Page 31 of The Damsel
For a few moments, there was only the darkness and his heavy breaths mingling with hers. Then, her laughter reached out to him, soft chuckles that reminded him of a cat’s purr. It stirred something deep within him, some part that warmed to the sound and craved more of it.
Opening his eyes, he found her relaxed beneath him, eyes heavy lidded and lips curved into a smirk.
“And here I was beginning to think that you would be the perfect gentleman even when fucking me,” she said. “But look at you … you’ve gone positively feral.”
His face blossomed with heat as he gazed down at his cock, gone flaccid in his hand and smeared with her juices. Then, he gazed at her inner thighs, reddened from his battering thrusts and splattered with thin rivulets of his spunk.
“Before you open your mouth to apologize … don’t,” she said, lifting her arms over her head and stretching with a soft sigh. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I have no interest in false gentlemanly sentiment. I’m not a piece of glass and don’t relish being treated as one. That was ... invigorating.”
He finally found his way to his feet, staggering back and turning toward the privacy screen he assumed concealed a washstand. Ducking behind it, he was proven right, finding a ceramic bowl filled with cool water and a variety of bottles and vials along with a stack of folded linens. He took one up and dipped it into the water for Cassandra.
“You speak as if behaving as a gentleman should is somehow repugnant.”
Her derisive snort reached out to him through the screen. “Because most gentlemen use the niceties of good manners and pretty speech to conceal the truth about themselves. I much prefer for people to portray their true selves, don’t you? That makes it so much easier to know whom to trust.”
He offered her the dampened linen. She accepted it and began wiping away the evidence of what had just transpired.
He found that his clothing had fallen to the floor in the flurry of their coupling, and bent to pick the articles up. While not soaked as they had been, they still proved quite damp.
“Not all men who act with courtesy and kindness are doing so with ulterior motives,” he said, taking up the counterpane and wrapping it around his body once more. “Not every gentleman you meet is wearing a mask.”
She went to the washstand, the linen hanging between her fingers. When she came out from behind the screen, she met his gaze and folded her arms over her bare breasts.
“Lord Bertram Fairchild was every inch the gentleman until the moment he was not,” she snapped. “So, you will forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”
His mouth fell open, and for a moment he struggled to find words.
“Oh … I … I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” she interjected. Her hands had balled into fists, her eyes gleaming like steel. “Don’t do that. I do not need your pity.”
Furrowing his brow, he swallowed past the lump in his throat. Did she think it was pity he felt toward her?
“I don’t pity you,” he replied. “I admire you. It couldn’t have been easy, telling the world what happened to you. But, you did it with more grace and strength than I ever imagined one person could possess.”
Her jaw hardened, working back and forth as she seemed to grind her teeth. Her gaze never left his as she shook her head and snorted, as if thinking him an utter dolt.
“Meanwhile, you and Bertram were the best of friends. Were you not?”
He flinched, his own guilt over not knowing the truth about his childhood friend never far from his mind. “I thought he was, but as it turned out I did not truly know him. In the few years leading up to the revelation of his … indiscretions, we drifted apart.”
“And you must think it so singular, this wolf in sheep’s clothing moving amongst theton, preying upon the innocent and defenseless.”
In truth, he had thought it beyond the pale—unthinkable. Obviously, he’d heard whispers of scandal here and there, but never anything so heinous as what Bertram had done. His ignorance of the things happening right in front of him had made him feel as if he were partly to blame.
“I am not like him,” he stated. “We are not all like him.”
Striding toward her bed, she gave him a pointed look over her shoulder. “That may be true, but you have no idea how many Bertrams there are amongst your peers. You’ll never know if you’re unable to look past the cut of a man’s coat or the propriety of his speech.”
Before he could say another word, she yanked back the sheets and gestured toward the bed.
“Your clothing won’t be dry for hours yet, and it is late. You may as well get into bed and try to sleep. That is … unless you’re afraid you might be missed. Wouldn’t want to worry Mother.”
The offer of a warm bed was welcome after his long and eventful night, but her comment had put his teeth on edge.
“I realize it is quite the thing amongst our peers to make fun of me for having respect for the woman who birthed me,” he ground out. “But I do not find it so amusing.”
She left the bed and reached out to take hold of the blanket, using it to yank her toward him.
