Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Not so fast, sweetheart,” he said, keeping one arm looped around her waist as he buttoned his fly with his free hand. Afterward, he searched his pockets, withdrew his handkerchief, and reached under her skirts to dab it over her undoubtedly sensitive flesh.
With a chirp, she jerked, but he merely continued his ministrations, albeit as gently as possible. Afterward, he scooped one arm beneath her legs, adjusting her position so she sat across his lap, rather than ignominiously astride it.
“Now then, madam, kindly tell me why it is you are crying.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” The loud sniffle that followed belied her words.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked in a low voice.
“No.”
He groaned inwardly, wishing with all his might he could ignore the problem, whatever it might be. He couldn’t, though. He had to know.
“Did I…” He cursed under his breath. “Did you feel coerced? I assure you, that was the last—”
“No,” she said, very definitively.
Relief left him weak. If she had, for one moment, felt pressured…
“No, Gideon,” she repeated softly, as if sensing he needed her reassurance.
“Good. That’s good.” He shifted as a deep lethargy stole over him. Wrapping her in his arms, he smoothed one of his hands over her slender back. “I think you’d better explain, madam. Your tears, and…the rest.”
“The rest?”
“You said, ‘Not like this.’ Your relationship with your husband,” he began, searching blindly for an avenue of inquiry.
Something that might explain not only her tears, but her innocence, her lack of sexual awareness, especially considering her responsiveness.
It was clear the woman had a healthy sexual appetite, and she could not be more appealing, herself.
If there were a problem between her and her husband, the problem was his, of that Gideon had no doubt.
“Your husband,” he began again.
“What of him?” she asked, sounding wary.
Losing patience, he crooked a finger under her chin, and guided her face upward ’til their eyes met. “Gwen, correct me if I’m wrong, but I am the first man to touch you like I did, to bring you to release.”
She did not look away. “Yes.”
“But you did lie with him?”
Now she lowered her eyes. “Yes…A handful of times.”
“Over six years? How? Why? Did he have a physical impairment? Did you avoid the marital bed? I got the strong impression you loved him. I—Christ, Gwen I was half…” He broke off.
She eyed him, brows arched in expectation. “Half…?” she prodded.
Half jealous, he’d been about to say. “It doesn’t matter. None of this makes sense, and I’d like to understand. Please.”
She spoke in a hushed voice he had to strain his ears to hear. “This is difficult. I’ve never told a living soul, although it’s a certainty his mother knew.”
He leaned back, pulled her unresisting form into his chest, and closed his eyes. “It’s only right you should confide in me as I have you.”
He felt her nod, and her body relax. “I told you I met Reggie when we were both children and that he and I became friends. At some point, the idea he and I would marry became an accepted fact. As children, we talked about it as if it was a fait accompli. Then we grew into adolescence, and Reggie was…he was beautiful. People—perfect strangers often stared at him, agog.”
Gideon grunted. “How nice for him.”
“He was kind, charming, gentle.”
“A regular paragon,” he muttered.
“We had a nearly perfect relationship.”
Gideon said nothing. Why had he pushed her to talk about this?
“Or so I thought. We never argued. We shared similar interests—the arts, theatre.” She paused and Gideon had the feeling it was not for effect. “Poetry.”
Or maybe it was. He heaved a sigh. “I see.”
“We lacked one vital component for a marriage, however.”
He cracked open his eyes and slid her a look. Now, they were getting somewhere. “What was that?”
“Reggie did not find me… appealing.”
Gideon stared, certain he’d heard her wrong.
“In the physical sense,” she added helpfully.
Was the man blind? Slow-witted? How could any red-blooded male not find Gwen appealing. Unless… “He was in love with another?”
“Not precisely.” A faraway look glazed her eyes, as if she peered through a window into the past. “I tried.”
“Beg pardon?”
Her face flushed crimson. “To make myself attractive to him.”
“Ah, yes. By making yourself less forthright, as his mother suggested.” Sarcasm laced his words.
“Not only that. She came up with another plan, you see. She purchased several gowns for me, and bid me wear them.”
He snorted. “Never say she is the one responsible for those horrid—”
“Not those,” she corrected in an arch tone, simultaneously straightening away from him. “I think I could sit on my own, now.”
Her quiet dignity made him even less inclined to release her. But he could hardly hold her against her will. Reluctantly, he let his arms fall away from her.
She took her time, settling on the bench beside him, righting her skirts.
When she finally lifted her gaze to his he found himself pressing his lips together to fight a smile.
Wisps of fine gold hair framed her delicate face, her one-time neat bun hung askew to rest on her shoulder, the hastily tied bow of her bodice drooped. She looked so delightfully tumbled.
No doubt she would not appreciate the sentiment, nor would she welcome his efforts to retie the ribbon securing her bodice, although something would have to be done before they emerged from the equipage at the abbey.
Back to the subject at hand. “Tell me about these gowns your mother-in-law procured for you.”
“In a word, they were garish. Red satin, multiple flounces, low-cut bodices. I hated them. Well, perhaps I enjoyed one or two.” Her dimple winked in and out of view. “In any case, I wore them because she said…” Her mouth firmed.
“What did she say, Gwen?”
She lifted her chin. “She said my lack of femininity caused Reggie’s disinterest. She said everyone could see he did not fancy me.
I was humiliated. Ashamed. I agreed to wear them.
In the end, all that happened was…” She shook her head with a vehemence that said she did not wish to speak of precisely what had transpired. “Never mind. I’ve said enough.”
“Gwen, what happened?” The desire to hold her again, as if he could protect her from whatever had befallen her nearly overwhelmed him. Sensing she would not thank him for it, he fisted his hands at his sides. “I insist you tell me.”
Though clearly reluctant, she started speaking again. “As I mentioned, Reggie and I both admired poetry—well done, of course.”
Of course, no subclass poetry for the perfect Reggie.
“Also, he knew of my influence with the publishing house which employed my father, and of my own not-insubstantial skill as an editor.” A small smile winked in and out of view, nearly pulling one from Gideon.
“He had a friend from school, a poet whom he invited for an extended visit. Reggie asked me to work with him, to see if I couldn’t help further his career. It turned out Mr.—the man—was very talented.” Abruptly, her words cut off.
A nasty suspicion took hold of Gideon. She claimed to have worn overly provocative dresses for a time, but had arrived in London with supremely unattractive, decidedly dowdy gowns. She claimed her former husband had had little romantic interest in her.
And that a man had come to stay with them, a guest in their home.
The truth slammed into him like a tidal wave at full force. He felt at once ill, and desirous of smashing something—someone—into obliteration.
Struggling to keep his expression neutral, he gazed at the amazing, intelligent, sensitive woman at his side. Gwen, his wife.
He could no longer not touch her. He retrieved the crumpled blanket they’d shared from the floorboards and draped it over her shoulders, tugging the ends tightly around her as he struggled to say the words he needed to ask.
“Gwen, did this poet, your husband’s friend, a guest in your home…did he… attack you?”
Her mouth firmed. “Yes.”