Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

      He’d known, God dammit!

      Just as he’d sensed her innocence tonight. But just like before, he’d thrust the truth aside, preferring to believe the lie. Because it exonerated him from blame. He didn’t want to be the man who’d broken her heart. So he kept on telling himself she didn’t have a heart to break. That she was manipulative and deceitful.

      But he had been to blame for destroying her. He had indeed led her halfway somewhere, then let her down, not once, but twice.

      He squeezed his eyes shut on the devastating truth—she’d loved him.

      And he’d let one lie destroy it.

      All those wasted, miserable, hellish years...years during which he’d believed in a lie. A lie so base it had warped his entire outlook on life.

      She hadn’t had a child in secret. She hadn’t come to London to ensnare a man with her practised wiles. She’d been innocent. Innocent!

      She moaned again and struggled to sit up.

      And he wondered how long he’d been kneeling there, reeling in horror at the terrible mistake he’d made. Too long, however few seconds it had taken for the truth to strike him right between the eyes the way it had. Because she was suffering, shocked at the painfully brutal invasion of her body, and she needed comfort. Not some oaf, kneeling there, so many miles and years away in his head that he might just as well have left the room altogether.

      In his mind, it was the hurt he’d dealt her years ago that was the biggest issue, but for her, it was the hurt he’d dealt her tonight.

      And that was what he had to deal with. He had to put this right, he had to tend to the pain he’d caused her, right now, prove that he wasn’t the uncaring, fickle disappointment of a man who’d brought her nothing but grief.

      There was no need to bring up what had gone wrong between them ten years ago. Not as far as she was concerned.

      He blenched when he thought how close he’d come to quizzing her about the little girl he’d seen her with—the one he’d assumed was hers. And the man he’d thought had fathered it on her. The man he’d thought of as a vile seducer.

      But it was him. He was the only seducer of innocence she knew. He was the man who’d callously, clumsily, ripped her virginity from her. As if shattering her hopes ten years ago hadn’t been bad enough. What effect had it had on her? He hadn’t stopped to consider that, not before. But she’d fled London at the height of the Season. And she hadn’t ever married...

      ‘I will never let you down, or bring you pain again,’ he vowed.

      ‘No, you will not,’ she said firmly, grabbing the corner of the quilt to cover her breasts as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Because I won’t let you.’

      ‘Hold hard!’ He gripped her shoulders and, when she wouldn’t look at him, spoke to her rigidly averted profile. ‘Do not leave, not as you are. Let me get you...a drink. Yes, a drink. I should have hot water to bathe you and soothe you, really, but it would take too long to fetch it and heat it.’

      He winced as the words came tumbling out of his mouth. He was practically gibbering. But then what kind of man would be able to stay calm after discovering that, ten years earlier, he’d spurned the only woman he’d ever loved, because he hadn’t had the guts to question a pack of the most dastardly lies about her? And only finally learned the truth of her complete innocence of any kind of wrongdoing because he’d treated her like the veriest lightskirt?

      He darted from the bed, out of the room and over to the table where he kept a decanter of good brandy. For a moment or two he could see the attraction of becoming a Papist. It must feel wonderful to be able to go to a priest, confess, and have your guilt absolved through the muttering of a few prayers.

      Sloshing a generous measure into a glass, he hurried back to the bedroom, to find, to his relief, that she was still sitting hunched up on the edge of the bed, clutching the quilt round her shoulders and not, as he had feared, hunting round the room for her discarded clothing.

      He handed her the glass, which she took from him with a scowl.

      ‘I...I’m sorry it hurt.’ Mea culpa. ‘The first time often does, I believe...’

      ‘I’m amazed anybody ever does it a second,’ she said, screwing up her face as she took a gulp of the brandy.

      ‘Perhaps...other men are not as clumsy about it as I just was,’ he admitted, running his fingers through his hair. ‘If I’d known...’ No, he couldn’t tell her that, could he? Or he would then have to explain why he’d made such an assumption. ‘I misunderstood. That is...I thought you seemed impatient.’

      No, that wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t try shifting one iota of the blame on her. His was the fault. And it was up to him to make amends.

      And there was only one sure way of doing that. He took a deep breath.

      ‘We must marry, of course,’ he said. It was the appropriate penalty to pay for all he’d done to her. The ultimate sacrifice to atone for his sin.

      But her scowl only grew deeper.

      ‘We will do no such thing!’

      ‘We have to, Amy, don’t you see?’ He sat down on the bed next to her. ‘I have taken your virginity, ruined you...’

      ‘You didn’t take anything. We were sharing a moment of what I’d hoped would be pleasure. What a stupid mistake to make,’ she said bitterly.

      He flinched. Had he asked her the same question ten years ago, she would have been overjoyed. She’d loved him, back then, just as he was.

      Now he’d become as big a disappointment to her as he’d always been to everyone else.

      ‘It is a mistake, however,’ he persisted, ‘that can soon be rectified.’ He wouldn’t be a disappointment to her as a husband. He would cherish her. Stay loyal to her. Make up for all the hurts she’d ever suffered on his account and defend her from anyone who ever attempted to do anything similar in future.

      ‘Not by marrying,’ she retorted. ‘I agreed to your proposition because I believed you were the one man I could trust not to want to go all...respectable. You made it quite clear that you had no intention of marrying me, not ten years ago, and not now. You made me,’ she said, jabbing him on his arm with her forefinger, ‘believe it would be safe to take up with you. Oh, why do I never learn? I should have known you would be nothing but a disappointment. To think I hoped that because you had the reputation for being a rake, that you would be able to make this...’ she waved the hand holding the brandy glass wildly, indicating the rumpled bedding ‘...enjoyable! And not only was that the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made where you are concerned, but now you are talking about trapping me into matrimony.’

      She slammed the brandy glass down on his nightstand and got to her feet.

      He had to think of something fast. He couldn’t let it end like this. If she left now, he would never get her back. Never be free from the guilt. He went cold inside.

      Think, man, think!

      Firstly, he got the impression that the tighter he clung to her, the harder she would struggle to break free.

      And she’d just said she’d wanted to feel safe with him—which meant free to come and go as she pleased.

      And finally, she’d said she wanted pleasure.

      Summoning every last ounce of his ability to dissemble, he leaned back into the pillows and folded his hands behind his head as she struggled to get off the bed with her dignity intact, which wasn’t easy given all she had to preserve it was a rather moth-eaten quilt that revealed as much as it covered whenever she made an injudicious movement.

      ‘Very well,’ he said with feigned insouciance, ‘you don’t want to marry me. I can understand that. For as long as I can remember, there has been somebody telling