Page 80 of The Redemption of the Shrew

Philippe’s heart, which was wholly and completely hers and always would be, contracted with dread. “What is wrong, Gloriana? My darling, mon coeur?”

“Nothing,” she sobbed. “It’s just that I love you too, Philippe.” She clutched him close to her breast. “I always have, and I always will.”

He took a deep breath, exhaled a long sigh, and rested his forehead on hers. “That is excellent.” He kissed her, long and slowly, and she wrapped herself around him.

He began to move inside her, with each fierce, tender thrust making her more his own.

~ ~ ~

Afterward, she snuggled against him, tired but too happy to sleep, and suddenly, he began to talk.

“I was the only son, and therefore it was of importance to my father that I marry and produce sons of my own. When I was but sixteen, he betrothed me to a lady six or seven years my senior. This in itself was not so terrible or uncommon. It was a good match by the standards of society and would have added to our family’s coffers.”

For a frantic moment, Gloriana wondered if he might still be this woman’s husband, but that was absurd. Philippe had spoken of marriage five years ago, which he wouldn’t have done if he’d already had a wife.

After a frustrating silence, she prompted him, “But . . .”

“But I didn’t want to marry her. I didn’t want to marry at all. Marie-Louise was pretty enough, and she desired me, as most women do, but she was a vapid fool who thought of nothing but clothing and jewels, while I was already afire with the desire to change the world for the better.” He gave a derisive snort. “I was a fool as well, but in a different way.”

“It’s not foolish to want to change the world.” She caressed his cheek, his jaw.

He turned his head to kiss her hand. “When one is young, one sees only how easy it could be, but could be and will be are vastly different, and the steps forward prove small and bloody.” He blew out a breath. “My father was adamant, and I was stubborn. He beat me, but still I was stubborn. He locked me in my bedchamber, but I escaped. I was a fool to return.” Against her hip, he clenched and unclenched his hand.

She curved her fingers around his. “This still angers you.” She paused. “You needn’t talk about it, Philippe. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I must,” he said, returning the clasp. “I need you to understand. I returned to my home, for what else was I to do? I had no money and no means of support. I hoped my father would understand that I must choose my own bride when the time was right.” He huffed. “It was a foolish hope. My father had made up his mind, and that I, his son, would defy him was intolerable. He beat me again. He locked me up and deprived me of food, but I am stubborn too. Then suddenly he seemed to give up. He told me I would regret my insolence, but for a week all returned to normal—I was no longer confined, and there were no more beatings. I began to wonder if I had won.”

“But you hadn’t.”

“Non, alas. During that week, he arranged to have my bride brought to our estate. He said perhaps we needed a little time to get accustomed to one another. I was stupid. I should have known what would happen.” He raised himself up on one elbow. They had left the bed curtains open, and in the wavering light of the candle, his features twisted into a snarl. “I woke up one night to find her naked in my bed.”

She sucked in a breath.

“I shouted with rage and shoved her away. I got out of bed and dragged her to the door. I stumbled, for I had not quite thrown off the effects of sleep. We both fell, and later I regretted a little that my clumsiness hurt her.”

“Why? She shouldn’t have been there.”

“No, but although she participated in the plot, she had no choice but to do so. It was common enough, you understand, to be obliged to marry according to the wishes of one’s parents. Sophie was thrust into wedlock with a much older man when she was only seventeen years old, and she accepted her fate—which proved to be unhappy.”

“It happens quite often in England too,” she said, thinking of Lady Marianne’s dilemma.

“Yes,” he said, and she knew he was thinking the same. No wonder he was so ready to help her—it wasn’t only revenge against her brother.

“Both Marie-Louise’s father and mine were waiting in the passageway,” he said. “They tried to pretend I had invited her to my bedchamber. They told me she was ruined, and that it was my fault, and that now I must marry her. I refused. Pauvre fille, she wept and wailed, but still I refused. I told them all to go to the devil where they belonged.”

“What happened to her?”

He shrugged. “She married another man not long afterward. It did her no good, as she went to the guillotine along with her husband, her parents, her brothers and sisters.”

“And what happened to you?”

“My father raged at me. He told me I had brought shame upon our noble family. It was my duty to the estate to carry on our proud and ancient name—of which I was not particularly proud. Then he spoke of my responsibility for the welfare of the peasants who labored on our land. He didn’t care about the peasants, but he knew I did because often I brought their misfortunes to his attention.”

“I don’t see what that had to do with marrying then or later.”

“Nothing, but he said if I married Marie-Louise, he would put the management of the estate into my hands.”

“Ah,” she said. “But still you didn’t agree.”