The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Read online

  The Damsel

  A Villain Duology Sequel

  Victoria Vale

  Copyright © 2019 by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

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  The Damsel Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

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  The Villain Duology

  More by Victoria Vale

  About the Author

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  The Damsel Playlist

  Click here to listen on Spotify!

  Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Lorde

  Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin

  Dark Mind by Janine

  Cranes in the Sky by Solange

  If I Had a Heart by Fever Ray

  Without Love by Alice Glass

  Leave My Body by Florence + The Machine

  $ecret by Goapele

  Use Me by Miguel

  Touch by Marz Leon

  Maniac by Jhene Aiko

  FLESH by Miguel

  Shake It Out (The Weeknd Remix) by Florence + The Machine

  God is a woman by Ariana Grande

  All the Way down by Kelela

  Wicked Games by The Weeknd

  the valley by Miguel

  Needed Me by Rihanna

  Feral Love by Chelsea Wolfe

  Love And Affection by Daley

  Spectrum by Florence + The Machine

  Blind Man by Xavier Omar

  To the Moon by Phora

  Mine by Beyonce (feat. Drake)

  Unbreakable by Jamie Scott

  Love & Pain by JMSN

  Nail by Zola Jesus

  Breathe by The Cast of “Star”

  Street Lights by Kanye West

  Crazy In Love (Remix) by Beyonce

  My Love by Majid Jordan (feat. Drake)

  Stronger by Tank

  Amen by Amber Run

  Crazy by The Code

  All The Stars by Kendrick Lamar (feat. SZA)

  Let Me In by Anthony David

  The Story by Brandi Carlile

  Stand Still by Sabrina Claudio

  At This Time by Algebra

  Perfect Duet by Ed Sheehan and Beyonce

  Prologue

  When Lady Rosamund Stanley went into labor with her firstborn son, her husband—Baron Stanley—worked himself into a state. Pacing the corridor outside her bedchamber, he wrung his hands and chewed his lip until it bled. He flinched every time she screamed, but resisted the urge to rush in and ensure everything proceeded as it should. One might think he was anxious about the birth of his child.

  Yet, anyone who knew Baron and Lady Stanley would be well aware that this was not their first child. After the loss of three children born prematurely, she had begun increasing for the fourth time.

  Delighted by this development, she'd held out hope that, at last, she might provide her husband with an heir. The baron had most certainly not been delighted. He did not relish comforting her through the loss of yet another babe, nor did he like the risk of losing her. He'd sent for physicians from all over England to examine her, and all had given the same disheartening diagnosis. While nothing appeared to be wrong with her, she seemed incapable of carrying and birthing a healthy child. But his wife was determined to produce a son, despite his insistence that they could take measures to prevent his seed taking root.

  “You are more dear to me than a title and estate,” he’d insisted many times. “I would rather have you for the rest of my days than lose you and be forced to raise a child alone.”

  Determined not to give up, she had begged him to try again, heedless of the obvious dangers. Because he had always indulged her, he hadn’t had the heart to refuse.

  From the moment they had realized she was with child again, he had commanded her to take her bed. It seemed the only way to ensure she avoided undue stress. An army of servants was made to wait upon her hand and foot, seeing to her every need. Despite being miserable in her condition, Lady Stanley had taken comfort in the hope of finally birthing a healthy child. She had knitted baby things while praying nightly for the desired outcome. She even sent for samples of wallpaper and fabrics for the nursery, somehow orchestrating its entire renovation from her bed.

  With each month that passed without a showing of blood or the telltale pains that had preceded the first three births, their hopes rose. Then, on a November morning in the year 1786—after hours upon hours of screaming and suffering—Lady Stanley gave birth to a chubby, red-faced baby boy. Ten fingers, ten toes, a smattering of downy blond hair, and a pair of lungs that enabled him to fill the manor with his cries.

  At the first sharp wail, Lord Stanley forgot all rules of etiquette and propriety, rushing into the birthing room to have a look at his firstborn. He sent maids gasping and dashing about to cover their mistress and make her presentable; but the baron only had eyes for the red-faced babe squirming in the arms of a servant. Tears filled his eyes at the sight of his son, naked and furious at being removed from the warm safety of his mother’s womb. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight in all his life. The fullness of the baron’s heart swelled when he glanced at Lady Stanley—who looked exhausted but healthy, her face aglow with happiness.

  “We did it, my love,” she said, a bit breathless from her ordeal. “I told you we would.”

  Accepting the swaddled bundle of his heir, the baron had smiled through his tears. The boy opened his eyes for the first time, revealing them to be a vibrant shade of blue just like his mother’s.

  “What will we call him?”

  Lady Stanley gave a happy sigh. “He is your heir, so he should have your name.”

