“I need to sit down.”
“Of course.” Looking pale himself, David took her by the elbow and helped her to the sofa.
She sank down gratefully. Could this really be David? David, who backed away if she so much as kissed him? Could he really just have told her, as if it were the most unexceptional news in the world, he’d got two different women with child? She didn’t even recognize this man.
“How many mistresses have you had, David?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“About thirty, I suppose.”
Her heart felt like lead inside her—a cold, lifeless weight in her chest. Though Charlie had told her David had kept mistresses, she’d never dreamed it could be so many. No, fool that she’d been, she’d naively imagined him looking after some fallen angel, saving some impoverished but worthy girl of good family who’d been forced to choose between dishonor or starvation. “You’ve been with thirty different women?”
“I said I’ve had about thirty mistresses. I’ve been with more women than that.”
Some demon of insecurity made her ask the question. “How many?”
“I don’t know. Scores. I lost count years ago.”
“Oh, God...”
David was leaning over her, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, looking as worried and solicitous as if he’d just offered to fetch her a doctor, rather than boasted he’d lain with countless women. Only boasted was perhaps not the right word. His tone was too unemotional for that.
She made a gulping sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
“I’m sorry, Rosalie.” His face was drawn. “I tried to warn you.”
So this was what he’d attempted to tell her before their wedding. Her exceedingly well-bred husband was a libertine. He’d bedded scores of women. Scores. And yet he’d never made the slightest move to consummate their marriage.
He didn’t want her. He’d wanted plenty of other women, obviously, but not her. She stared dully ahead, the painful truth sinking in. “Mrs. Howard was right.”
He straightened, a wary, hunted look in his eyes. “Right about what?”
“She told me a man like you grows bored quickly.” The memory brought a surge of bitterness. She’d discounted the words as mere spite, but Mrs. Howard had been right about everything—that she lacked allure, that David’s interest was bound to wane, even that their marriage would prove a miserable failure. She jerked her head up to look at him. “So was this all just a game to you, even from the beginning?”
His brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “A game...?”
She stood, though her legs were still little better than jelly. The shock was fading, and her sense of righteous indignation returning. “When my father died and left me alone on the Neptune’s Fancy, did you think, ‘This crossing has been tediousness itself, but what a golden opportunity to divert myself’? I suppose it’s not every day that one comes across an unprotected girl so green and credulous she doesn’t even realize she’s being toyed with.”
He took a step back. “Whatever else I may be guilty of, acquit me of trifling with your affections. I did marry you.”
“You may have gone through with the ceremony, but this has never been a real marriage.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “What an idiot I was, taking you at your word when you proposed. How trapped you must have felt when you came to see me two nights before the wedding, and I was too stupidly trusting to believe you wanted to cry off.”
He tensed. “I did want to cry off, but not for the reason you think. I tried my best to be honest with you that night.”
Yes, that night, when he’d begged her to set him free. Tonight, she’d waited in ignorance in their carriage while he chatted familiarly with a demi-rep. “For such an honest man, you’ve done an impressive job of sidestepping the truth. You let me go on thinking your reasons for marrying me were noble and romantic and honorable, when your every word was a lie.”
The hunted look in his eyes changed to a dark, impenetrable glint. “Whatever I may have failed to do or say, I’ve never lied to you.”
“Never? Really?” Her tone was scathing. “So you were being honest when you vowed to love and cherish me, and honest when you pushed me away?” She shook her head. “You’re the worst kind of liar, David. You made me care for you. You made me believe you cared for me.”
He was on her in an instant, seizing her, taking her in his arms in a grasp so tight she couldn’t move. “You think that was a lie? Why? Because I didn’t do this?”
He yanked her against him and kissed her—fiercely, angrily. His lips were hard and demanding, and he held her so punishingly close that the buttons of his coat bit into her flesh. His arms were like iron, and she should have been afraid, was afraid, except that he was David and despite everything, despite knowing how little she meant to him, she still wanted this. He hardened as they kissed, even ground his erection against her, and some traitorous, foolish part of her was grateful for it—grateful, because he was treating her like one of his lightskirts.
He kissed her for what seemed a very long time before thrusting her away from him. “Is that what you want?” he demanded, breathing heavily. His eyes raked over her. “Something tawdry and physical and meaningless? Something without a jot of decency or honesty behind it?”
She was shaking with passion, trembling—and David’s voice was so cold and pitiless, he might just as well have spit on her. His lack of interest in her had been bad enough, but his disdain was worse. “Don’t!” she cried and, without thinking, she drew her arm back and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she could muster.
She’d no sooner done it—no sooner heard the explosive crack of her palm against his cheek—than she jumped back, her stinging hand flying to her mouth in horror. Oh, God, she’d hit him. She’d never hit anyone before in her life.
He’d scarcely flinched when she slapped him. Now he merely gazed back at her, silent, his face pale except for the livid mark of her hand on his cheek.
