Polly was having a wondrous dream. She was cocooned in warmth, in feelings of safety and belonging, her body lax and satiated. But something was tickling her nose, and though she tried to move away, she couldn’t. She was trapped.
Awareness drifted over her, and she surfaced groggily, her lashes blinking at the unfamiliar sight that greeted her. The muscular planes of a male chest, the glinting bronze hair on it the culprit of her nose’s discomfort. Beyond that, bulging biceps. And beyond that, a strange room, a line of watery light peeping through a slit in the curtains.
Then it returned to her that this wasn’t a dream—this was herreality—and joy inundated her. She lay quietly for a few moments, savoring the beauty of waking up tucked next to Sinjin. Even in sleep, he kept an arm curled possessively around her… as if she’d want to be anywhere but where she was at the moment! Then she recalled what he’d told her last night.
I’ve never celebrated my birthday. The notion filled her with sorrow—and indignation on his behalf. How could his family be so cold toward him? She resolved to make certain that, from here on in, every birthday of his would be marked with proper festivity.
Nature soon interrupted her musings, and not wanting to wake Sinjin, she eased herself carefully from under his heavy arm. She found her wrapper tangled up with his dressing gown on the floor, the entwining of chintz and black silk making her smile. As she got dressed, she couldn’t help but admire her sleeping husband.
She thought Sinjin was even more handsome with his features relaxed, the faintest curve on his sensual lips, as if he were enjoying a good dream (was it greedy to hope it was of her?). Lying on his back, the sheet down to his waist and baring his defined torso, he was the very picture of muscular virility. Beneath the sheet, she saw the prominent outline of his member against his thigh, and her well-used inner muscles fluttered.
Goodness. Even at rest, her husband’s potency could not be denied.
Chiding herself for being a shameless wanton—and feeling giddy because she had cause to be—she quickly went to use the adjoining bathing room. When she returned, she saw that Sinjin was still asleep, though he’d turned over onto his side. She removed her robe, put her knee on the bed, and her gaze hit his bare back for the first time.
A gasp left her. She stumbled backwards in shock, bumping against the bedside table, rattling the glass shade of the lamp.
“Polly?” He turned over, his blue eyes slumberous, a mahogany lock falling over his brow. He radiated lazy male satisfaction. “Why are you standing all the way over there?”
She couldn’t erase what she’d seen. The white scars criss-crossed over his muscled back. The evidence of untold abuses.
“What happened to your back?” she whispered.
His languor vanished. He sat up, his expression hard, his eyes like chips of ice.
“It’s nothing,” he said curtly.
“Who did that to you?” Her voice shook.
“I said it’s nothing. I’ll put on a shirt if the scars bother you. Now come back to bed.”
“Of course the scars bother me—because someone hurt you! I want to know:who?”
Jaw set, he stared at her. Anger ripped through his tranquil aura, along with a host of other dark emotions that she was too distraught, toofuriousto pay heed to.
“Was it your father?” she persisted.
She’d had cause to dislike the duke before, knowing that he hadn’t believed in his own son’s innocence… hadn’t even bothered to attend the wedding. The notion of him abusing Sinjin as a child—for those scars were as old as they were plentiful—made her feel fit to kill. Her hands balled.
“His Grace couldn’t be bothered to discipline his spare,” Sinjin drawled—yes,drawled, as if they were talking about the blessed weather!—“so he paid someone else to do it. After I was expelled from Eton, he sent me to another school. Creavey Hall prided itself on being an academy that reformed problematic children.”
“Did he know what they were doing to you?” she whispered.
“My stepmama and I did not rub along, so I was rarely allowed home. I did, however, write His Grace about it. He wrote back saying that whatever happened was my fault and that he hoped I would learn some self-discipline to prevent further punishment.” Mouth twisting, Sinjin gave a shrug. “He wasn’t wrong. I was a troublesome child. At Creavey Hall, they had their ways for dealing with rabble-rousers. Spare the rod, spoil the boy and all that.”
Was he actuallydefendingthe bounders who had beaten him? “There is nothing you could have done to deserve such treatment,” she said vehemently. “Nothing.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of. Self-restraint—it has never come easily to me.” Though his tone was light, she saw the tangled morass of anger, despair… even resignation in his aura. “I fought with the other boys. I played truant on a regular basis. One time, I locked the tutor in his room so he couldn’t get to class—”
“And none of that warrants being abused,” she burst out. “My papa taught an entire generation of children in our village, and he never, not once, beat a child. Nor any of us, and my siblings and I made more than our fair share of mischief.” Desperate to convince him, she rattled on, “Violet was always ruining her clothes with her acrobatic antics, Harry blew things up constantly with his scientific experiments, and even Em lost track of the cat one time and set the cottage on fire—”
“That’s enough,” he said.
His tone—quiet and girdled with steel—halted her chatter. That and his aura, pain and loneliness oozing through the thick layer of anger. Her heart wept for what he’d suffered as a boy, alone, abandoned to the cruelties of the world without anyone’s protection. A boy whose birthday hadn’t even been recognized.
“You didn’t deserve it,” she insisted. “You were just a child. And, furthermore, your father should have put a stop to what was going on. He ought to have protected you and—”
“Polly, enough. I get the picture. I didn’t deserve to be beaten.”
