, moving through the dance without speaking to me.
I wondered irritably why he wouldn’t speak, when he should know perfectly well that the gentleman was supposed to engage the lady he had asked for a dance in polite conversation.
He was a good dancer, his tall body moving easily through the complicated steps with a panther’s grace. I, on the other hand, stumbled through the steps, forgetting them, and needed his firm hand to direct me when I forgot what my feet were supposed to be doing.
I felt flustered by the fact that he didn’t speak to me, so I finally said, “Are you—are you staying long in London, sir?”
“Long enough,” he said.
His eyes were on me, and my prickling sensation of unease increased.
Had I suddenly been transformed into a diamond of the first water, the star of the season? From the skeptical and disbelieving glances I met everywhere I turned, I didn’t think so.
“And what are you in town for?” I asked, when no other response seemed to be forthcoming.
“I am in town to get married,” St. Erth replied.
I digested this information for a moment. It gave me a strange feeling of relief. If he wanted to get married, it couldn’t possibly mean anything that he had asked me for an introduction. He must be bored, or perhaps wanted to do the little wallflower not dancing a favor.
But as I glanced up at him, my feeling of relief dissipated.
He didn’t look like a kind man.
He didn’t look like the kind of man who did favors.
Viscount St. Erth’s mouth twisted up as he looked down on me, and his hand moved to my waist. His fingers seemed to singe my skin through my gown with an unholy fire.
“Would you like to know the name of my wife-to-be?” he asked, and his smile seemed even more mocking now.
I said nothing, confused by his joking.
When I did not respond, his next words felt like an executioner’s sentence.
“You, Catherine Wendover.”
I tried to shake off my unease at what must be his attempts at humor.
“My lord, you don’t. . . don’t even know me,” I said.
“I don’t have to know you,” he returned coldly, increasing the pressure on my fingers.
And when the dance was over, he didn’t let go of my hand.
“Another,” he said.
I tried to pull away, my heart starting to hammer. “I thank you for your attention,” I began, but he gave my hand a little yank.
“Do as you are told,” he said.
I opened my mouth to protest but he spun me back onto the floor, guiding me through the steps and making it impossible to break away without causing a scene. I felt more confused than ever.
Was he drunk? Surely that must be it. Otherwise I couldn’t understand why he would go to such lengths to taunt a perfect stranger.
Surely this dance wasn’t that rigorous, so why was I breathing so hard?
I was in an agony of uncertainty for the entire dance, and St. Erth said not another word to me, acting perfectly unconcerned with the curious stares and whispers at his attentions to me.
“I will call on you tomorrow,” the Viscount said when the dance was done.
He still hadn’t released my hand. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze, trickles of sweat rolling down my shoulders and under my gown. I tried to twist out of his grip. But he only tightened his hold on me, the pressure so tight it was almost painful.
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I stammered.
“I didn’t ask for permission,” St. Erth replied coldly, bowing formally over my hand and walking away into the crowd without a backward glance.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt uneasy. Surely he had been drunk? There was no other explanation for his bizarre behavior! And from a man I had never set eyes on before in my life. The anger I had seen in his eyes, the demands, the way he had refused to make proper conversation, it all pointed to coming to the ball decidedly not sober.
That must be it. Right? I wondered uneasily.
I would probably never see him again. Or he’d be deeply apologetic when we next met.
Then why did I feel so nervous as I watched his tall, lean figure disappear into the crowds at the ball?
Although I was uneasy, Mama was thrilled by his attentions, and it was all she could talk about the entire way home in the carriage.
Mama was tall and elegant, and her red hair a much more becoming shade of auburn than mine. She had been the accredited beauty of her season, and my father, tall and handsome and raven-haired then, and tall and handsome with silvery streaks in his dark hair now, had easily charmed and won her.
“Did the Viscount say anything about calling?” she asked eagerly. I could feel my father and brother’s eyes on me.
“He did,” I acknowledged reluctantly, although I did not want to talk about the Viscount. “But I don’t think he means it. You must—you must know, Mama. He cannot be serious. I think he was just—having a bit of fun.”
But my Mama was not a very creative woman, and this she could not fathom. “Don’t be missish,” she said. “What’s wrong with you, silly girl? You ought to be pleased a man like that is paying you attentions. Your mama was an accredited beauty during her season, you know.”
I had heard this many times, but it was hard for me to articulate just why the sight of St. Erth made me nervous.
“There’s no--there’s no reason a man like the Viscount would want me,” I protested. “And I don’t want him!”
“Silence, Papa broke in angrily. “Enough of your foolish babble, Catherine. Perhaps he is a sensible man looking to make a sensible match. You will do what you can to encourage the Viscount and show him you would be an ideal wife for a man in his position.”
I couldn’t sleep that night, and I looked out my window at London, my stomach twisting in knots.
Surely he won’t come to call.
Surely he was just drunk.
Surely he didn’t mean anything he said.
CHAPTER 3
St. Erth
The day after I first danced with my wife, I walked up the steps of the London home the Wendovers had hired for the season. I curled my lip to see Catherine’s brother Millward stumble up the steps with a drunken grin.
Millward was a drunken, sloppy fool.
With one twist of my wrist, I grabbed him by the collar.
“Unhand me, you ruffian,” he slurred drunkenly.
But there was no escape for any member of the Wendover family.
I brought my knee across his forehead and pitched him off the side of the stairs where he landed with a crunch on the hard sidewalk and rolled into the gutter below. It would only break his bones painfully, not kill him, and provide a distraction from the Wendovers’ insipid conversation later.
I knocked on the door as Millward moaned in the gutter, remembering with pleasure that I had just visited the august Earl who rented out this home for the Season. After a smooth and easy transfer of funds, he had agreed to start to harass the Wendovers for money starting today. I had made other calls to various tradespeople, and they would soon be coming to repossess everything from Lady Julia’s gowns to Millward’s cravats.
They’d soon have no choice but to accept my offer for their daughter’s hand in marriage. The naked thirst and need in their eyes when I danced with Catherine was obvious, their eyes greedily devouring my body to calculate how much my coat was worth.
My coats and pantaloons, made by the most exclusive tailors in London, only emphasized my status as a prospective suitor. Well-cut, fitted, every row of my lace ruffles showing my wealth and power.
But I’m not a suitor.
I’m going to use their daughter, not court her.
