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He couldn’t seem to wait any longer either. But as soon as he settled her beneath him and pressed inside her, a white, hot pain lanced up from between her thighs, shocking her as badly as her startled reaction seemed to surprise him.
Stiffening, she tried to recoil from whatever he’d stabbed her with. But he wouldn’t move; neither would he let her go.
“Rachel, I didn’t know,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rachel’s tongue felt too numb to speak. Tears gathered in her eyes and began to roll into her hair. She could feel her body start to quiver as the physical pain joined the heartache of remembering her mother.
Druridge smoothed her hair off her forehead and kissed her tears away. “Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He pulled back in an unspoken plea for her to look up at him, and finally Rachel managed to open her eyes.
The fire outlined his dark head and the broad width of his shoulders as he leaned on his elbows above her. He’s beautiful, she thought. But he was no dream. She didn’t know how it had happened. At this point, she couldn’t even guess. But she was in the earl’s large, soft bed.
And he had just taken her virginity.
Chapter 6
That night Truman didn’t dream. Once he was able to coax Rachel into letting him touch her again, he’d obtained one of the most powerful climaxes he’d ever experienced, and then he’d slept like the dead—comfortable, relaxed, content at last.
When morning came, he reluctantly roused himself. He wasn’t sure how long the sun had been boring through the crack in the draperies, but he could see the light behind his closed lids and knew dawn was several hours past. He’d slept in. He’d probably missed a whole slew of appointments at the colliery but, oddly enough, he couldn’t find it in him to care. Katherine’s restless ghost wasn’t hovering over him at the moment. It was almost as if Rachel’s innocence had banished the past long enough to let him sleep deeply for the first time in two years.
Instinctively, he reached for her, searching the bed with his hands before opening his eyes. But she was gone.
“Damn,” he muttered, feeling a surprising sense of loss. He tried to shake off his disappointment, but the scent of her lingered, tantalizing him with the memory of how it had been to bed the strong-willed beauty he’d admired since their first meeting at the bookshop. Better, and worse, was the knowledge that only he had possessed her. Better because it somehow branded her as his own—and worse for the same reason.
Pulling back the bedding, he gazed at the slight smear of blood that proved last night had not been fantasy. Part of him felt like he owed her something more than money, even though she’d obviously agreed to whatever Wythe had arranged.
He’d pay a handsome stipend, Truman decided. She needed financial wherewithal, so that was the best way to help her. Then he’d stay away. Soon the memory of last night would fade in her mind, and the good his money would do her and young Geordie would absolve his conscience for having behaved no better than Wythe.
With a fresh burst of energy, he pulled the linens off his bed and piled them on the floor for the maids to wash. The sooner he rid his room of any reminder of the bookseller’s daughter, the sooner he could forget the confusing emotions she inspired: the regret, the tenderness, the obligation, the longing.
“There,” he said aloud and rang for his valet so he could dress. But when he turned toward the bureau, he spotted something wadded up on top.
Closer examination revealed it to be a ten-pound note. For a moment, he pretended a servant had found it in the laundry or that he’d left it there himself. But deep down he knew.
It had come from Rachel. The only thing he didn’t understand was why.
Rachel, ye ’ad me good an’ frightened last night; that ye did.
The words Mrs. Tate had spoken early this morning when Rachel returned from Blackmoor Hall still rang in Rachel’s ears as she moved pensively around the bookshop, battling a thundering headache and a pair of blistered feet. Last night, after finding her clothes piled haphazardly on a chair in the earl’s room, she’d dressed and walked home. She’d hoped to sneak into bed unnoticed, but she’d found Mrs. Tate keeping an all-night vigil, pacing and worrying and craving the reason for her long absence.
Rachel had blundered her way through several lies, eventually tying them into a neat package that centered on Gilly bolting while she tried to hide in the trees from a late-night passerby. Unfortunately, she’d gone on to apologize for losing Gilly, only to find out that the donkey had been fully restored and was munching hay in the small pen behind Mrs. Tate’s house. For that, she could offer no explanation. Wythe had seen to it that he was returned, of course. Who else could have done it? She’d pieced together enough to know that he had found her, likely drugged her and taken her to the earl’s bed. She guessed it was his revenge for hitting him with the lantern. But she wasn’t about to mention the earl’s cousin to Mrs. Tate, for fear of the questions it would raise. Neither did she plan to admit to another living soul what had happened to her at Blackmoor Hall. That was her secret, and she was determined to carry it to her grave. The accident, and probably a good draught of laudanum or something else, had stolen her wits, or she would’ve escaped the moment she realized it wasn’t a dream. Instead, she’d clung to Druridge, somehow craving what he offered despite that brief flash of pain. There’d been something so satisfying about the way his body joined with hers—that delicious stretch, that sense of fullness. But she couldn’t hold herself accountable for something she didn’t rightly know was happening, even if, in her more honest moments, she had to admit she’d enjoyed all but a few seconds.
The bell rang over the door and Rachel felt herself blush, as if others could read her thoughts.
“Mistress?”
Hoping for a patron—money would indeed be short this month—Rachel pasted a polite smile on her lips and rounded a table piled high with books. But it was only a servant, a tall, young man of no more than eighteen. He wore the blue livery of the Earl of Druridge, which made her more than a little apprehensive. What now?
“Mistress, my master bid me bring ye this,” the boy said as soon as he saw her.
Rachel stared at the envelope he extended toward her. Its wax seal bore the earl’s insignia.
“What is it?” she asked numbly.
“Sorry, mum?” The boy looked surprised, even confused by her question because, of course, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t presume to involve himself in the earl’s business.
