Page 50 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

He was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. His hair was disheveled and his jaw shadowed with evening stubble. Helena had never seen him looking so somber. So vulnerable.

“But it wasn’t just any man at the King’s Arms,” she said softly. “It was you, Justin. It was you.”

Justin bowed his head, his throat contracting on a convulsive swallow. Helena’s words were as tender as a caress. For a brief moment, they managed to calm the rage that had boiled in his veins since he first beheld the bruises that covered her bare neck and arms.

Many of those black-and-blue marks had been in the shape of a man’s fingers.

It had been all Justin could do to keep from going after Mr. Glyde. From pulling the man from his carriage and beating him to a bloody pulp.

“Have you ever hurt a woman?” she’d asked him on the beach.

It had been little more than three days ago. He’d suspected then that someone had treated her harshly, but he could never have imagined the extent of it.

No wonder she’d been desperate. A lady of her quality would have had to be to consent to marry a man like him.

“I’m so very sorry, Justin,” she said. “I know I should have told you.”

He could only nod. His mouth had gone dry and there was a lump in his throat the approximate size of a boulder. He was feeling—

Bloody hell.

He was feeling. He didn’t know what. Anger, hurt, and the bitter ache of longing were all inextricably knotted in his chest. He couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Then again, he was not a man accustomed to examining his emotions.

And he had no wish to start doing so now.

He rose from his chair. “You should sleep. We can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

Helena’s eyes flickered with something like alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving you to rest.”

She moved to sit up against the pillows. “Justin—”

His stopped where he stood. “What is it?”

“Please don’t go. Don’t leave me here by myself.”

He scanned her face in the lamplight. Her brow was drawn, her cheeks pale as alabaster. She was afraid. No, he realized. Not afraid. Hell and damnation. She was terrified. “Helena,” he said. “He’s not coming back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. The cliff road is washed out. And even if he somehow managed to get through, Paul and Jonesy would tear him apart before he ever reached the entrance to the Abbey.”

She was silent a moment. And then, “You said the dogs were gentle.”

“Ah. So I did.” He cleared his throat. “And they can be. Er…when the occasion calls for it.”

“Hmm.” She did not sound entirely convinced.

Justin speared his fingers through his hair. It was already standing half on end. He’d had no chance to bathe after carrying Helena into the house. His every attention had been on her. Only when she was warm, dry, and safely tucked up in bed had he taken time to change out of his own wet clothes.

“The point is,” he continued, “the dogs are more than capable of—”

“The dogs aren’t you.”

Not the most flattering compliment a lady ever gave to a man, but at this moment—and with this particular lady—it might as well have been a sonnet.

His mouth hitched briefly. “I smell enough like one. After rescuing you from the cliffs, I was obliged to haul up both Paul and Jonesy.”