She was crying now, though he could only tell because of the hitch in her breathing.
He held her as close as he dared, as close as she’d let him. “I’ve seen how you react to a man crowding you in, and being on top of you, sweetheart. I heard you scream after your nightmare. If that isn’t the behavior of a woman who was raped, I don’t know what is. I only wish I hadn’t assumed that your balking was due to your dislike of me. Perhaps then I would have recognized it before.”
“I told you it had nothing to do with you,” she said in a small voice.
“Yes, you did. I just didn’t believe you. Forgive me for that. Though if you’d told me in the first place—”
“I couldn’t,” she whispered. “I was afraid you would condemn me, would blame me for . . . for . . .”
“Being raped?” That wounded him to his soul. “I suppose your fear shouldn’t surprise me, given that Father condemned Mother, but I thought you knew my character better than that. I realize that you and Yvette think me cold and unfeeling—”
“Not cold and unfeeling.” She twisted in his arms to face him. “I never thought you that, and she didn’t, either. It’s just that you were always so . . . rigid. So disapproving of my outrageous behavior.”
“Because I worried about you.” He brushed a lock of her hair from her eyes. “I knew what could happen to a woman with high spirits who was so damned appealing and intoxicating . . . and heedless of her own safety.”
“Never that,” she whispered. “Ever since the . . . attack, I always have an eye on who’s behind me and where I am. I always know how many people are within screaming distance, because . . .” She shivered. “No one could hear me cry out in that orangery. It was too far away from the party, and there was too much noise in the house.”
The very idea of her screaming and having no one come to her rescue until it was too late sent a shaft of ice through his heart. And reminded him of her screaming in the woods, and brandishing the hairbrush at the theater. The signs had all been there; if only he hadn’t been dwelling on his own insecurity.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said through a throat tight with sorrow. “I hate that it happens to any woman, but to have it happen to you, to think of your being hurt so badly that you still have nightmares about it . . .” He clutched her close. “I can hardly bear the thought.”
That’s when she began to sob. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried, while he could only hold her, soothe her with nonsensical words of comfort, offer her his handkerchief.
It took her a while to cry it all out. She’d practically soaked his handkerchief through by the time she ventured to speak again. Dabbing at her eyes, she lifted her chin with a hint of the stalwart Clarissa he knew.
“I don’t know why I’m . . . being such a watering pot,” she said. “I’ve worked very hard to stop being afraid. I’d even managed to halt the nightmares. I’ve only had that one in some years—”
“The night we married,” he said hoarsely. “The night I crowded you in the carriage.”
She winced. “Yes, but . . . you were there after the nightmare to make it better.” She flashed him a tremulous smile. “And I haven’t had one since.”
“Still, I wish I’d guessed at your pain years ago. I wouldn’t have been so . . . so . . .”
“Snooty? Arrogant?” she said tartly.
“Disapproving. Without knowing what you were suffering.”
“I’m glad you didn’t know.” She tipped up her chin. “It means I succeeded in hiding it from the world.”
“You certainly did.” But now that he knew, he could see her determined cheer and her impudence for what they really were—an attempt to put the past behind her and prove to herself she was no longer afraid, the way a boy whistles in the dark.
She’d been whistling in the dark for years. Until he’d come along and forced her to face the monster lurking there.
Her gaze dropped to his waistcoat. “No doubt you regret marrying me, now that you know everything.”
“Not for one minute. Why would I?”
“Because men want chaste wives.”
He chose his words carefully. “Some do, I suppose. Not all. As I said, I don’t care one way or the other. Especially when my wife had no choice in the matter.”
“Then you’re the exception to the rule,” she said acidly.
“Sweetheart, I am the exception to the rule in many things. I don’t see why this should be any different.” He tipped up her chin. “Except for your difficulties in the bedchamber, we’ve had a lovely time so far, have we not?”