And after his father’s betrayal of his mother, he understood it even less. Love was supposed to mean accepting and trusting the object of one’s affections over all others, wasn’t it? Instead, it seemed a sort of license to mistreat someone.
So no, he didn’t care that she was unchaste. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care how it had occurred, and a thousand feelings were roaring through him. Frustration that she’d felt she couldn’t tell him this before. Relief that it wasn’t he in particular who frightened her. Fury that some bastard had hurt her.
Horror that she’d lived with this weight on her soul for years.
Years? How could that be?
“When did it happen?” he asked. He needed information so he could help her. Given the anger and belligerence in her tone, he could easily say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. And any misstep, like a bell lightly struck, could reverberate down their future for a very long time. “How long ago?”
“Seven years, give or take a month,” she clipped out. “During my debut.”
His heart constricted in his chest. What a terrible thing for a young woman to endure during the period that was supposed to be her triumphant entrance into society. “Who was the man?”
She stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“So I can kill him for hurting you.”
His hard words made her rigid shoulders relax a fraction. “You’re too late. My brother already did that.”
Bloody hell. “Niall?” Then he realized— “The duel. Oh, God, that’s what the duel was about.”
She nodded.
Suddenly a number of things fell into place. Why the circumstances of the duel had been kept so mysterious. Why Clarissa never spoke of it if she could avoid it. Why no one had seemed to know what woman the two parties had fought over.
But now Edwin knew who her attacker was. “The Honorable Joseph Whiting. Damned bastard. No wonder Niall killed him.”
The vehemence in his voice made her whirl on him with a look of surprise. “You knew Mr. Whiting?”
“I did. Not well, but he happened to attend school with Samuel. He thought he was God’s gift to women. And as I recall, a number of women thought so, too, despite his reputation as a fortune hunter. He was a very handsome man with a glib tongue.”
Her lips tightened into a line. “Yes, he was. And I was a stupid, foolish girl who fell for his . . . smooth advances.”
The self-loathing in her voice pierced him. “You were barely eighteen, the kind of innocent whom men like Whiting prey on. He was older, more experienced, and a third son with a small allowance looking for a pretty heiress to marry.” He reached up to cup her cheek, relieved when she let him. “I daresay his attack was part of his plan to force you into marriage. Am I right? Do you even know?”
Taking his hand from her cheek, she gripped it in hers as if holding on for dear life. “You’re right. And ironically, that’s probably why the gossips have never heard of my . . . ruin.”
“How is that?”
She dropped her gaze to his chest. “The night that Mr. Whiting took my innocence, Niall came in upon us almost immediately after it happened. Mr. Whiting instantly offered to marry me, but Niall could see me lying there weeping and . . . bleeding and torn, so—”
“Torn?” Rage tore through him. “How badly? Where?”
She glanced up at him, clearly startled. “You know where. Down there. The way all women bleed and tear when they . . . do that.”
All women? Oh, God. The situation might be more complex than he’d initially thought. What if she wasn’t frightened of being bedded, but of being hurt?
The thought made him want to punch something.
But he controlled his anger, lest she think it directed at her. He must let her finish her tale. Once he had all the facts, he could pursue understanding how badly she’d been “torn.”
“Go on, then,” he said, sandwiching her hand between both of his. “What did your brother do when Whiting offered to marry you?”
“Niall wouldn’t hear of it. In a fury, he challenged Mr. Whiting to a duel at dawn.” She swallowed convulsively. “Mr. Whiting accepted the challenge, but said Niall would come to his senses in the morning and would realize that marriage was my only choice. That if he didn’t, Mr. Whiting would happily shoot him and overcome any objection by the family.”
“Bastard.” It was getting harder by the minute to control his anger at her attacker. “That was a blackmail as bad as any Durand ever came up with.”
She nodded. “I’d almost think the count had learned his tricks from Mr. Whiting, except that they couldn’t have known each other. Count Durand had been in Paris with his family for years by then, and Mr. Whiting couldn’t even afford to go to Brighton, much less France.” She ducked her head. “I just . . . seem to attract men who won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s absurd. You attract men with a penchant for beautiful women, like me and all those pups who were flirting with you at the theater, and half the fellows in the world. You’ve merely run afoul of a couple of bad eggs. Very bad eggs, unfortunately.”