Chapter 1 The Rose Trap
Rain lashed against the wrought-iron gates of Blackthorn Manor like liquid silver. Elizabeth pulled her threadbare shawl tighter, the medicinal herbs in her basket already turning to mush. Somewhere beyond the thorny hedges, night-blooming crimson roses whispered promises of salvation - the key ingredient for her mother's failing lungs.
"Forgive me, Lord," she whispered, hiking up mud-splattered skirts to squeeze through the broken lattice. Moonlight bled through storm clouds, illuminating rows of blood-dark blossoms that seemed to pulse in the downpour.
Strong hands yanked her backward before she could pluck the first petal.
"Third trespass this month." A voice like whiskey over gravel froze her blood. "What merchandise are you peddling tonight, little thief?"
Elizabeth's breath hitched as cold leather gloves closed around her throat. Duke Edward Blackthorn loomed like Satan himself, rainwater glistening on his jet-black hair. His obsidian eyes reflected her terrified face - a bedraggled mouse caught in a panther's den.
"P-please, Your Grace!" She struggled against his grip, rose thorns tearing her stockings. "I only need-"
"Silence." He pressed her into the mud, knee parting her trembling thighs with brutal efficiency. "Let's see what you've hidden this time."
Elizabeth screamed as his hands slid beneath her sodden blouse. The Duke's breath hitched when his fingers found the raised scar above her left breast - a perfect rosebud shape she'd carried since birth.
"How interesting." His thumb rubbed the mark possessively. "Do your employers know you come branded?"
Before she could protest, he flipped her onto her stomach. Icy rainwater trickled down her spine as he ripped open her lace chemise. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, tasting copper where she'd bitten her lip.
"Ah." Triumph colored his voice as he extracted a glass vial from her garter. "Rose elixir? How original for industrial espionage."
"That's medicine!" She twisted to face him, tears mingling with rain. "My mother-"
A thunderclap drowned her words. Elizabeth gasped as Edward's mouth descended on hers, all teeth and fury and stolen breath. His tongue swept through her mouth like a conquering army, tasting of expensive brandy and cruel intentions.
When he finally released her, both their lips bled crimson.
"Lesson one, mouse." He held the vial to her throat, liquid fire glowing in the moonlight. "Real roses..." The glass shattered against a rock, "...should burn."
Elizabeth recoiled as he smeared the essence across her collarbone. But instead of pain, warmth blossomed beneath his touch. The Duke froze, his chronic migraine symptoms - the ones that made him snap whips against servant boys and smash vintage port collections - suddenly silenced by her honeysuckle scent.
"Witchcraft," he hissed, yet his trembling hands cradled her face. For one terrifying heartbeat, Elizabeth thought he might kiss her again.
Hoofbeats shattered the moment.
"Edward darling!" A feminine voice trilled through the storm. Lady Anne Worthington's carriage emerged like a gilded nightmare, its lanterns casting hellish shadows across the rose beds. "Cavorting with vermin again? How...quaint."
The Duke stood abruptly, wiping Elizabeth's tears with his monogrammed handkerchief. "Leave us, Anne."
"But I brought reporters!" The blonde heiress pouted, gesturing to men with flashing cameras. "They're dying to hear about your new...gardening project."
Elizabeth tried to cover her torn dress as Edward shrugged off his coat. The lingering warmth of his body surrounded her as he draped the garment around her shoulders, fingers lingering at her nape.
"Stay." His command vibrated through her bones. "You'll attend me tonight."
"My mother-"
"Lives at my mercy now." He pressed a rose thorn to her palm until blood bloomed. "Fail me, and I'll have her lungs displayed in my trophy room."
As Edward dragged her toward the manor, Elizabeth didn't notice three things:
1. The security cameras blinking red in the rose bushes
2. The Duke's valet pocketing her mother's hospital bracelet
3. How Edward's chronic tremors stopped whenever their skin touched
Somewhere in the west wing, a grandfather clock chimed midnight. Somewhere in the wine cellar, Anne smashed a 1787 Château Margaux against the wall. Somewhere between hatred and obsession, Edward Blackthorn began falling for the smell of poverty-stricken roses.
