Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(49)

“It began after my mother died,” she said, quietly at first, and then with more authority as she continued. “I was four years old, and I’d spilled ink on the new rug in his office, where I wasn’t meant to be. He whipped me with a riding crop. As I grew older and began acting as his hostess, the punishments he meted out changed. Fists and kicks mostly, though he was always careful never to strike me where anyone else could ever see the mark.”

Jesus.

The air felt as if it had been sucked straight from his lungs. She spoke calmly, with a matter-of-fact acceptance that disturbed him. Daisy had mettle, the sort he couldn’t even begin to fathom any other fine lady of his acquaintance possessing.

“His fists.” His voice was toneless. Vanreid’s fists were practically the size of ham hocks. And he had used them upon a helpless woman, whose bones were as dainty as a bird’s. Sebastian’s blood went cold. And kicks. By God, the man was built like an ox, and he’d kicked Daisy. To manage such a feat, she would’ve had to have already been on the floor, struck down by him. “Where? Where did he hurt you?”

He had to know, and yet the knowledge would make him ill.

“Sebastian,” she protested. “It doesn’t matter.”

Oh, it mattered. Retribution would be his. Vanreid would be made to pay.

But he didn’t wish to push her too far, or upset her by asking her to relive such viciousness, and so he tucked her head against his chest and kissed her crown. “I would take each of those beatings for you, buttercup. If I could, I would remove every memory of them.”

She burrowed closer, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest like a cat, trusting. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

She had no cause to offer him gratitude.

Already, she had given him far more than she should this night. She had given him everything she had. And he’d taken it. Every last shred. Her innocence was his. Her future was in his hands. But she didn’t know that. Na?f that she was, she hadn’t an inkling that he was the last bloody man in all of London she should have entrusted with such a priceless gift.

He stroked her hair, sweet-smelling and luxuriant as silk, a new surge of protectiveness settling heavy in his gut. The devil of it was that, given the opportunity, he’d do it all over again.

“Sleep now, buttercup,” he told her.

Soon, the steady, rhythmic sound of her breathing filled the chamber. Sebastian stared into the black void of the night, still stroking her hair, unable to find the same solace that only slumber could provide.





he woke as dawn slipped through the window dressings, painting drowsy shadows and golden swaths of light over her chamber. For a moment, she blinked, thinking herself back at Aunt Caroline’s. But no, the size of the room was disproportionately large, and she lay on a firmer bed, quite on the wrong side. Where had the striped wallpaper gone?

It took her disoriented mind a thorough scan of the chamber from left to right until she recalled where she was. Who she was. What she had done. Beneath the bedclothes, she wore not a stitch, her body sore and tender in new places.

Good heavens. She pressed a hand to her scalding cheek as memories of the night washed over her, a foreign lick of anticipation trilling down her spine. He had been inside her.

How would she face him today?

The question took on a rather poignant significance when her eyes adjusted better to the dim light and she realized he was still in her bed. She clutched the counterpane to her bare breasts as her hungry gaze absorbed him. He lay on his back, bedclothes hugging his hips to reveal the breathtaking beauty of his bare chest and torso.

Even in repose, he exuded masculine strength, from the defined slabs of muscle on his abdomen to his broad chest and shoulders. His hair was swept back from his forehead, his brow for once unmarked by a frown, his nose a flawless line to match his equally perfect mouth. His lashes fanned over his high cheekbones, the dark growth of a beard stippling his jaw.

She ought to look away.

Her eyes traced the dents near his hip bones, the dark trail of hair that went below the blankets and straight to his hidden manhood. She remembered the way he’d felt, thick and smooth and hot in her palm, the way he’d felt thrusting into her. They had been as close as a man and woman could be.

They were husband and wife. Consummating the marriage was only right. But how odd it was that he had seen and touched every part of her body. Why, she didn’t even know what he liked to read, what he preferred for breakfast, or how he took his tea.

And that was when she noticed the faint tracery of something on his hands and arms. Not raised scars, she noted, but a discoloration scarcely even noticeable in the early morning glow. She’d seen markings like that once before, on the face of a man who had been burned in an incident at one of her father’s factories. Her gaze lingered on her husband’s strong arms. Had Sebastian been in a fire?

“They’re scars, buttercup.”

His words, low and intimate as velvet, dragged over her bare flesh. She couldn’t suppress the undignified squeak that rose to her lips. Flushing hotter still, she dragged her gaze back to his face to find him watching her, heavy-lidded and sensual. He didn’t seem disturbed by her unabashed examination of him, but she knew a pang of embarrassment at being caught.

“Scars?” she asked, gripping the bedclothes even tighter as she thought of how she must appear.