She sank down on the sofa, so shocked at herself that her legs refused to support her. What was happening to her? She couldn’t even bring herself to disturb spiders when they built their webs in the house, yet she’d just lashed out with all her might at her own husband. She’d been determined to hurt him the way he was hurting her. Thank God she hadn’t had a knife in her hand, or she might have plunged it into his heart. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”
“Don’t apologize. You should have hit me harder.”
He didn’t even sound angry, just—indifferent. As if even her slap meant nothing to him. Why was he so cold to her? Why? She didn’t understand him at all.
She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to his, refusing to cry. “In all my life, David, I’ve never asked for anything of consequence. I followed my father from one end of the earth to the other, looking after him until the day he died. I nursed my mother when she was dying, too. I was happy to help. And as quickly as I fell in love with you aboard the Neptune’s Fancy, I never expected you to love me in return. I’ve never asked for anything. But now I’m asking, David. If everything you’ve said tonight is true—if you’ve been with so many women—for pity’s sake, please, please tell me why you married me, yet you refuse to take me to bed.”
He stared at her, a muscle working in his jaw. “I believe you’ll thank me for not bedding you, when you know the truth.”
“You mean there’s more you haven’t told me?”
Instead of answering, he went to the drawing room door and locked it. She watched, her anxiety mounting, as he pocketed the key.
He turned back to face her, his face an icy blank. “I’m afraid, my heart,” he said flatly and expressionlessly, “that the man you married is utterly depraved.”
Chapter Eighteen
Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
— William Shakespeare
Rosalie dug her nails into her palms. “What do you me
an?”
Looking ashen, David sauntered to the middle of the room. “Would you like to know the name of the first woman I ever knew in the Biblical sense?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I realize it’s not at all gentlemanly of me to kiss and tell, but I think you’ll agree when you hear her name that revealing it is a relatively minor offense, compared to all the rest.”
She was afraid to reply.
“Lady Frederick Linney. My aunt Celeste. The wife of my guardian.”
Rosalie shut her eyes.
“Do you want to know how old I was, when I urged her to this most shocking and unnatural act? Or would you rather hear how many lies I told my uncle, how many places I betrayed him, how many times I sat calmly in his presence, thinking of the unspeakable things I had just done with his wife?”
Rosalie couldn’t decide which was worse, the confession David was making or the emotionless way in which he was delivering it.
He raised one eyebrow. “Well, where shall I begin? With my earliest sins, or the most debauched? Perhaps you’d like to hear about the first time I lay with a whore, a dismayingly ill-kempt woman I’d never seen before and haven’t encountered since. I went home and scrubbed my skin raw—then, two days later, went out looking for a slightly better class of whore. Then there was the prime article I mentioned earlier, the one who was carrying my child, at least until she sought out some back-alley abortionist. Or perhaps you might be interested to hear about the time I shared a bed with an obliging mistress and her even more obliging friend, both at the same time. It made for some mildly diverting permutations, I can assure you.”
Rosalie got up from the sofa and stood before him. As much as she wanted to understand him, she couldn’t bear another second of this, couldn’t bear the coldness in his voice or the starkness of his admissions. He was trying to hurt her. She stretched out a shaking hand. “Give me the key, please, David.”
“Heard enough, have you?” he said bitterly.
“Please give me the key.”
He handed her the key without another word. She went to the door and unlocked it.
She turned back to face him. “I’m going to my room. When you’re ready to tell me what really happened instead of flinging your every word at me like a challenge, I’ll be upstairs, ready to listen.”
* * *
David stared after Rosalie’s retreating form. When the door closed behind her, he sank down on the sofa she had just vacated and buried his face in his hands.
He wondered how much of his life was really under his control, and how much had been preordained. He’d been born into a position of wealth and power. He possessed one of the foremost names in the country, an exalted title, extensive property, even looks he knew to be admired. Yet what had any of it brought him, except misery and guilt?
I can’t resist you, Celeste had told him once as they lay together. I try, but there’s something about you, David. I’ve never known anyone else like you.
He’d been flattered then, and a bit unnerved. He didn’t want to have that much power over her, but she’d never denied him anything—not his first tentative explorations, not the initial floundering attempt he’d made on her virtue, not even the increasingly inventive and experimental acts he’d urged her into as the years went by.
Well, at least the truth was out now. He’d told Rosalie what he was, what he’d done. He’d admitted his secret at last.
Despite the old maxim that confession was good for the soul, he felt no better. In fact, he doubted he would ever feel good again. He’d pictured the revulsion his sins would inspire in others thousands of times, but the reality had been even worse than his imaginings. Rosalie had stared at him as if she’d never seen him before, the warmth he was used to seeing in her eyes completely extinguished. With a few brief words he’d destroyed her innocence completely.
Still, perhaps it was better he’d told her the way he had, bluntly and baldly. There was no sense dragging it out, or leaving her still clinging to some illusion he was good or principled or even halfway decent. Better to do it quickly, to have it over and done with.
Over and done with. What an oddly seductive phrase.
