To look at the Lord Reynauld Brook, one would never imagine that his darling third wife had just been committed for the sake of her mental health. Indeed, the fifty-year-old aristocrat drove up to the entrance of the Ravenwood Asylum for Psychiatric Support with a tune on his lips, only assuming an appropriately somber demeanour when the possibility of witnesses became too great to disregard. Patiently enduring the rigorous security checks, he made his way through the polished, sterile halls, a few hefty banknotes slipped to the nurses near his wife’s accommodations ensuring that none saw him fling open the door to the padded cell and mockingly greet its occupant. “Did you miss me, honey?”
Rebecca Matten (as she would be known once again as soon as he found the right judge to bribe for an annulment) stared at her husband with blue eyes made wide with shock, her gasp of surprise stifled by the panel gag of stiff brown leather that covered the lower half of her face. At thirty-five, she was still a beauty, her pale skin silken to the touch, with long locks of raven-black hair cascading down her back, and Reynauld grinned to see how her canvas straitjacket emphasized her perfect curves, long legs left bare and unbound as she squirmed about in her futile struggles, one notable strap rubbing tight against her womanhood with every small motion. Seven days earlier, the Lady of Kestral Hall by virtue of marriage had experienced an unexpected and unfortunate psychological breakdown; so unexpected, in fact, that she hadn’t even known it herself until the helpful staff of Ravenwood were stripping her naked and bundling her into her restraints. For seven days, she had been a prisoner, her pleas going unheeded and her husband nowhere to be seen, and at the vicious sneer that marked his face, the confusion and terror that were her only companions deepened further. “Tell me, wife,” Reynauld asked, cupping the curve of her shapely rear. “Are you enjoying your accommodations?”
The dark-haired beauty’s only answer was a helpless scream, muted by unyielding leather. “It’s a tragedy, really; a beautiful woman going so completely unhinged in the prime of her life from feminine hysteria, and leaving a grieving husband behind to manage her estates and carry on as best he can.” Rebecca’s features paled in shock, realization striking her with all the cruelty of an assassin’s blade, and Reynauld knelt beside her to give the knife another twist. “You honestly don’t think I married you out of love, do you?” he remarked caustically, delighting in the first tears trickling down her cheeks. “I guess you really are mad after all. No, my dear, it was your wealth that brought me to you, and now that you’re in here, well… I guess you have no further need of it.”
An outraged howl tore through Rebecca’s throat, and she bucked and thrashed at her restraints like a crazed animal, the rage distilled in her beautiful blue eyes rendered all the more powerful by its impotence as the various locks and straps held firm. “You should be grateful,” Reynauld stated casually, the soft hands of a man who’d never had to work a day in his life moving to fondle her. “I ended up marooning Sarah in the South China Sea, and that Saudi prince seemed quite content when he purchased Danielle and took her off my hands. Either of those fates could have been yours, but I decided to be merciful. Besides…” Rebecca shuddered in horror as he licked the side of her face. “This way, I get to keep you close at hand for a little while longer.”
Weeping, Rebecca shook her head, horrified sobs wracking her frame. “I’ll be back again soon, dear one. And feel free to tell the nurses your tall tale about being sane and committed involuntarily. I doubt anyone would believe a woman so high-strung and unhinged…”