  And so they named the boy William Tobias Warin Stanley.

  After the traditional period of lying-in for mother and child, invitations to his christening and a lavish dinner went out with that stately name etched upon them in decadent gold foil. The baron boasted to anyone who would listen about the strength of his wife and the handsomeness of his heir, while his friends pounded his back and congratulated him.

  Lady Stanley took this blessing of a son after the loss of so many daughters as an omen. God had finally smiled upon her, allowing life to grow where once there had been only death.

  “There will be others now,” she told the baron. “I have seen it in my mind as if it were a dream. Strong sons, born one right after the other, all healthy. You will see, my love.”

  Despite being skeptical of his wife’s premonition, Lord Stanley no longer found it necessary to avoid impregnating his wife. After all, if she were determined to give him more sons, she would eventually have her way. So, following her recovery, she invited the baron back into her bedchamber, where they attempted to grow their progeny with much vigor.

  And so it went that over the course of six years, three more sons were born to the baron and his wife. As arduous as the birth of William had been, ea
ch boy that followed gave their mother an easier time of it than the one who had come before.

  Lady Stanley was able to remain on her feet for six whole months before taking to her bed with the spare to the heir. His birth lasted half as long as William’s and by the end of the night, the baron found he had not abused his lip quite as much as he had the first time. This boy was born with the same blond hair and blue eyes as his brother, and was named Jonas Algernon Stanley.

  The third boy allowed his mother to keep out of her bed until the final few weeks of her confinement. After feeling the first of her labor pains at dawn on the morning of his birth, he had come into the world in time for luncheon. Rather than abuse his lip with his teeth, the baron had helped himself to a plate of finger sandwiches, which he ate sitting outside the birthing room. Another towheaded, blue-eyed babe, they named him Andrew Bennett Stanley.

  The fourth and final son of the Stanley progeny took his mother quite by surprise. Having thought she’d grown too old to bear another child, the baroness had been perfectly content with her trio of handsome, bright, mischievous sons. However, within a year of Andrew’s birth, Lord Stanley’s attentions bore fruit yet again. At his utter shock upon the revelation of her condition, the baroness only smiled and laughed.

  “Didn’t I tell you, my love?” she teased. “Shame on you for not believing in me!”

  If Lord Stanley had ever questioned whether there were a God, the birth of their fourth healthy son put all doubt to rest. The baroness was radiant from the day she’d discovered her condition, until the day she labored to bring him into the world. She took walks and danced, remaining upon her feet until the moment her water spilled all over the library floor. She’d been energetic, limber, and happy all the way through, and from the first pain to her final grunt and push, the birth spanned a grand total of three hours.

  This time, the baron had decided to see what this birthing business might be all about, brushing off the insistence of the midwife that men had no place in such an environment. And what a wonder it had been, to watch the baroness labor and bear a sort of pain he would never know. By the end of it, his fourth son arrived, and while he bore resemblance to his siblings he also proved quite different.

  In fact, the differences became plain the moment he was washed clean and placed in his mother’s arms. The baroness gasped, while the maids and midwife looked on in silent wonder. Even Lord Stanley found himself without words as he stared down at the most beautiful child he’d ever seen.

  Unlike the thin, fuzzy down William, Jonas, and Andrew had been born with, this boy possessed a headful of shining, golden curls. His face could be likened to those of painted cherubs—plump cheeks flushed with a pink glow, the perfect pucker of a mouth, and big eyes ringed in a lush fan of golden lashes. And his eyes ...

  “They are like the sky on a clear spring day,” a maid whispered.

  And so they were; quite a perfect shade of sky blue, open and clear.

  “It is a good thing he was not born a girl,” Lady Stanley quipped, smoothing a hand over those perfect blond coils. “Could you imagine a girl with this face and those eyes?”

  Baron Stanley could, in fact, so he thanked the Lord that this heavenly-looking creature had not been female. Otherwise, he would drive himself mad worrying over the attentions of men.

  “Well?” he prodded, perching on the edge of the bed and reaching out toward the boy. “What shall we name this one?”

  He smiled, placing his finger in the babe’s palm, never growing tired of that first clench of a baby’s hand around it. This delighted him now just as much as it had the first time William had done it.

  “I thought we could name him for my father,” the baroness replied.

  “Robert. I like that.”

  “Very well then. Robert Nathaniel Stanley.”

