Page 106 of The Rake's Daughter
No, Papa was never polite, not unless he wanted something.
She would never have imagined that Lord Salcott was in any way like Papa. But she was wrong. She didn’t understand him at all.
She let herself into her bedchamber, stripped off her dress, poured cold water into a bowl and washed herself all over. Every inch of her. Washing the scent of him from her body.
By the time she finished washing herself, she was shivering. And not with pleasure.
I’m sorry. I didn’t realize... you were a virgin.
What had he expected? He knew her background, that she and Clarissa had never been anywhere, met anyone.
What had he thought, that she’d rolled in the hay with farm boys and laborers?
Anger stirred deep down inside her. But in the cold dark of night despair ruled.
She’d been too eager, too hungry. Too enthusiastic. Sluttish.
Women—ladies—were supposed to be reluctant. To hang back. To need to be coaxed, seduced. Not to writhe and moan and rub themselves against the man like a cat in heat.
Only men were supposed to enjoy it. Nanny had warned them about that.
So perhaps she wasn’t a lady after all, because she had damn well enjoyed every bit of it. Until the end when he’d turned into a stranger. And she refused to pretend otherwise.
So she was a whor—no, she would not use that ugly word. She was a woman who enjoyed bed sports. Fine. And if he didn’t like that, too bad. She was what she was, and she refused to be ashamed.
She pulled on her nightdress, climbed into bed and dragged the covers over her head. Wishing for oblivion.
***
Leo hardly slept. When morning eventually came, he rose, bathed, shaved and dressed with extra care. His duty was clear, and Leo always did his duty.
He crossed the garden and asked to speak to Miss Isobel in private. The butler informed him that Miss Isobel was just back from walking the dogs, and would be with him shortly. Mrs. Price-Jones and Miss Clarissa were visiting the shops.
Leo was glad. If that woman had insisted on joiningthem, he might have had to throw her out of the window. He was tense, his temper on edge.
Honor demanded he do this thing.
When Isobel arrived, he scanned her face for signs that she, too, had spent the night tossing and turning. But there was none. No shadow of visible regret or distress; her eyes were clear and bright, her skin smooth and lovely as ever. Fresh as the first snowdrop of the season.
“Good morning, Lord Salcott.” She didn’t look like a virgin who’d been ravaged.
“I owe you an apology,” he said gruffly after she sat.
She arched a brow. “For what?”
He barely heard what she said. He’d rehearsed his speech half the night. “And naturally I am willing to marry you.”
A glint of something flashed in her eyes. He had no idea what it meant. “Why?” she asked eventually.
What did she mean, why? Wasn’t it obvious? “I didn’t know you were a virgin.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t think I needed to. You came to me willingly enough.”
Her lips tightened. “Bad blood, is that it? Tarred with my mother’s reputation?”
He shrugged. The truth was he hadn’t even thought about it. He’d wanted her and she’d let him take her. It was only afterward that he’d thought about it. And the implications.
