“What are you doing in here?”
She yelped and spun around.
Hugo was standing in the doorway, backlit by the dim light in the corridor.
“You scared the life out of me.” When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer until she could see his face. He looked haggard, far older than he’d looked only this morning. “Hugo? Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you come to bed?”
“I went downstairs to the bookroom.” He tossed several folded and sealed sheets of parchment onto a nearby table.
“You look so very tired. Perhaps—” Martha reached out to touch his face, but he jerked back.
“I’m glad you’re awake.”
He didn’t sound glad; he sounded … grim.
“What’s going on?”
He brushed passed her, his eyes turned away as he headed to his dressing room. “I just came home to get some things,” he said, lighting several candles in the big holder as well as a candlestick.
“Things? Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, I am.” His broad shoulders were tense beneath his shirtsleeves as he carried the candlestick into his dressing room.
Martha stood like a statue, waiting for … something.
When he came out of the dressing room, he had a valise in one hand and a coat in the other.
“What is going on?”
“I told you, I’m leaving. And tomorrow you’ll be leaving, too.”
Martha gaped; who was this stranger? His eyes were hard and cold, his mouth thin and mean. She reached for him, as if touching him would help her understand.
Hugo knocked her hand away. “Don’t,” he snapped, his jaws flexing. “This isn’t working, Martha.”
“Wh-what isn’t working?”
“This. Us. This marriage.” He looked away. “I can’t do this—I’m not made for it.”
“But—I don’t understand.”
He turned on her in a way that reminded her of Lily’s male otter—vicious and feral. “Do you know where I really work every day?”
She opened her mouth.
“I’m a whore, Martha.”
Martha felt as though she’d opened a door to a raging furnace. She took a step back. “I don’t—”
“I don’t go to work at the Exchange; I go to work at a brothel. I’ve been working there for over a decade—that’s the business I co-owned with Laura Maitland, my business partner.” He snorted, as if the words amused him. “I’ve been whoring since I was fourteen. That is how I’ve earned all my money, Martha: having sex with anyone who will pay enough—man or woman.” His dark eyes glittered as he glared at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.
Martha heard what he was saying—heard the actual words—but they made no sense.
“Cat got your tongue?” His face twisted into a sneer. “Don’t worry, I don’t want you here any more than you want to stay. The good news is that I spent the day arranging your travel.” He pointed to one of the letters he’d just thrown onto the table. “All the details are in there. I already spoke to Albert several hours ago and he will come tomorrow and help you and Cailean prepare to leave.”
“Leave? And go where?”
“To France. Joss and his wife will help you find a suitable house. I’ve already set up an account for you. Joss will explain everything when you arrive. You will just have to—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It was his turn to blink. And then his expression turned cold—so cold that she shivered under his gaze. “You are my wife and will do as you are told.” He raked body her body with a hard, dismissive look before settling on her face. “You can go willingly or unwillingly. But you will go.” His mouth flexed into a nasty smile. “And don’t think that crying will change my mind.”
Martha hadn’t even known she was crying, but when she felt her cheeks, they were wet.
“All those nights you’ve been gone you were d-doing—” she swallowed “that?”
He laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Are you trying to say fucking, sweetheart, because—”
“Don’t! Don’t you ever call me sweetheart using that tone—making the word sound so, so ugly.”
“I am ugly. So is what I do for a living; you’d better face the truth, sweetheart.”
“Why did you marry me?” she asked hoarsely.
“Haven’t you figured that out yet? Your father bribed me to take you off Stroma. In return, he saved me from McCoy. That was our agreement. At first, I’d hoped that I could fob you off on Clark, but you ruined that escape for me so I was forced to marry you. I might be a whore, Martha, but I don’t go back on my word.” He gave her a look of pure distaste. “But I’m sick of it—sick of you—sick of this life, and I’m finished pretending, about all of it.”
“Why are you saying—”
His eyes glinted dangerously, and he grabbed her upper arms, squeezing her so hard that she whimpered. “Don’t you understand, you little fool? I love my job, Martha—all aspects of it. I love spending my days and nights fucking beautiful women”—he grinned evilly—“and also beautiful men, sometimes both at the same time.” He snorted when she flinched. “You wouldn’t believe the things I do—the perversions I enjoy. That’s who I am. How could you ever believe I would enjoy such bland, milk and water sex with you after I’ve had some of the most gorgeous, sensual women in Britain?”
His words pummeled her like fists, and it was hard to breathe. “You’ve done this while we were married?”
“Oh, yes, darling. Tonight, I was with two women—exquisite, skilled women who were a pleasure to service. Every single night I’ve come from some other lover’s bed before doing my duty with you.” He shoved her away. “But I’m done pretending to be happy in this farce of a marriage and I’m done with you. Your father coerced me to marry you, but he said nothing about having to live with you.”
“Ev—” She choked, swallowed, and tried again, “Everything you told me on Stroma—and since then—was all a lie?”
“Every single word of it, from what I like and
