Queen of my Hart - Emily Royal Page 0,16
know what you mean.”
“I think you do. Another man was there before me.”
Fear spiked through her. “Who told you?”
“It seems you just did. A man knows, and you’ve confirmed it with your response.”
He climbed off the bed and strode toward the fireplace, seemingly oblivious of his nakedness. The firelight caught the planes of his muscles, showing his finely sculpted form. He placed a hand on the mantelshelf and studied the fire, his back to her.
“Does Alderley know you weren’t a maid?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “I’ll wager he’s laughing at my expense.”
“Your expense?”
“Yes,” he said. “Not only has he deceived me into wedding his by-blow, I find that she’s sullied.”
Almost as soon as he’d spoken the words, he flinched.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not?” she cried. “My father tricked you into wedding his bastard when you wanted his legitimate daughter—the one who told me that you’d soon tire of me and ask her to service you instead.”
“She said what?” He sat on the bed, and she drew her knees up and pulled the bedsheet to her chin as if to protect herself.
“Who was he?” he asked.
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me if I’m to wake in the morning to find some low-life sniffing at my door.”
“There’s no chance of that, I assure you.”
“Then I must be content with that,” he said, “if somewhat disappointed that I was not your first.”
His words cut through her heart. Why was it that a man could deceive a naïve young girl with pretty speeches to seduce her, only to abandon her afterward—yet she was the one who must live with the consequences?
“It happened once,” she whispered. “A long time ago.”
The bed shifted under his weight. “Why should I believe you?”
“I have no reason to lie.”
“Yet, you lied to me today.”
“No, I didn’t!” she cried. “I made a vow to honor and obey a stranger—a man of few words and sour disposition, who had no wish to take me for a wife. A man who loathes me almost as much as the father who sold me to him. I will stand by my vows. And I am not afraid of you.”
“Aren’t you?”
She slipped her hand beneath the bedsheet to conceal the bruise on her wrist. “I’ve known enough of cruelty to learn the futility of fear. The inevitable will happen, whether I fear it or not.”
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“In what way?”
“I don’t loathe you. Far from it.”
He crawled across the bed, his muscles rippling with each movement as if he were a lion, poised to devour his prey. Then he grasped the bedsheet.
“Will you show me cruelty?” she asked.
“No.” He tugged at the bedsheet, and it fell away, exposing her body. His eyes darkened with hunger as he dropped his gaze.
He reached toward her and cupped her breast. Her skin tightened with an unfathomable need, and her nipple beaded against his palm. He flicked the peak with his thumb and curled his mouth into a smile. A wicked sensation pulsed between her thighs at his touch.
“Will you show me mercy?” she whispered.
“No, my dear,” he said. “I will show you pleasure.”
Chapter Eight
Dexter’s manhood hardened at the sight before him. Her skin was smooth as cream, glowing in the firelight. She had the body of a courtesan, built to tempt and ensnare a man.
And another had claimed that body first.
Yet the fear in her eyes had all but obliterated the anger and betrayal he’d felt on hearing her confession. The expression in her eyes spoke of innocence, and she was the exact opposite of Elizabeth.
No, his little wife was innocent in spirit, even if her body had been used. But Alderley had tricked him thoroughly and was, most likely, expecting Dexter to confront him. That old bastard would do anything to destroy Dexter’s reputation and would relish spreading tales around the clubs of London of how he’d conned him.
The woman sitting before him now was not to blame for her father’s machinations. Doubtless she lacked the wit to understand what was happening. Tucked away in obscurity lest her status as a bastard threaten her father’s good name, she was, most likely, uneducated and naïve—an unwitting pawn, a minor piece which Dexter’s opponent chose to sacrifice at a minimal cost.
Every chess player knew that a pawn had little value compared to his other pieces. Pawns were disposable. Alderley would never have consented to give him Elizabeth, for she was a more powerful piece. A queen—the one piece a chess master was reluctant to sacrifice.
A mere pawn