Instead, tears shimmered, her face pale and eyes pressed shut.
And he knew before she spoke it.
Because from the moment he came onto the terrace and found her crying in Kilmartin’s arms—Hart knew. Her shifts from laughter to tears were the clue: only a man could cause such sorrow in an innocent.
“There was a gentleman,” she breathed into the silence.
Hart’s hands curled into fists. There hadn’t been a gentleman—just a cad, a rake, a scoundrel.
Pain twisted inside him, sharp and oppressive, as dread clawed at his resolve.
Fleur continued, the unwanted story pouring out. “He was charming.”
Hart gritted his teeth.
“With his words, he spoke to my soul.”
Of course,he had. Every man used sweet, cunning words to seduce; it was practically a university lesson.
“He made me feel special and beautiful.”
Hart clenched his jaw.
Maybe because she was both special and breathtaking—flawless as the Regent Diamond and luminous as a rubellite tourmaline.
“And his kiss…”
Hart froze. He didn’t want or need these details. Another man’s mouth where his had been. It was too much.
“I had never been kissed before—not by a stable-hand or a village lad—and his kiss was unlike anything. He kissed me like he needed me to breathe…”
That’s what she was to Hart, yet another man had possessed that gift. First, second, last—it didn’t matter. Someone else had been there.
He must have made a sound, for Fleur became quiet. Only the demons in his head remained.
He was a different bastard than the one who’d taken her innocence, but a bastard still—he’d made Fleur feel ashamed, when it wasn’t her fault.
Hart managed a steady breath. “A kiss is not ruination, Fleur.” He spoke for both of them, trying to ease their torment.
Fleur knotted her hands and stared at her white knuckles.
A cold settled in his gut, icy and inexorable, the heaviness of despair pressing against his heart.
Do not say it…Do not say it…
But her red, cupid’s bow lips parted, and he knew before the admission came.
“It wasn’t just a kiss, Henry.”
His eyes slid shut.
Rage and panic warred inside him. The thought of her violation fired something primitive—a harsh growl issued from his chest as murderous intent surged through his veins.
The delicate brush of her fingertips along his sleeve brought his eyes open.
Hart stared at her open palm, frilly lace and all—the only thing making sense in this volatile moment.
But then, it recalled how sweet and innocent she was—still was—no matter what happened between her and that faceless demon. He inhaled. Hart would find the man’s name and destroy him. Yet, in doing so, he’d destroy himself. He’d see the man at events or clubs, knowing what happened.
