Page 68 of The Redemption of the Shrew

She whimpered.

His fingers ceased their subtle movement. He lifted his hand and gazed down at her. “What is it, sweetheart? That wasn’t a moan of pleasure. What’s wrong?”

She sat up and pulled the coverlet over her nakedness. She should heed her own advice, which she’d given Philippe, and get it over with. “I have to explain to you why . . . why I cannot marry you.”

“Good.” He sat up as well, fluffing the pillows against the headboard. He lit a candle, and she wished he had not. She did not want to see the sadness on his face when she told him they must part. Before he drew the sheet over himself as well, she noted sadly that his erection had subsided. It would subside even more while she spoke to him, and she would never have the pleasure of joining with him again.

“What do you mean, good?” She flicked a hand. “No, do not answer that. You will argue and try to convince me, but it is no use, mon cher.”

“Maybe I won’t,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go meekly on my way.”

She choked on a laugh, which almost became a sob. If only it were so easy to rid oneself of a man. If only she didn’t want so badly to keep this one.

He took her hand in his. “Tell me.” When she said nothing—for she could not decide where to begin—he added, “I want to know about your husband. And your other lovers too.”

“You never wanted to know before,” she said. “You said you didn’t care.”

“I don’t, but something about them has made you unwilling to marry.”

“Yes, and no. You are not like them.” He waited, and at last she said, “I did not marry Jean-Esprit for love. I was seventeen years old, and my parents arranged it all.” She shrugged. “I had no choice, and it could have been worse. He was a comte, he was thirty years older, but he was not ugly, and he was desperate to have me. I am a passionate woman, and marriage made passion permissible.”

“Was he unkind?” Gently, he stroked the back of her hand.

“Not at first.” She removed her hand from his, the better to express herself—or perhaps because she feared succumbing to his touch again. “All was well for a while, but soon he became jealous. He accused me of luring other men into my bedchamber. I am the sort of woman men notice. They cannot help themselves, it seems. I do not understand it. I am not a coquette.”

“You exude sensuality,” he said. “It’s delightful.”

A little shiver of awareness assailed her, but she willed it away. “It is dangerous, too. The Revolution came, and we went to Austria for safety, but there he became so jealous that he beat me and locked me up.”

“That cur!”

“Yes, but luckily, Philippe helped some others to escape to Austria, and when he found out how Jean-Esprit mistreated me, he stole me and little Charles away at dead of night. He took us back into France, which was madness, but who would suspect an aristocrat of returning to certain death? He gave me to Yves Brun, a peddler who was his friend. I pretended to be his wife.” She blushed.

He smiled. “More than pretended, I think.”

“I owed it to him,” she said. “He saved my life. He conceived a passion for me, for what could be more natural? He is the father of my lovely little Elise. I do not tell her that I was not married to him, for what purpose would that serve? I have kept his name, too, for I prefer to be a woman of the people.”

Her lover took her hand again, kissed it, and let it go.

“But like Jean-Esprit, he too became jealous. He feared he was too lowly for a woman like me. Whenever a handsomer, richer man noticed me, he sulked like a big, stupid bear. Then, one day, he denounced an innocent man as a traitor to the Republic, when all he had done was try to flirt with me.” She choked up. “That unfortunate man went to the guillotine because of me.”

“Good God,” Eric said.

“Philippe came to fetch me, but Yves wanted me to stay. I feared he would denounce Philippe too, but suddenly he disappeared. Maybe Philippe killed him. I do not know. We came to England. And that is all.”

“And since then?”

“I have had no other lovers. I could not take the risk—for myself, for Philippe, who had troubles of his own, and for the safety of my children. I wore mourning clothes for years to discourage my admirers.” Her voice trembled. “Until I met you, mon cher—and then I could not help myself. I wish I could marry you—but I cannot.”

He sat up straight. “Because of these jealous husbands of yours?”

She couldn’t bring herself to use this as an excuse. “No, you are not like them. You are a confident man, and I love you so much.”

“Then what the devil is preventing you from marrying me?”

“That I do not know if Jean-Esprit is dead. My brother has written to France many times, trying to find out, and now this correspondence causes him great difficulties with the Home Office. I have told him to stop trying.”

"But he won't?"