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He moved away from her and pulled himself up to lean against the headboard. “The man you lost your virginity to.”
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him for a full minute. She yanked up the blanket to her chin and joined him against the headboard. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
He snorted. “Yes. You do.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Bridget, you cannot hide something like that. Well, I guess you could if you were prepared for your marriage bed with a vial of blood and some acting abilities.”
She shook her head. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? I have never done this”—her hand swept the bed where they sat—“with anyone else.”
“Don’t lie to me. I am a man, and I know what I felt. Or didn’t feel.”
“Well, seeing as how you’re a man and you know what you felt or didn’t feel, perhaps you can enlighten this mere woman and explain yourself.”
Cam ran his fingers through his hair. This was unbelievable. She could not be so ignorant to not realize that after her virginity was taken there was no way for it to return. And any man following her first lover would know someone had been there before him.
“All right. If you want to play this out, then I shall explain it to you. There is a barrier inside your body that a man breaks through the first time a woman takes a lover. Once that barrier is broken, any other man who takes her to bed after that knows he was not the first.”
She looked genuinely confused, which angered him further. She should be treading the boards on Drury Lane with her acting ability. “I know nothing about barriers, or breaking through them, or vials of blood. You forget I had no mother to instruct me in all of this. What I do know is this is the very first time I have experienced this…whatever, and now I hope to never do so again.” She glared at him, her arms crossed over her breasts.
“Calm down, Bridget. We will not discuss it further. It doesn’t matter, since Davenport’s antics ruined you already. And I didn’t help,” he mumbled the last part, acknowledging his part in her disgrace, should their time here together become known. You must marry me to save your reputation, anyway.”
The screech coming from her sweet little mouth should have awakened the entire inn. “Get out!” She jumped from the bed, dragging the only blanket with her to cover herself.
He sat openmouthed, chilled to the bone, with the sweat drying on his body from their lovemaking, staring at her. “What the devil is the matter with you?”
She walked to the door and flung it open. Thank heavens there was no one passing by. “I. Said. Get. Out.”
“Close the door.” He’d had enough experience with women, particularly those who were throwing him out of their house—mistresses came to mind—to know when it was best to retreat. He slid off the mattress, gathered his clothes, and quickly dressed.
Bridget tapped her foot, looking like a waif wrapped in the blanket. Her snapping eyes and stiff body told a different story, and he beat a hasty retreat when he was almost fully clothed. “I will see you in the morning.”
“Not if I see you first.”
The door slammed, and he winced.
He made his way down the corridor to the room he’d rented. What a mess. Here he was trying to find a proper husband for the girl and all that time she knew she did not have the required body part to keep her new husband from crying foul.
Truth be known, he could have handled it better. Although she’d been genuinely surprised, puzzled, and angered, the evidence was there.
He snorted. Or not there.
Weary after a long day of chasing her, dealing with Davenport, and making love to the woman he thought he knew but didn’t really, he was exhausted. Tomorrow would be a trying day with them returning to London in the same carriage.
He slowly undressed, thinking of how wonderful the joining with Bridget had been, despite his discovery. She was as passionate in bed as she was about everything. Her eager innocence—which proved to him she didn’t have a great deal of experience, most likely one lad who she had imagined herself in love with—was worth more to him than all the skills of the best mistresses he’d had.
If nothing else, this only fortified his decision to marry her. They’d made love; she could be carrying his child. She was not a virgin before, and certainly not now. They were facing a major scandal when they returned to London, and it was his duty as her guardian to protect her by giving her his name.
Once they were married, the ugliness would eventually die down. No one would want to insult the Marchioness of Campbell. He held a great deal of weight in Parliament and counted on his peers to keep their wives from snubbing his wife.
With those thoughts running through his tired brain, he dropped his clothes to the floor and climbed into bed.
…
Bridget walked to the bed, picked up one of her half boots, and threw it at the door. It bounced off and hit her in the face. Twice as mad now, she picked it up again and pitched it even harder but moved sideways to avoid getting hit again.
The little outburst of childishness didn’t relieve much of her anger at that pompous, arrogant, overbearing… She couldn’t even think of enough horrible words to describe the man. To accuse her of not being a virgin because of a ridiculous reason about something missing. He must think she was stupid. Granted, she did not know that much about sexual congress, but she would certainly know if she’d ever done that with anyone else.
