Page 47 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Helena hadn’t thought she was capable of being hurt any more. Not today, at least. But his words managed to find that one small, soft part of her still nurturing a miniscule shred of hope and skewer it with ruthless precision.

I don’t want anyone to see her like this.

It was the last thing she remembered before darkness engulfed her.

When she regained her senses, she was tucked under an eiderdown blanket in the great Elizabethan bed, her head propped up on a pile of pillows. Her hair was still wet, but no longer dripping. Her dressing gown and shift were gone. Someone had removed them. She was now wearing some sort of odd-fitting linen nightdress.

She touched the curved neckline of the garment. It had a short row of buttons. It also had sloping shoulders and what felt like gussets under the arms.

Good gracious.

It was a gentleman’s shirt.

She raised her head in alarm. The oil lamps had been lit and a fire was blazing in the hearth. In the flickering glow, she saw Justin. He was seated in a winged-back chair beside the bed, watching her.

Their eyes met and held.

A rush of color flooded her face. Oh, but she was beyond embarrassment. “Did you…?”

“It couldn’t be helped.” There was no warmth in his voice.

“I see.” She lay back against her pillows. Her cheeks burned and her stomach quivered with butterflies run amok. But she resolved to be mature and reasonable about the business. So he’d seen her without her clothing. It was not the end of the world. He was her husband. There was no reason to be missish.

She’d been wet through, she supposed. And, since she couldn’t remember much of anything, she assumed she’d either fainted or been in some manner of shock. Someone would have had to get her out of her sodden things. If Justin wished to keep her dreadful state hidden from the servants, he would have had no choice but to do it himself.

Though he didn’t look best pleased with the experience. Quite the opposite. He looked…angry.

He stood and moved to a marble-topped table near the bed. She heard the clink of crystal, followed by a splash of liquid. “Here.” He extended a glass to her. “Drink this.”

She took it from his hand. Their fingers brushed. It was the barest touch, but more than sufficient to set the butterflies soaring once more. “What is it?”

“Brandy,” he said. “Excellent for shock.”

She tilted the glass to her lips and took an obedient swallow. It burned like fire all the way down her throat. She stifled a cough.

“All of it,” Justin prompted.

She didn’t argue. She lifted the glass to her lips once more. As she downed the remainder of the rich golden liquid, an equally golden warmth slowly suffused her stomach, chest, and limbs.

He gave her an appraising look. “Better?”

“I-I think so.”

He nodded once and resumed his seat. He was still angry. It was evident in the set of his shoulders and the rigidness of his jaw.

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She was the one who’d brought him to this pass. She’d lied to him. Tricked him into marriage. And now that he knew, it was plain that he hated the very sight of her. “Justin, I’m so—”

“Where did all of the bruises come from?” he asked.

Her unfinished apology disintegrated on her lips.

Her heart gave a painful contraction.

So that’s what he’d seen. Not her body. Not whether her unclothed form was pleasing. Just her bruises. Just the damage that had been done to her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Nor even disappointed. It was what defined her now. She only wished she didn’t feel so much shame.

“They’re everywhere. Around your arms. Around your neck.” Justin’s deep voice was taut with control. As if he were holding onto his temper by nothing more substantial than a half-frayed thread. “Who put his hands around your neck, Helena? Was it Mr. Glyde?”

“No.” She returned her empty brandy glass to the bedside table. “He wouldn’t. Not there.”