The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

His pounding head felt like it would split open and his skin tingled as if jabbed by sharp needles, but he ignored all of it and set out with long, firm strokes. He swam at a furious pace until he reached the opposite shore and then turned himself about and swam back. He found his footing and waded through the water reeds to the grassy bank. His heart pounded with the exertion, but he felt exhilarated, somehow renewed. He stretched out his arms and embraced the cold air against his wet skin.

He turned and gazed out over the lake, a strange smile flitting over his face. Enough of being a sniveling fool. He said half-aloud to the calm blue water, “What a fool to think of giving it all up, a damned weak fool. I’ll wed her, just as I planned. And I won’t pay her court as does that half-wit Bleddoes.”

As he dressed himself, he let his mind nurture the idea until it burst forth. He announced again to the silent lake, “Damn, but I’ll have her. I’ll use my brain this time, not drown myself in bottles of brandy. Damn, but I’ll make her love me.”

Not bothering to tie his cravat, he strode with confident steps back to the mansion.

Sir Oliver’s arm ached. He considered himself a pious man, and it angered him that this wretched daughter of his had made him curse to vent his spleen. “Damn the girl.” He sought fiercely for more curses, turning to his Bible for epithets that would fit what had come to pass. “I’ve nurtured a viper to my bosom, an unnatural, willful child. God, why didn’t she die? She should have, the damned little slut.” He massaged his arm. He’d been fair. Of course he’d been fair.

When she’d calmly informed him that she didn’t want to wed the earl of March, he controlled his immediate outrage and presented her with innumerable advantages to such a match. But she just stood stiffly before him, in that contemptuous silent way of hers, saying nothing, but he knew she would never agree. And when he threatened her with Bleddoes, she told him quietly that she’d already refused the squire. Obstinate, that’s what she was, unnatural and stubborn as the devil who spawned her. The little slut didn’t even cry, nor did she beg for mercy when he raised his cane and shook it in her face. She pulled her long hair away from her back and covered her head with her arms. When he stopped beating her, she rose unsteadily to her feet, gazed at him with hatred in those sinful green eyes of hers, and staggered to the door. He realized full well that the beating hadn’t made her change her mind. At least, he reflected, it had made him feel better.

As he sat pondering his ill fortune, he was informed by Filber that the earl of March was here, asking to see him. A flicker of hope widened his eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot, Filber. Show his lordship in.”

Hastily he rose and removed the cane. There was dried blood on it, and it did not seem politic for his lordship to see it.

Filber returned to the earl and took his riding crop and cloak. “Sir Oliver will see your lordship in the book room, my lord.”

“Filber, just a moment. Is Miss Katharine here?”

Filber’s calm facade nearly broke, and as he replied he was aware of the hardness of his own voice, “Miss Katharine, my lord, is physically unable to see anyone at this time and for some time to come.”

Julien asked, his words so softly spoken that Filber had to strain to hear, “Has he hurt her, Filber?” To anyone who knew the earl well, the quietly spoken words would have been an instant signal that his lordship was in a deep rage. Filber, who didn’t know this, felt emboldened to say, “Yes, my lord, he hurt her very badly. She is in bed, her maid Lilly attending her. He wouldn’t even allow a doctor to see her. He beat her more savagely than he ever has before. It’s possible that he’s scarred her this time. Lilly will see that she remains still and quiet until she heals. She has always healed before, at least on the outside.”