The Study of Seduction (Sinful Suitors, #2)(77)

“Thank God.”

“No!” She whirled to face him, tears welling in her eyes. “I mean, yes, I was glad Niall wasn’t killed, but I begged him not to fight in the first place. I told him to let Papa deal with it, but he wouldn’t listen. And when it was over and he and Papa agreed that Niall should flee to protect me, I . . . I begged him not to do that, either.”

“Why?”

“Because now he can never return! He won’t risk putting me through a trial. He and Papa kept the whole thing utterly quiet—from Warren, from the rest of the family, from everyone. They didn’t even tell Mama, for fear that she would let it slip. If she ever finds out that I was the cause of her son’s exile—”

“You were not the cause of Niall’s exile, blast it!” He strode up to seize her hands in his. “Whiting was. Your brother did a very noble thing by protecting you after the fact. And if I ever see him again, I will thank him for it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do. You feel guilty over something that wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was my fault, don’t you see?” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “If I hadn’t gone into the orangery with the Vile Seducer—”

“The ‘Vile Seducer’?”

“That’s what I’ve always called him in my head. I can’t think of him as a . . . as a person with a name.”

“That I can well understand,” he bit out. “Though you ought to call him the ‘Vile Rapist.’ Because that’s clearly what he was.”

“Was he?” Jerking her hands from his, she turned her back to him once more. “I went willingly with him. I let him kiss me—a lot. Like some tart, I let him put his hand on my breast.”

“You did all that with me, and every time you balked at going further, I retreated. Because that’s what a gentleman does—even with a woman who initially encouraged him. Even with his wife. A gentleman does not force a woman. Ever.”

As if she hadn’t even heard him, she went on in a harsh rasp, “I should have fought him harder. I protested when he began to lift my skirts, but I didn’t seriously struggle until he tore my clothes and held me down and . . . and pushed himself into me and—”

“Raped you,” Edwin said fiercely. The very idea of that bastard tearing her clothes and holding her down made him wish he could march into hell and kill the man all over again. Bare-handed. “It’s clearly a rape to me. And it clearly was to Niall, too. And your late father.”

With a shake of her head, she wrapped her arms about her waist. “I’m not so sure. A-after it happened, they could barely even look at me. Father never chided me, but I—I’m sure that he blamed me.”

“If he did, then he was wrong. But I doubt that he did. The Lord Margrave I knew would never have blamed you. He was as different from my father as I am from Samuel. He was a man of character, and if he didn’t look at you, it’s because he couldn’t stand to see you hurting. Couldn’t stand the fact that he wasn’t there to protect you.”

Desperate to make her see, he came up behind her and pulled her back against him. “I can’t stand the fact that I wasn’t there to protect you, and I didn’t even know any of this was going on.”

She was crying now, though he could only tell because of the hitch in her breathing.

He held her as close as he dared, as close as she’d let him. “I’ve seen how you react to a man crowding you in, and being on top of you, sweetheart. I heard you scream after your nightmare. If that isn’t the behavior of a woman who was raped, I don’t know what is. I only wish I hadn’t assumed that your balking was due to your dislike of me. Perhaps then I would have recognized it before.”

“I told you it had nothing to do with you,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes, you did. I just didn’t believe you. Forgive me for that. Though if you’d told me in the first place—”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered. “I was afraid you would condemn me, would blame me for . . . for . . .”

“Being raped?” That wounded him to his soul. “I suppose your fear shouldn’t surprise me, given that Father condemned Mother, but I thought you knew my character better than that. I realize that you and Yvette think me cold and unfeeling—”

“Not cold and unfeeling.” She twisted in his arms to face him. “I never thought you that, and she didn’t, either. It’s just that you were always so . . . rigid. So disapproving of my outrageous behavior.”

“Because I worried about you.” He brushed a lock of her hair from her eyes. “I knew what could happen to a woman with high spirits who was so damned appealing and intoxicating . . . and heedless of her own safety.”

“Never that,” she whispered. “Ever since the . . . attack, I always have an eye on who’s behind me and where I am. I always know how many people are within screaming distance, because . . .” She shivered. “No one could hear me cry out in that orangery. It was too far away from the party, and there was too much noise in the house.”

The very idea of her screaming and having no one come to her rescue until it was too late sent a shaft of ice through his heart. And reminded him of her screaming in the woods, and brandishing the hairbrush at the theater. The signs had all been there; if only he hadn’t been dwelling on his own insecurity.