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He forced himself to say in a light, teasing voice, “What could you possibly have to tell me? Something that will make me despise you? Don’t be silly, Victoria.”
“I hope it will not. I was just so afraid of what you would think. I’ve been a coward. I’m sorry, truly.”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Slowly he drew the silk over her breasts. Just as slowly he drew up and rose to stare down at her.
“Virgins bleed the first time,” he said, his voice distant.
Victoria didn’t understand what was happening. He’d left her. She looked at him and saw that his manhood was no longer swelled and eager, but was nestled in the black fleece of his groin. “I don’t understand,” she said, confusion in her voice and in her eyes.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he said slowly, feeling more miserable than he had in his life. “I would have wagered my life on your honesty, on your innocence.” He laughed harshly, grabbed his dressing gown, and flung it on. “God, to think that I could be such a fool. You are a wild little slut, aren’t you? You should have had me douse the candles much sooner, my dear girl. Perhaps, just perhaps I wouldn’t have missed what I wouldn’t have been able to see for my own eyes.”
“I don’t understand. Surely it’s not all that awful. I couldn’t help it, truly, Rafael. Why are you so angry?”
“Dear God, would you have screamed and faked a virgin’s pain? You might have forgotten, though, you were so excited, so anxious for me to take you. There will be no comparisons, Victoria. Damn you to hell, you perfidious bitch.”
He turned on his heel and strode to the adjoining door. She stared after him, flinching when he slammed the door behind him.
Had Damien told him of her ugliness, made it sound worse than it was? What did he mean about comparisons, and blood, a virgin’s blood? She remembered clearly Damien’s look before he and Rafael had left for the study. What had Damien said to him?
Victoria suddenly felt very cold. She felt cold deep inside. It was her wedding night and her husband had left her. He’d told her she was beautiful, he’d caressed her until . . .
Her hand went to her left thigh, her fingers lightly rubbing the ridged scar. She felt suddenly unclean, her body an object to be despised. She had disgusted him, that was clear. But why? He hadn’t seen her leg.
Slowly she lowered her face to her hands but she didn’t cry.
“Are you ready?”
Victoria forced herself to look at her husband. Those were his first words since he’d slammed his door on her the previous night. She’d eaten her breakfast alone. She hadn’t even known where he was. Her husband, her loving husband who hated her.
“Yes,” she said only. “I’m quite through now.”
“Come, along, then.” He paused, taking in her pale face. Was she writhing in guilt for what she had done to him? Suddenly the fact that they would be alone at Honeycutt Cottage—for how long?—struck him as insanely funny. But what man wouldn’t want to be alone with such a passionate little slut? Except she is your wife. It occurred to him that he could have their marriage annulled. But what if she is pregnant with Damien’s child? The child would most certainly look like him, if it weren’t the picture of Victoria, and what court would grant him an annulment when there was a child in his image?
He cursed softly, turning away from her. He would strike her if he remained in the same room with her.
He heard her rise and push in her chair. He didn’t look back, merely walked out of the room and the inn. He mounted Gadfly, waiting for Tom to assist her into the carriage. At least he wouldn’t have to see her today.
He watched her walk toward the carriage, her head lowered. Tom was holding open the carriage door. Suddenly she looked over at him.
“Rafael?”
“What?”
His voice was impatient, and she heard the underlying anger. She shook her head. How could she ask him in front of Tom: Why do you suddenly hate me so? She shook her head, defeated. “Nothing.”
“Good.”
When he halted for luncheon, he simply led her into the inn and left her. It appeared that he despised her so much he couldn’t even bear to share a meal with her. During the afternoon she went from self-pity to rage. “He can’t do this to me,” she said aloud. “He’s behaving horribly. I won’t allow it.”
Although the marquess’s directions had been adequate, there were a number of roads that wound about without sign markers, and they didn’t reach Honeycutt Cottage until nearly six o’clock that evening. It was set back from the narrow country lane behind a black wrought-iron gate. The drive was lined with lime and oak trees. It was a charming ivy-covered Georgian house, two stories, with many chimney pots on the slate roof, and of a cozy size.
When the carriage pulled up in front of the double front doors, a woman emerged, wiping her hands on a voluminous apron.
She proffered Victoria a curtsy when she stepped out of the carriage. “My name’s Mrs. Ripple. And you are Mrs. Carstairs?”
How odd that sounded, Victoria thought with a mild shock. She nodded.
“You must be exhausted, you poor child.” She nodded toward Rafael, then continued, “Come in, my dear, and I will show you to your room. I just received word yesterday from the marquess. But everything is in readiness for you. Yes, your man is bringing your luggage.”
