Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(61)

“It wasn’t like that,” Petra cut in, her voice sharp as a whip, all her earlier softness gone.

Astrid frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I never thought he was particularly charming. At least he never was to me. He focused most of his attentions on Father and the subject of my dowry. I never wanted to marry him and told my father as much.”

She blinked and swiped a loose strand of hair back from her cheek. “You did?”

“We met Bertram while in Aberdeen.” She heaved a sigh. “Soon, he became part of the furniture. Once, in the hotel lobby, Father and Bertram were talking to a group of gentlemen, ignoring me.” Her lips twisted grimly at this comment. “A lady approached me and asked if your husband was the Duke of Derring. I said no, but she seemed so certain. I could not forget about the encounter, and I began to wonder what if she wasn’t mistaken? When Father invited him home with us, I decided to find out for myself if he was who he claimed to be. I made inquiries that led me to you.”

“You wrote the letter!” Astrid exclaimed, her respect deepening for the young woman who had the courage and strength to protect herself when she questioned her father’s judgment. Had Astrid done such a thing, had she not been trained so well in duty and stoicism, following her father’s edicts without question, she may have avoided marriage to Bertram altogether.

“Aye.” Petra nodded. “I feared you would not arrive in time.” She exhaled, her warm breath puffing out in a frothy cloud on the cold air. “So I went ahead and told Bertram I did not want to marry him. That my father could not make me. That I loved someone else.” She looked down at her hands suddenly, as if seeing something there beyond flesh and bones.

Shock rippled through Astrid. “You love someone else?” She shook her head and stammered, “Th-Then how could you allow Bertram to seduce…”

“He raped me.” The words fell bluntly, sharp as broken glass scoring her heart.

“What?” The question slipped through numb lips.

Petra turned and resumed moving along the walkway, her steps quick, as if she wished to escape her words.

Astrid fell in step beside her, watching, waiting for her to elaborate, wishing she, too, could escape Petra’s terrible words.

“One evening after dinner, my father retired early and left us alone. Bertram suggested we walk the gardens.” Petra lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug. “There’s a lovely pergola at the center of it where my mother used to read to me as a child. Sometimes we sketched together there. She was a very good artist, my mother.”

Perplexed at the conversation’s digression, Astrid gently prodded, “What are you saying? Bertram forced himself on you in your family’s garden?”

A faraway look entered Petra’s eyes, and Astrid knew she was there again, in that pergola. With Bertram. “I spent some of my happiest days there. Before Mama died and I was left alone with Father.”

Staring into her pale face, Astrid suddenly felt sick. She pressed a hand to her stomach, attempting to curtail the nausea. Sucking in a deep drag of icy air, she watched Petra, praying that it was a mistake, that she had misunderstood, that Bertram had not done such a thing.

Petra blinked as if returning to herself. The distant haze lifted from her eyes. “Afterward, Bertram said that should end any reservations I harbored on the matter of marrying him.”

Astrid’s thoughts reeled, her head spun, flooded with memories of Bertram entering her room in the still of night, his quick pants against her ear and quicker movements over her…

The indignity of those trysts paled beside what Petra must have endured.

“Your father knew that Bertram…” she paused, the words choking in her throat, mingling with the bile coating her tongue.

Petra nodded. “I told him. He only insisted we wed sooner.”

Astrid stared hard at the shadowed face of the woman Bertram had abused. Her stomach churned, imagining what Petra must have felt…what she still felt.

“And this man. The one you love—”

“Andrew,” she quickly supplied, her chin lifting and a lightness entering her voice. “He still wants to marry me.” And then the lightness faded as she added, “He’s our coachman. Father would never permit it, of course.”

Astrid nodded in understanding. No, Thomas Osborn would never allow his daughter, ruined or not, to marry so beneath her.

Astrid shivered, rubbing her arms, knowing it would be a long time, if ever, before guilt did not run through her like a frozen wind. Bertram had been her husband, after all. That linked them whether she wished it or not.

“Shall we go back inside?” Petra asked.

Astrid sighed. “Must we?”

A faint smile curved Petra’s lips. Taking Astrid’s arm, she turned them around. “Since they’re likely discussing my fate, I’m interested to hear their plans.”

“Of course,” Astrid murmured, smiling over Petra’s droll tone.

When they returned to the hall, the men were still deep in discussion. Osborn now occupied Astrid’s chair, a plate before him, utensils untouched as he used his fingers to pick at stringy meat swimming in thick gravy. Licking his fingers, he looked up as they entered the dining hall, his eyes skipping over Petra to crudely assess Astrid, his gaze crawling over her breasts and hips.