In less than two years, he’d be the same age his father had been when he’d taken his own life. The notion of suicide had always baffled David. What could possibly have driven his father so far into despair? What sort of problem could be so far past redeeming it was worth blowing out one’s brains?
Suicide no longer baffled him. Not when he’d just given his faithless ex-mistress an impressive sum of money to flee the country and have God-knows-whose bastard. Not when he’d turned off countless mistresses, paid whores a prince’s ransom, and seduced his own aunt. Not when he’d just told his trusting bride the disturbing and obscene truth about himself, driving everything but horror from her eyes. He didn’t see much point in living in a world in which the guilty flourished, while the innocent had all the sweetness and love wrenched out of them.
No wonder his father—”the good marquess,” Robert Melton called him—had given up on life.
Well, David had pistols of his own. It would be an easy thing to do exactly as his father had done—load one to the muzzle, put it in his mouth and bring this whole foolish, destructive farce to an end. At least he wouldn’t be leaving any fatherless children behind him. In fact, the property he’d settled on Rosalie when they married would leave her a wealthy widow—a wealthy, beautiful, even virginal young widow.
He could give Rosalie back her freedom, but there was only one way. An annulment was out of the question. There’d been no fraud or incompetence involved in the signing of the marriage contract, and despite the non-consummation of their union, he could hardly claim impotence. Divorce would require him to sue her for adultery, which would not only be patently false, but also turn her into a social outcast. Only his death could set her free.
Suicide was a sin, of course, the moral and legal equivalent of murder. She’d have to bury him at a crossroads with a stake through his heart. But his recent contact with his neighbors around Lyningthorp had shown him society was more willing than he’d once believed to embrace the grieving family of a suicide. His end would be a mercy, really. And what difference would one more sin make now?
The image of Rosalie’s shocked face swam before his eyes, making up his mind for him. His jaw set, David turned and strode purposefully toward his study. He kept a chest there, locked inside the bottom drawer of his desk. It held a pair of Manton dueling pistols.
* * *
Rosalie lay in bed, expecting David to come upstairs at any moment and explain himself. The seething anger of his kiss tonight aside, he was too innately civil to leave her waiting for him without some further word. But what would she say when he came? How could she begin to forgive him when she didn’t even know him?
Her emotions were in too much turmoil for any useful occupation, so she simply lay atop the still-made bed, staring up at the canopy above her and twisting the wedding ring on her left hand. She ought to be crying. On a night of such awful shocks, she couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t sobbing brokenly. But she felt somehow past tears, as if David’s revelations had propelled her into some world in which ordinary emotions no longer applied.
How could David do the things he’d confessed downstairs, yet still impress her as the thoughtful, self-possessed gentleman with whom she’d fallen in love? How could any man be so morally bankrupt and still present a respectable face to the world?
She sat up, shaking her head. Was it only an hour ago she’d blamed the chasteness of their marriage on David’s secrets and indifference? He certainly wasn’t secretive anymore. His face had been wintry as he’d reeled off a list of sins so shocking, she wasn’t sure whether this night was real or if she was caught up in a nightmare. From the first, he’d branded himself depraved.
Her eyes narrowed. Depraved. It was odd how he’d volunteered the word, never attempting to mitigate his sins. Something about the starkness of it nagged
at her. Not once had he looked to her in appeal or softened his account of his misdeeds in any way. Not once had he made excuses or asked for her forgiveness. It was almost as if he wanted her to hate him—wanted her to walk out, give up, punish him somehow. Even his voice—that low, calm voice that normally made her tingle—had cut like ice. It was strange, because David usually only turned cold when he was hurting, and what right did David have to feel hurt now?
He had no right. She’d been open with him from the beginning, had trusted him and even made excuses for him, while he’d been keeping secrets all the while. She’d married him in good conscience, loving him even when he didn’t want her. That was the part that stung the most. Worse than David’s awful confession was the knowledge that, flawed and tarnished as he was, she’d never been good enough for him.
How galling to discover she was less appealing than vulgar lightskirts and grasping prostitutes. How infuriating and demeaning and painful. Even on their wedding night, David had been unable to work up interest enough to consummate their marriage.
One corner of Rosalie’s mouth pulled down in a mirthless twist. Perhaps there was something wrong with her moral character, too, if David’s lack of interest in her disturbed her more than his sins did. What had he said tonight? I believe you’ll thank me for not bedding you, when you know the truth. She only wished she could be that high-minded. She wanted to scream at David, to spell out in tearful detail just how cruelly he’d duped and misled her. Her palm itched with the temptation to slap him again. And, perversely, she still wanted him to love her, the way she’d once believed he must.
She bowed her head, her chest aching. What on earth had made him come to her father’s burial service on board the Neptune’s Fancy, and kiss her, and even propose marriage? Why waste his time that way, if he thought so little of her? Why tie himself to a wife he didn’t want? Nothing about his actions made sense, unless it had simply amused him to humiliate her. Or unless he was mad.
Lord of Secrets Page 23