The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(75)
“It’s not your fault.” His voice vibrated with suppressed fury. “Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”
“Nothing happened. According to Mama, Coyner meant to eventually make me his child bride, but she and Papa rescued me before that. Coyner died fighting Papa—died because he refused to let me go.” Her cheek pressed against Andrew’s hammering heart, Rosie fought to unearth the rest. “I do have memories of that time, and I don’t remember Coyner ever… harming me. In any way.”
She was rolled over. Made to look into Andrew’s intense gaze.
“Then what distresses you?” he said.
She inhaled deeply. “Even though he didn’t abuse me in any way, the fact that he meant to…” Nausea hit the back of her throat, but Andrew’s steadiness urged her on. Gave her the strength to untangle the jumbled skeins of her thoughts and feelings.
“I remember how he cossetted me, called me his Little Flower. When I pleased him, he would buy me anything I wanted.” Her insides roiled. “So I tried to please him, to be his good girl, and for what? Some frock, some stupid doll. Remembering what I did,”—she swallowed against the rising bile—“disgusts me.”
Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much. How dirty and unclean the truth made her feel. Before Mama’s revelation, she’d just been a bastard—now she was a bastard who’d been bought to satisfy a lecher’s perversions. No wonder the ton rejected her. They’d sensed that she was damaged goods.
“You were just a girl. You didn’t know Coyner’s true intentions. It was only natural that you should want to gain your guardian’s approval.”
“But the fact that I was willing to sing him a song to get a music box, dance for him for a new pair of slippers,” she said bitterly, “that makes me no better than a…”
She trailed off, suddenly realizing what she’d been about to say. And to whom.
“Whore?” Andrew’s tone was free of inflection.
“That was thoughtless of me,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
Despite her tumultuous state, questions deluged her. She’d been curious about his past, of course, but she’d never felt quite right asking about it. The truth was they’d spent most of the time focusing on her troubles. Andrew’s primary concern was always her welfare and, as a consequence, she realized, he talked very little about his own.
He was so in command of himself, so self-possessed that it seemed he had no need to confide in another. Nonetheless, she wanted to know him. To give him the same attention and care he’d shown her, even if he didn’t need it.
“You’re not sorry that you… sold your, um, services for money?”
“I used my body and my mind to survive,” he said flatly. “There’s no shame in that.”
As she looked up at his stark, beautiful face, her throat clenched. He was right, of course. His self-acceptance, his ability to see past what others might think of him, humbled her. Heightened her desire to understand this strong, tender, and complex man who was her lover.
“No, there isn’t,” she agreed. “But how did you end up in that trade?”
He studied her a moment before answering. “One could say I carried on the family tradition. Although my mother was an actress, her talent lay more in the bedchamber than on the boards. She began a career as a courtesan, and I was the result of it.”
Recalling what her mama had said about Andrew’s parentage, she said tentatively, “Is it true that you have royal blood?” At his startled look, she mumbled, “Mama told me.”
“Ah. The old rumors.” His lips twisted. “Yes, it’s possible. My mother was the Prince Regent’s mistress for a brief time, but neither of them were the faithful sort. By the time she realized she was with child, Prinny had already lost interest in her. So she was left pregnant and without resources to care for herself or her unborn bastard.”
“How dreadful,” Rosie whispered.
“My mother nearly died bringing me into the world, but somehow she survived. She continued selling her wares to support the two of us. By the time I was eight, drink had taken over her life,”—a muscle shifted in his cheek—“and, one by one, she lost her money, beauty, and health.”
His emotionless recounting of his childhood chilled Rosie—made her want to gather him in her arms and hold him tight. Something in his expression warned her not to.
Swallowing, she said, “You were so young. How did you survive?”
“I had quick and sticky fingers, so I got us by. When I turned fourteen, my mother introduced me to a bawd who catered to female clientele.”
Rosie couldn’t stop herself from recoiling. “Your mother sold you into prostitution?”
“She didn’t sell me. It was my choice.” A banked fire flared in his eyes. “I wanted to put food on our table, to have a roof over our heads, and fucking was an easier way to do it than thieving or running with cutthroats.”
“But you were only fourteen!”
Incredibly, his broad shoulders flexed in a shrug. “I was large for my age. The bawd taught me the essentials of pleasing a woman, and anything she left out, I figured out quickly on my own. Don’t make my life into a Cheltenham Tragedy. The last thing I want or need is your pity.”