“And you,” he said with ungainly, almost accusatory heat. “The flawless balance of both. Slim, but supple. Delicate and desirable.”
Alexandra’s dinner roiled in her stomach.
De Marchand stepped back behind his desk and pulled open a drawer.
“It isn’t appropriate of you to say such things, sir. My father wouldn’t appreciate—”
The sight of the pearl-handled shaving razor halted her breathing, and as de Marchand began to produce the contraband she and her friends had acquired over the years, a strangling sensation paralyzed her.
A pair of braces, a top hat, cuff links, shirts, and several other incidentals. They hadn’t all been his, and many others had been castoffs.
Even so.
She hated that he’d been to their cave, that he’d defiled their sanctum with his odious presence. She resented him for touching things that, although not hers to begin with, had become treasures.
Treasures the Red Rogues had fully intended to return upon graduating.
“Four years.” The number seemed to impress him as he placed the items in a cluster at the edge of his desk in measured, meaningful motions. “You stole from me when you didn’t think anyone was watching. You delved into my intimate things. Forbidden things.”
A slither of oily disgust oozed through her insides, snaking around her guts and tightening them painfully.
His head shook in barely perceptible motions. “We are more alike than you’d imagine, Lady Alexandra. I, too, have a penchant for forbidden things.”
Forbidden.
As forbidden as what lurked in his ever-present dark eyes upon her.
His stare had become a chill permanently lodged in her spine. And that chill kept her posture ramrod straight as she stood before him. It readied her limbs for retreat.
“So clever,” he repeated. “But not clever enough to have known I watched you.”
“I do know you watch me, sir.” She’d been aware of it since she’d been too young to recognize just what glimmered in his eyes. A desire not only forbidden, but criminal. “More than is seemly. More than is right.”
“Let us not dwell on what is right or wrong.” He motioned to her stolen goods. “I’ve watched you enough to find your eyes search for me, as well.”
A breath of disbelief escaped her. “Only like a rabbit searches the sky for an eagle.”
“You think me a predator, then?”
Indignation scored at her. He wanted her to fear him. “I don’t think of you, at all, sir.”
His handsomeness rearranged itself in the firelight into something undeniably hideous. He tossed the port back and set the glass next to his reclaimed property.
Alexandra admitted her guilt. She’d been caught out for a thief. And yet, his sins far surpassed hers, she knew that intrinsically, with every part of herself.
“What do I do with the three of you?” He eyed her with exaggerated speculation. “Were I feeling unduly punitive, I would contact the police. Were I feeling cruel, I could expel you.”
“No!” Alexandra gasped. As a woman, she’d have a difficult enough time being accepted into a university. If she didn’t produce the recommendation she relied upon from de Chardonne, she’d have no chance, whatsoever. “Please, sir. It was only a bit of harmless fun. I apologize for taking your things. We only intended to borrow them. I promise to make reparations if you’ll just—”
He stooped to gather something from yet another drawer of his desk, retracting a long, slim strap every girl at de Chardonne had come to both fear and despise. The sight of it once again choked the words from her throat.
“After tonight, I will be certain to remain in your thoughts every time you intend to misbehave.”
Alexandra set her own glass down, her cold, stiff fingers no longer able to carry it as he rounded the desk to tower over her.
Her nostrils flared with hatred, but she bore down on her dread and extended her palms to him. She’d never been struck before, had never done anything to warrant it. But she’d seen the strap applied in the classrooms to unruly girls. She’d noted their stiff movements for weeks.
“It is my fault, Monsieur de Marchand. Punish me, but please leave Francesca and Cecelia out of it. I am the instigator. I, alone, deserve this.”
“As you say.” He stared at her upturned palms, leached of color and trembling like hummingbird wings.
He lifted the strap, and she turned her head in an involuntary wince as she prepared for the strike.
The strike that never came.
Releasing her breath, she dared a glance at him and instantly regretted it.
A notion darkened his visage as he lowered his arm.
“No.” He pointed the strap toward the desk. “No, for you the punishment will fit the crime.”
She glanced at the smooth surface of the desk, uncomprehending. “How do you mean?”
“You’ve desired these past four years to be treated like the boys at le Radon?” He grasped her elbow, drawing her toward the desk. “Then you will be punished like one.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
His teeth glowed brilliant white, even in the dim firelight. “Bend over.”
Alexandra’s eyes peeled wide and she took a step back, tugging against his hold. She knew exactly where he wanted to strike her.
“No,” she whispered, her mind searching for an out. Francesca would know what to do. At the very least, she’d use her influence as a countess to bring the headmaster to heel. Even Cecelia could use her wealth as leverage. No one dared risk losing the income she provided the school.
What clout did Alexandra have?
“My father, the Earl of Bentham, will never stand for this.” She planted her heels into the carpet, to no effect. “When he hears of how I’ve been treated, he’ll ruin you.”
De Marchand brought his face alarmingly close to hers. “Everyone knows your father couldn’t ruin a painted whore, let alone a man with my influence.”
He didn’t give Alexandra time to consider his words as he shoved her against the desk. With a strong hand between her shoulder blades, he pressed her chest against the surface.
She gasped out a cry of pain as the sharp edge bit into her hip bones.
“Spread your arms,” he commanded.
So stunned by the pain, so unfamiliar with brutality, Alexandra complied, smoothing her fingers over the cool mahogany. Closing her eyes, she counted the petticoats beneath her heavy skirts.
They’d soften the sting of the strap at least.
With a breath pinned in her lungs, she braced for the first blow.
Instead, she felt the whisper of cold air against the backs of her stockinged knees.
“No.” The hoarse objection ripped out of her once again as she reared back and did her best to twist away.
His hand clamped on the back of her neck, slamming her back over the desk with such force, her cheek ground against the grain.
Terror pierced her more than the pain. This was no simple punishment. No retributive fury.
A current of something angrier, uglier, pulsed in the atmosphere around them. What had she done to evoke such a malevolent reaction from him? How could she take it back?
“Please.” Fighting to remain calm, she struggled to lift her neck. “Let me up. You’re hurting me.”