Moonspun Magic (16 page)

His words brought her a moment of sanity. She wasn't perfect, she was flawed. His hand was moving downward now and she knew that soon she would be naked and he would see her.

He pulled the nightgown aside. She heard him suck in his breath. His hand roved downward, coming to rest on her soft belly. She felt a nearly uncontrollable sensation, lower, just below his long fingers. She wanted him to touch her, wanted . . . His hand went instead to her right thigh, kneading the smooth flesh, the sleek muscles.

“Does that please you?”

She groaned, her head back. She felt his hand gently wedge between her thighs, his fingers coming nearer to where her need was becoming nearly unbearable.

“You're soft, Victoria, and warm.” His fingers lightly touched her. “Hot,” he said, kissing her, even as his fingers found her. Suddenly his fingers left her, left the burning need, and she wanted to tell him not
to stop, tell him . . . His hand neared her left thigh and her breath flattened, and she stiffened.

“Rafael, please, douse the candles.”

Even as the words burst from her mouth, she was pulling away from him.

“Why?” His own breathing was ragged, but he also felt strangely apart from her. “I want to see you, all of you. Don't become missish on me now, Victoria.”

“No. Please, Rafael, there is something I must tell you. Please, wait.”

His hand left her thigh and came to rest on her soft belly, holding her there, holding her still. He felt an awful foreboding. “What is it?”

“Something I should have told you before we married,” she said, her voice coming in small, gasping breaths.

He felt sick, and his belly cramped. Damn her, he knew what she would say, and hated her, himself, and Damien. His desire died a swift merciless death. He watched her jerk the nightgown over her stomach and legs, covering his hand.

Dammit, no. She couldn't be a wanton, a slut, his brother's eager mistress. Not Victoria, his innocent, utterly guileless wife.

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.”

Victoria didn't wait to see if Rafael would follow
her. She assumed that he wouldn't. She trailed after Mrs. Ripple up the narrow stairs to the second floor. At the end of the corridor the housekeeper threw open the door and announced that this was the master's suite. Victoria's eyes went to the large, stark-looking bed, and she shuddered. Mrs. Ripple kept up her enthusiastic monologue, and Victoria followed her into the adjoining bedchamber. It was very feminine, with quantities of pale blue ruffles on the spread and canopy. The furnishings were a combination of a soft cream and the same pale blue, the thick carpet swirls of blue and cream. Victoria regained a few wits, realizing that Mrs. Ripple had paused and was looking at her.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“You're weary, my dear. Why don't you rest? You and Captain Carstairs can dine in an hour. Is that all right?”

“Certainly. Thank you.” Anything was all right with her at the moment. She wanted only to lie down, close her eyes ,and stop thinking and feeling.

“Get up.”

The curt orders quickly penetrated and Victoria jerked awake to see Rafael standing beside her bed.

“It's time to dine.”

His expression was implacable, his eyes as bright as polished silver. She shivered.

“Do you need Mrs. Ripple?”

“No.”

“I will see you in the dining room, then.” She watched him stride from her room.

When she entered the dining room, a very small, intimate room paneled with dark wainscoting, her husband was standing next to the table, a glass of wine in his hand.

He downed the rest of the wine in one gulp,
motioning her to sit down. Very well, she thought, squaring her shoulders. No more cowering.

Unfortunately, she had to hold her tongue until finally Mrs. Ripple had left them.

“Beef?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Potatoes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You didn't change your gown.”

“No. I didn't feel like it.”

“Stewed vegetables? Green beans, I believe.”

“No.”

“Your hair looks as if it hadn't seen a brush in a fortnight.”

She opened her mouth, and he quickly cut her off. “I know, you didn't feel like combing out the rat's nest.”

Victoria forced herself to eat three bites of everything, though the beef was stringy, the potatoes half-boiled. She drank a glass of wine. Rafael said nothing and neither did she. She was ready for the offensive when Mrs. Ripple entered the dining room. She looked from one of them to the other, her gaze bright.

Victoria sighed, thanked the woman, and rose.

Rafael didn't even look up.

“Good night,” she said, and marched from the room.

Fortunately, her anger didn't have time to burn itself out. She heard Rafael's footsteps not an hour later. She waited ten more minutes, then opened the adjoining door without knocking.

He was standing with his back to her, staring down at the sluggish fire in the grate.

“I have had quite enough of this,” she said in a clear voice. “For some reason that I can't fathom, you
now despise me. I have come to ask you if you would like to have this farce of a marriage annulled.”

Rafael slowly turned to face her. “Annulled?”

“That's right. I can't imagine spending much more time with a man who can't bear my company.”

“It's a pity, but I fear that our marriage can't be annulled.”

“It can, most certainly.”

“I don't believe I could prove that I hadn't been intimate with you, madam. After all, you aren't a virgin, and I doubt that even you, with all your glibness, could pretend that.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Are you also pregnant?”

“Are you insane?”

He sliced his hand through the air. “Stop it, Victoria. Stop your damned lies. How many men, besides my twin, have you bedded?”

She released a long breath. “So,” she said very slowly, “that is why Damien wanted to speak to you. May I ask what he told you, exactly?”

He said brutally, “He told me that you seduced him, that you were so eager he took you once in the portrait gallery, against the wall, that you were a slut, a wanton. God, madam, your eagerness last night proved it.”

She could only stare at him. Her tumbling thoughts straightened themselves out. So his rage of the previous night had nothing to do with her leg. He had believed his brother's lies. She said aloud, her voice as cold as shards of ice, “So, because I wanted to become your wife, you thought me a slut? You believed your brother and his lies?” Suddenly she laughed, a raw, ugly sound that made him start. “You believed him because I was enjoying your caresses and kisses? It is too much, Rafael. Goodness, if I'd known, I would have shrieked and fought you
and fainted. You're a fool. You may keep half of my money. After all, I do have the protection of your name, as little as that means. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm returning to London. I will see Mr. Westover. Good night.”

She turned on her heel and stomped through the adjoining door.

“You are in the same situation, Victoria,” he shouted after her. “You haven't a bloody sou. Are you so damned ignorant that you don't know that a wife's money becomes her husband's upon her marriage?”

She stopped in her tracks. She turned to face him. She said slowly, “I don't believe you. It's my money, not yours.”