Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Despite her training, every instinct urged her to push him away and run.
    A spark glinted in his eyes, and he grabbed her breast with a heavy hand.
    Delia remained passive, although her knees shook. She even tried to give him the coy smile her mother had instilled in her along with the other graces of how to please a man. But his touch revolted her, and Delia couldn’t stop herself from cringing.
    His hand squeezed.
    She cried out at the pain,, twisting to break away from his grasp.
    He laughed, the sound sinister as he held her tighter.
    He wants me to resist . Delia turned her face away from him. “Stop,” she cried, her words deep-throated with fear.
    Marcel slid a hand up her neck and pinched her chin with his fingers, forcing her to face him before pressing a hard kiss to her lips.
    His breath smelled of garlic. Wanting to gag, Delia pushed on his chest, managing to put inches between their faces. Nausea swirled in her stomach.
    With a swish of skirts, her mother entered the room. “Unhand my daughter, Mr. Dupuy,” Isadora said sharply. “You haven’t paid for her yet.”
    Marcel Dupuy waited a moment in an obvious show of power before releasing Delia. “Just sampling the merchandise.”
    “My daughter is not a piece of fruit.” Isadora’s voice was cold.
    “I disagree. A sweet fruit for my plucking—one I’m paying a good price for.”
    “Not until I’m satisfied with the arrangements.” Isadora’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I must watch out for my daughter’s best interests.”
    Not my best interests, Delia thought with resentment, but her own! In addition to ensuring Marcel Dupuy would provide a home and an allowance, her mother would dicker until she’d received a settlement for her daughter. I might as well be a slave.
    His eyes narrowed. “Well then, shall we get down to business?”
    With a tilt of her head, Isadora dismissed her daughter from the parlor.
    Grateful for the release, Delia fled to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. Pressing a shaking hand against her chest, she stumbled to the chair and sank into the seat.
    What am I going to do? Delia couldn’t form enough coherent thoughts to even say a prayer.
    I need someone more powerful than Marcel Dupuy to aid me. But how do I find him?
    Oh, if only my father were here! Not for the first time, Delia wished for the man who had sired her and then left for New York before she was born. Surely, if he’d remained in New Orleans, Andre Bellaire would have taken an interest in my welfare.
    Thinking of her father made Delia remember the last time she’d seen her grandmother. . . . Delia had been shopping, a basket on her arm, when she looked into the street to see Adelaide Bellaire seated in an open carriage watching her. Looking every inch a Creole lady of rank, her grandmother wore a fine green silk gown and held a matching parasol over her head. Only the auburn hair under a frivolous bonnet showed the legacy of Adelaide’s Scottish father—a Northerner who’d lived in New Orleans for a time before returning to New York.
    For a moment, Delia saw a flicker of awareness in her grandmother’s hazel eyes, so like the ones Delia saw in her looking glass every day.
    The woman gave her the slightest nod.
    Delia’s heart lifted, and she’d smiled and nodded in return.
    Then Adelaide Bellaire turned her head and stared straight ahead. Her straight back said, I do not acknowledge you. You are not mine.
    The carriage pulled away.
    Heart beating hard, Delia had watched until the vehicle was lost from sight in the bustle of other traffic.
    The memory of that brief look of recognition made Delia consider reaching out to her grandmother for help. Most Creole women ignored the mistresses of their husbands and sons, as well as any illegitimate offspring they sired. But with Adelaide’s father being a Yankee, maybe her grandmother would be different. After all, she’d paid for Delia’s schooling at the convent. With a surge of hope,