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The midday sun beat down on the Bridgerton gardens, warming the stone bench where Daphne sat. She should have been inside preparing for the afternoon callers, but the heat had made her restless, her skin flushed beneath the thin muslin of her day dress.
Nigel Berbrooke found her there, his shadow falling over her before she heard his approach. She stiffened, her polite smile feeling brittle on her face.
"Mr. Berbrooke. I was not expecting you."
"I took a chance," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the bench. His eyes, small and pale, swept over her in a way that always made her feel like an insect pinned to a board. "You look warm, Miss Bridgerton."
"The sun is quite strong today," she agreed, wishing he would leave. But he didn't. He sat beside her, his bulk pressing close, trapping her against the arm of the bench. He smelled of damp wool and something vaguely sour.
"I find the heat... invigorating," he continued, one of his thick-fingered hands coming to rest on her knee. The touch was proprietary, a claim. Daphne's breath caught in her throat. "It makes one appreciate the... finer things."
His hand slid upward, bunching the fabric of her dress. Daphne's mind raced, a frantic scramble for propriety, for escape, but her limbs felt heavy, pinned by the sheer weight of his presence. This was wrong. This was dangerous.
"Mr. Berbrooke, you must—" she began, but his other hand was at the back of her neck, his grip surprisingly strong.
"Hush now," he murmured, his face close to hers. His breath was hot on her cheek. "You'll enjoy this. All ladies do."
He didn't wait for a response. With a rough tug, he pulled her to her feet and spun her around, bending her over the cool stone of the bench. Her palms slapped against the surface, the shock of it momentarily stunning her. He was behind her, his body a wall of heat and unwelcome pressure. She could hear the rustle of his own clothing, the sound obscene in the quiet garden.
He lifted her skirts, the air cool on her bare legs for a moment before his hands were on her, clumsy and insistent. He tore her thin cotton drawers, the fabric ripping with a sound that made her flinch. There was no gentleness, no pretense of affection. Just a brute force that shoved her legs apart.
She felt the blunt, wet head of him prodding at her entrance, and then he was inside her with a single, brutal thrust. A cry tore from her throat, half pain, half shock. He was large, filling her painfully, stretching tissues not meant for such rough handling. He began to move, a hard, rhythmic pounding that knocked the air from her lungs with each stroke. The stone bench dug into her hips, the pain a dull counterpoint to the sharp, invasive ache between her legs.
"See?" he grunted from behind her, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Told you you'd like it."
She didn't like it. She hated it. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners and tracing paths through the dust on her cheeks. She could smell the crushed roses from a nearby bush, their sweet scent a cruel mockery of the violation happening in their shadow.
Just when she thought it couldn't get worse, he pulled out. For a fleeting second, she thought it was over. But then she felt the same blunt pressure against her other, tighter entrance.
"No," she whispered, a desperate, broken sound. "Please, no. Not there."
He laughed, a low, ugly sound. "Oh, yes. There."
His grip on her hips tightened, bruisingly hard. He pushed forward, and the pain was white-hot, a searing agony that stole her breath and made her vision swim. It was a tearing, burning invasion that felt like it would split her in two. He forced himself deeper, ignoring her choked sobs, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.
The world narrowed to the pain, to the weight of him on her back, to the sound of his grunting and the slap of his skin against hers. She was no longer a person, no longer Daphne Bridgerton. She was just a body, a thing to be used, bent over a stone bench in her own garden while the sun shone indifferently down.
With a final, guttural groan, he shuddered against her, his heat spilling into her. He stayed there for a long moment, heavy and panting, before finally pulling away. Daphne collapsed onto the bench, her body trembling uncontrollably. She could feel the sticky wetness between her thighs, the throbbing pain a constant, humiliating reminder.
He straightened his clothing, his movements unhurried. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"A pleasure, Miss Bridgerton," he said, his voice perfectly calm, as if they had just shared a polite cup of tea. "I shall see you at the ball this evening."
And then he was gone, leaving her alone, broken and soiled in the ruin of her garden.