Page 82 of The Lyon Returns
“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 longernottouch 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…attackyou?”
Her mouth firmed. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the carriagerumbled on, Gwen’s answer hung in the air between them. If only she could snatch it back. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn out?
By some unspoken agreement, neither she nor Gideon had opened the velvet drapes covering the small paned windows. Still, morning sunlight burned around the edges, providing enough illumination to see Gideon’s hard, set jaw. It was clear he couldn’t look at her.
“Did he rape you?” he asked through set teeth.
“No,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis. “He merely cornered me in the library where I’d gone in search of a book. After hours,” she admitted, lowering her eyes to her hands, clenched in her lap. “In my night clothes, I’m afraid.”
“People do venture out of their chambers, at times, in their night clothes, in their own homes. That does not usually lead to an attack on one’s person.” Cold fury laced his every word. “He cornered you, and then what?”
“Must we—”
“Yes,” he hissed.
She could refuse him, only, now she’d begun, shecouldn’t seem to stop the flood of words. “He must have heard me exit my bedchamber and then followed me down. I was reaching for a book when I felt his arms come ’round me. H-he touched me where he had no right. When I turned to protest, he started kissing me, and groping me.” A shudder rolled through her. “He terrified me. I’m not sure why. The unexpectedness, I suppose. When I insisted he stop, he did, then laughed like it was all a game.”
You want it. Admit it, Gwen. You practically begged me to bed you, putting yourself out there for all to see, flaunting your body, displaying your wares.
“He said I asked for it.”
“Gwen,” he said softly.
“I slapped him. Hard. It left a mark.” She touched her fingers to her cheek, remembering the angry red stain she’d left on his face. “I think that’s how Reggie knew.”
“He knew? And? What did he do? He called the bastard out, I assume?”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
