Page 30 of Barbarous

She turned away from his heavy-lidded stare, her heart thumping against her ribs hard enough to hurt. What had she done? How could she do such a thing, given the secret between them?

She laid her forehead against the cool wood-paneled wall and sucked in a breath, holding it. Unwilling to face the mortifying vision that threatened to swamp her: that of a gauche country bumpkin desperate for Hugh’s caresses. She was just one more woman in a long line of easy conquests that stretched back decades. And even if he really cared for her now, he soon wouldn’t.

Blame for herself and, irrationally, for him, swirled together inside her, the emotional chaos welling up in her throat. She swallowed and blinked back the tears that threatened to unravel the last of her composure, reminding herself that she’d had the willpower to stop him—and herself. The realization spread through her, leaving strength in its wake. She filled her lungs to bursting and began the long, uphill journey toward her wits and dignity.

When she turned, he was waiting for her, confusion writ large on his handsome face. “Daphne, I—”

She raised a hand. “No. Don’t apologize, my lord.” Her voice was cold and steady. “I could have stepped away, but I did not. We are both complicit in our behavior. All I ask is that you never mention this unfortunate incident, which I have already put from my mind.”

He waited a long time to answer. “As you wish,” he finally said, taking the hand she’d raised and pressing a light kiss into her palm, his breath hot through the thin kid glove.

The simple action set fire to her insides and she clenched her jaws against the wave of lust, anger, and . . . loss that surged through her body. Her hard-earned dignity gave way to self-preservation and she broke away from him and clattered down the stairs, ignoring his calls, not caring if he followed.

* * *

Hugh reached Pasha in time to see Daphne disappear down the drive. How she’d managed to mount her horse in such a hurry was a mystery to him. He leaned against the old rose arbor and tried to find a more comfortable position for his still-hard cock. There wasn’t one.

He shoved back his hat and scratched at his scar. What the devil had just happened? She was upset with him, there was no denying that, but he couldn’t help feeling it wasn’t that simple.

Hugh knew he deserved her anger for instigating the kiss and allowing his hands to wander. She had spent her life in this small community and had no doubt suddenly come to her senses, realizing their behavior far exceeded the bounds of the acceptable nephew/aunt relationship—no matter how tenuous that bond felt in their case.

He couldn’t blame her. There would be plenty of people who’d be horrified by his actions—their actions. Yet somehow he didn’t believe that was the reason for her reaction—at least not entirely. She had been so receptive at first, all but launching herself into his arms when he kissed her. And then something had happened to cool her ardor in an instant. But what?

Hugh squinted at the weed-choked drive as he considered their kiss. As arousing as it had been to finally lay his mouth on hers, there had been something in her response that had been . . . tentative, as if she’d never kissed a man before.

Hugh shook his head; that was impossible—she had children. Almost as soon as the thought entered his head, Hugh realized how asinine it was. Plenty of men took their wives under cover of darkness, viewing sex as a furtive, dirty activity to be used only for procreation. Had his uncle—

The revolting image of the earl taking his young wife’s innocence without even a kiss or caress slammed into him, wiping every other thought from his head. His erection—which had been as hard as a pike only seconds before—was gone in a heartbeat. Perhaps forever.

Hugh tried to shake the distasteful thoughts from his head but could not. Why was he surprised the poor woman had never been kissed—she’d been only seventeen when she’d married the earl.

There were scads of men, both young and old, who took their pleasure from their wives and didn’t bother with their partners’ needs. Indeed, many men appeared to believe wives were some peculiar subset of women—unlike mistresses or whores—who had no physical needs beyond food and shelter and clothing.

Hugh chewed the inside of his cheek. Was that what had happened to Daphne? Had she given her virginity to a man who’d not even kissed her?

Hugh could not bear the pictures his brain created. He shook his head hard enough to leave him dizzy, but still he could not rid his mind of disturbing images and thoughts.

Hugh knew her inexperience and everything it implied should have killed his desire for her—or at least warned him off. But it hadn’t. No, unfortunately for both of them, he wanted her just as badly as ever.

Chapter Nine

The episode in the Dower House should have sent Daphne running for London like a scalded cat. But of course it didn’t. Especially not after Hugh showed up to dinner that evening and behaved as if nothing untoward had happened—exactly as she had asked. Instead of pleasing her, his behavior incensed her.

Daphne dug in her heels and followed his lead. They chatted about estate affairs, the weather, crops, the current state of affairs in Europe—everything but the hulking matter between them. She even forced herself to spend an hour in the library after dinner, pretending to work on her paper but really eyeing him furtively and fuming. She refused to show him how much the brief interlude had upset her when it clearly meant less than nothing to him.

Daphne might be a naïve, ignorant, woefully inexperienced ninny when it came to men, but she knew what had happened. He’d been amusing himself with her because there was nobody else at hand. A woman would have to be a self-destructive idiot to invest any meaning in his behavior. And Daphne was not a stupid woman. At least not under normal circumstances.

But her common sense had gone begging where he was concerned and it was up to her to get it back. The first step was to behave as if the episode had never occurred.

Daphne was still trying to figure out how to do that the following morning, when something happened to wipe all thoughts of her recent humiliation from her mind.

She was on her way to breakfast when Gates intercepted her with a letter on a salver.

“This came for you late last night, my lady. I’m afraid I did not see it until just now.”

Daphne recognized Malcolm’s handwriting even though she’d not seen it in over ten years. She no more wanted to pick up the white square of parchment than she wanted to put her hands in a viper’s nest, but . . .

She took the letter. “Thank you, Gates.” She turned around and headed toward the library, no longer hungry. Once inside, she ripped the letter open while leaning against the door.