  FOR TWELVE YEARS following Robert's birth, all was well in the world of the baron and his family. From the cradle to the schoolroom, then off to Eton, the Stanley boys grew by leaps and bounds. William was the sensible one, being the eldest and the heir. Because of this, the other three could almost always be found in his wake, dancing to his tune and doing whatever he commanded. Jonas proved the most mischievous of the four, vexing those around him with pranks, sly jokes, and—as he got older—crass innuendo. Being the spare and resident troublemaker of the family made him the most likely to butt heads with William. The two argued incessantly, but would come to each other’s aid should an outsider think to do or say something untoward. Andrew was the studious sort—always reading and asking questions. When he did not indulge in these pastimes, he often sat staring off into thin air, as if seeing things no one else could.

  “He’ll be a great philosopher someday, wait and see,” the baroness would say.

  “Or a clergyman,” the baron would add.

  And then, there was Robert—everyone’s favorite Stanley boy. Oh, no one tried to show him favor over his brothers. It just so happened that the youngest of the brood also happened to be the sort of boy everyone liked. Sunny, cheerful, and so pretty he could make angels weep, he had none of William’s arrogance, or Jonas’ devilishness, or Andrew’s brooding. If one tried to understand the purpose of Robert in the midst of four very different brothers, one might assume it was to provide a much-needed balance. He was patient with bossy William, laughed at Jonas while everyone else was shaking their heads, and made an effort to show interest in whatever had Andrew’s attention at the moment.

  The servants doted on him, his parents adored him, and his brothers often envied one another his company.

  “He will marry well,” his father predicted. “With a face like that, and such a personality, he’ll have the wealthiest heiresses in London vying for his attention.”

  Lady Stanley agreed that he would have his pick of the litter while searching for a wife, though secretly believed no woman could ever be good enough for her Robert. He was too good and pure for any of those snooty debutantes and their scheming mamas.

  Robert was made for the glittering ballrooms of London, for wealth and status and adoration. His birth order might have put him on the fringes of London high society, but he would not remain there, his looks and charm sure to propel him into the highest of social circles.

  With all this cemented in the minds of the baron and baroness, life went on as it should for some time. The boys grew and changed, approaching adulthood at the breakneck speed typical of children. It proved an idyllic life, one in which the Stanleys raised their boys in the country alongside neighbors with children of an age with theirs.

  Outside the schoolroom, or on school holidays, the boys spent their time romping the land surrounding their small estate, getting into all manner of mischief and making most of the years before they’d be forced to think of adult matters.

  All that changed in the winter of 1798, when Andrew Stanley fell suddenly ill. William and Jonas had come home from school for Christmas, which had been quite exciting for the younger two, for they had yet to leave for Eton and were always keen to hear the elder boys’ stories of life away from home. In the weeks prior, Andrew had fallen into sudden sneezing fits that seemed of no consequence at the onset. By Christmas Eve, he had taken to his bed with a fever and complaints of a sore throat. By the New Year, he’d grown delirious from the fever, and the sound of his labored breathing could be heard halfway down the corridor. And on a particularly frigid January day, Andrew ceased breathing altogether, choking and gurgling as his mother sobbed in the baron's arms. There had been nothing the physician could do. Within minutes he was gone, his face drained of all color, his lips a grotesque shade of purple.

  To say that Andrew’s loss had come as a shock to the entire family would be an understatement. Lady Stanley was especially distraught, unable to fathom how she'd been blessed with four healthy sons, only for one to be suddenly taken from her by a mysterious ailment. The inevitable departure of William and Jonas as they returned to school cast a heavy blanket of grief over the entire house
, which felt even emptier without Andrew. This proved an especially difficult time for Robert, who now had no companion at home with his elder brothers away at school.

  But the baroness had an even harder time of it, weeping without provocation and lying in Andrew’s bed, clinging to his pillow because she claimed it still smelled like him.

  When he was not with his governess, Robert did whatever he could to cheer her up, as was his nature. He could never abide standing back to watch someone suffer if there was anything he could do about it. So, each day, he put forth an effort to make his mother smile—bringing her bouquets of wildflowers he had picked, taking tea with her even though he detested tea and hated how she fussed over his clothes and hair, singing to her when she seemed sad, because she’d always told him he had a lovely voice. On the days when grief would not allow her to leave her bed, he would sneak into her room and climb under the coverlet, holding her hand and pretending that seeing her weep did not bother him. He would go off on his own to cry when seized with the urge, for he had learned that to see him weep only made her grieve all the harder.

  “You are my dear, sweet, boy, Robert,” she would say. “Mama does not know what she would do without you.”

  In time, things returned to normal—or, as close to normal as could be with the gaping hole left by Andrew’s loss. William and Jonas returned home at holidays. Then, William completed his education at Eton with plans to go off to Oxford. A year after that, Jonas’ eighteenth birthday marked a drastic change. Instead of following William to university, he wished to join the Royal Navy. The baron had been thrilled with such a development, and had begun spreading the word that his son was soon to be a navy man.