“No. And since you appear to be so very concerned about my lack of funds, I fully plan to sell my ring. Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me how much of my money you paid for it?”
“About a thousand pounds.”
“Poor Rafael,” she said, trying for a credible sneer, “now you have only forty-nine thousand pounds left. Believe me, there will be much less for you when I am done.”
“Actually,” he said quite calmly, “there will shortly be a good deal less for me. I intend to have Mr. Westover draw up papers for half your inheritance to go into a trust for our children.”
She drew up, astounded. “I don’t believe you. Damien would never have—”
“Don’t compare me with my brother again, Victoria.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said again.
She stared at him, watching him walk toward her, and something deep inside her snapped. With a broken cry, she kicked up, trying to thrust her foot into a stirrup. Then his arms closed around her waist and he was pulling her back. She yelled, calling him the few names she knew, and heard him laugh.
The stallion whinnied and jerked away from them both. In the next instant she was lying on the floor of the stable. Rafael grabbed the panicked stallion’s bridle and began soothing the animal. With quick, efficient movements he removed the saddle and her valise. Then he led Gadfly back into his stall, still speaking low nonsense words to him. He didn’t look at her until he’d calmed the animal and closed the stall door.
“Stand up, Victoria. Don’t make me carry you.”
Slowly she came up on her knees. The muscles in her leg were tightening, she could feel them, and knew she must ease them. She must stand up.
He watched her slowly rise. Bits of straw clung to her cloak, her face was pale, and despite himself, he thought her beautiful and so very desirable, that his groin ached. He picked up her valise and turned away from her. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder.
Another exercise in futility, she thought, trailing after him. She saw him wince when his bare foot hit against a sharp pebble, but he kept going.
She found herself studying him, his strong, straight back, his long legs. His thick black hair was disheveled. And she remembered, so very clearly, how she’d felt when he’d kissed her and caressed her on their wedding night. Such feelings she’d never imagined. She shook her head at herself. She was a fool. Evidently she should have showed more hesitation, more maidenly fright. It simply hadn’t occurred to her not to act naturally with him. Didn’t men want honesty? She sighed.
Men were the oddest creatures.
Mrs. Ripple was in the kitchen when Victoria followed Rafael back into the house. Her step was quicker up the stairs. She didn’t want to be caught in such an unexplainable situation by the housekeeper. “Oh, yes,” she could hear herself saying, “I was running away from my husband because I responded too freely with him on our wedding night and he believed his brother and thinks me a whore.”
She wondered vaguely if she would ever forgive him for believing his brother’s lies. And all because she’d wanted to become his wife and all because she was terrified that he would be repelled by her leg.
“Go back to bed,” he said shortly, and left her at her bedchamber door, the valise at her feet. He turned suddenly, and said very softly, “Don’t try such a stunt again, Victoria. You wouldn’t like the consequences, I promise you.”
She took off her clothes, pulled a cotton nightgown over her head, and crept into her bed. She had to think, to decide what she would do now, but she was wretchedly tired, and within a few moments she was sound asleep.
Rafael quietly opened the adjoining-room door. He saw her huddled in the middle of her bed. What the devil should he do now? His marriage, begun with such promise and confidence, had fallen about his head in a shambles. He left the adjoining door open and walked back into his own room. He flung himself down on his own bed and pillowed his head on his arms. He stared at the white ceiling. He had to know, damn her, he had to. But he couldn’t rape her. He’d been honest about that. It wasn’t his style; indeed, he had nothing but contempt for men who treated women in such a callous fashion. No, he couldn’t do that. What he had to do, he decided finally, was to seduce her. Then he would know once and for all. And if she isn’t a virgin? What will you do then, you stupid sod?
He wouldn’t think about it. He would simply deal with it if it happened. But what is her grand confession? Whatever could a supposedly young innocent girl have to confess in the middle of lovemaking, for God’s sake? He found himself trying to remember her exact series of responses to him. Had she acted at all surprised when he’d first kissed her? He could feel her trembling against him, feel her part her lips.
Had he really expected her to shrink from him? Had he wanted her to be shy and frightened of sex so he could play the gallant, patient lover? Was he such a fool to have seen himself in the part of her mentor, her gentle husband who would teach her according to rules of his own creation to enjoy sex with him?
Of course, he remembered Patricia then. So sweet, so innocent, he’d thought, and he’d been so passionately in love with her, his sixteen-year-old heart filled with her. With all the restraint of a boy desperately in love, he’d taken her, so afraid that he would hurt her, his sweet, virgin love. She’d cried and whispered that he had hurt her, and he’d begged her forgiveness. And he’d believed with all the fervor of his sixteen years that he was the only man—man, ha!—she wanted. And then he’d found her with Damien. How his brother had laughed and taunted him.
Rafael couldn’t bear those taunting memories, memories that he’d firmly believed were long dead. Until Victoria. He rose quickly, dressed, and left the house. He rode Gadfly until the stallion was lathered and blowing with fatigue.
It was near noon when he returned. Luncheon was laid out in the small dining room. Victoria was seated there, listlessly playing with a thin slice of ham on her plate. She looked up briefly when he entered, then just as quickly lowered her head again.
“Captain. Would you like some luncheon?”
He forced a smile for Mrs. Ripple and nodded.
When she took herself from the room, he forced himself to eat a bit of ham, which was incredibly salty, and buttered potatoes that tasted rancid. The silence was deafening.
He could hear himself chewing the bread, which was alternately crunchy and doughy.
“Victoria,” he said finally, slowly laying down his fork.