Seven Years to Sin(17)
When they were alone, he cupped Hester’s shoulders and nuzzled the tender spot beneath her ear. As his fingers kneaded, she flinched and he noticed. Stiffening, he looked at the spot he touched.
Hester watched him in the mirror, waiting for the remorse to cross his expressive features. In that respect, he differed from her father. Hadley never regretted his actions.
“Did you receive my gift?” he whispered, gentling his touch over the darkening bruise marring her right shoulder blade.
“Yes.” She gestured to where it sat on the vanity in front of her. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“But pales in comparison to you.” The movement of his lips tickled the shell of her ear. “I don’t deserve you.”
She often thought they deserved each other. For all the times Jess had interceded on her behalf and taken the brunt of their father’s fury, it had been her due to take it while Jess had found at least temporary peace during her happy marriage. It was the saddest sort of irony that Hester had once thought she and Regmont had a precious affinity because both of their childhood homes had been marred by paternal abuse. They understood the scars left behind and the particular traits a child acquired to survive, but she’d learned other traits seeped into the characters of those who suffered while too young. An imprint was left on the soul, manifesting itself in ways not readily evident. As was said, an apple does not fall far from the tree.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Long. I spent the whole of it thinking of you.” He urged her to turn and she did, sliding carefully around on the small vanity stool so that the mirror was to her back.
Regmont knelt before her, his hands moving to clasp the back of her calves. Laying his head in her lap, he said, “Forgive me, my darling.”
“Edward.” She sighed.
“You are everything to me. No one understands me the way you do. I would be lost without you.”
She touched his damp hair, running her fingers through it. “You’re not yourself when you drink spirits.”
“I’m not,” he agreed, rubbing his cheek against her bruised thigh. “I can’t seem to control myself. You know I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you.”
They kept no liquor in any of their homes, but he easily found it elsewhere. By all accounts he was a jovial drunk, a most entertaining and amusing fellow. Until he returned home to her, where the demons plaguing him resided.
She felt the wet of his tears soak through her chemise and pantalettes.
He lifted his head and looked at her with reddened eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
Every time he asked her the question, it became harder to answer. He was most often the perfect husband. Kind and thoughtful. He spoiled her with gifts and tokens of affection, love letters and favorite treats. He listened when she spoke and remembered anything she admired. She’d learned swiftly to be very careful with what she voiced a liking for, because he would attain it for her by whatever means necessary. But there were times when he was a monster.
There was still a part of her that was madly in love with the sweet memories they’d created in the infancy of their marriage. Yet she hated him, too.
“My dearest Hester,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to the ties at her waist. “Allow me to make restitution. Let me worship you, as you deserve.”
“My lord, please.” She circled his wrists with her fingers. “We are expected at the Grayson ball. My hair has already been arranged.”
“I will not disturb it,” he promised in the low seductive tone that had once been capable of luring her into carnal depravity in carriages and alcoves and anywhere else they could find a modicum of privacy. “Let me.”
Regmont looked at her with slumberous eyes. He was passion flushed and determined. When it came to his amorous inclinations, “no” was not an answer he accepted. The few times she’d attempted it, unable to bear the thought of his hands on her again even in tenderness, he had drunk himself into furies that made her regret denying him. Then he’d take her anyway, excusing himself with the orgasms he wrung from her. After all, he reasoned, she must have been willing if she’d enjoyed it so much. She almost preferred the pain of his fists to the humiliation of her own traitorous body.
Her pantalettes were wriggled out from under her, then slid over her stocking-clad calves and removed completely. His large hands cupped her knees and urged them apart. His breath caressed the flesh of her inner thigh.
“So pretty,” he praised, parting her with questing fingers. “So soft and sweet and as pink as a seashell.”
The Earl of Regmont had been a gazetted rake before offering for her. He’d acquired more sexual skill with his hands, mouth, and cock than any man should have a right to. When he unleashed those talents on her body, it always betrayed her. No matter how determined she was to be angry for the sake of her own survival and mental well-being, he was more stubborn than she. Minutes or hours, it didn’t matter.
He proved his mastery over her again now, fluttering the pointed tip of his tongue over her clitoris. She vainly fought against the pleasure with closed eyes, gritted teeth, and hands clenching the edge of the upholstered stool. When the inevitable climax shuddered through her, tears sprang to her eyes.
“I love you,” he said fiercely.
What did it say about her, that she could experience pleasure from the touch of a man who brought her such pain? Perhaps her father’s legacy was more clearly revealed by her private life than her public one.