Rosie couldn’t stop herself from recoiling. “Your mother sold you into prostitution?”
“She didn’t sell me. It was my choice.” A banked fire flared in his eyes. “I wanted to put food on our table, to have a roof over our heads, and fucking was an easier way to do it than thieving or running with cutthroats.”
“But you were only fourteen!”
Incredibly, his broad shoulders flexed in a shrug. “I was large for my age. The bawd taught me the essentials of pleasing a woman, and anything she left out, I figured out quickly on my own. Don’t make my life into a Cheltenham Tragedy. The last thing I want or need is your pity.”
The steely edge in his voice told her that he meant it.
Then another thought hit her. “Was this bawd Kitty Barnes?”
“No, I met her a year later.”
By the way his eyes shuttered, she could tell that he wouldn’t say more about it. And a part of her didn’t want to know. Wanted to keep that ugliness buried where it belonged.
“What happened to your mama?” she ventured.
“She died when I was sixteen.”
“Did you forgive her?”
“For what?”
“Um, for all of it?” She blinked at him. “Turning to drink. Depending on you to take care of her.”Forcing you to make a choice no child should have to make.“Weren’t you angry at her?”
“None of it was her fault,” came his startling reply. “She was a victim of her circumstance, and she did the best she could with what she had. She taught me to do the same. So, no, I wasn’t angry at her. I loved her.”
Listening to his matter-of-fact accounting, Rosie felt a shift inside her. An undertow of understanding that challenged her perceptions. For so long, she’d raged at being a victim: of her birth, of Draven, of Coyner… even of theton.Life had been unfair to her—yet how much worse had things been for Andrew?
Despite that, he didn’t rail at fate. He didn’t wallow in self-pity. He didn’t act out in reckless desperation.
No,hehad loved and taken care of the mama who’d failed him. He’d defied all odds to become one of the most successful businessmen in all of London. And he’d gone to extraordinary lengths to protect Rosie.
Her throat swelled. She needed time to sort the chaotic thoughts in her head, the lessons to be gleaned by new insights. But she did know one thing.
She smoothed a bronze lock from his forehead. “You’re a strong man, Andrew Corbett—and a good one. I’m so lucky that you’re my lover.”
His gaze heated. “I’m the lucky one, sweetheart.”
“Thank you for tonight.” She smiled tremulously at him. “For trusting me with the truth and being honest with me. For teaching me to be honest with myself.”
He responded with a kiss. One simmering with passion and deep undercurrents of emotion. By the time he raised his head, she was panting for him.
“Again?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the slope of her cheekbone.
Her pussy fluttered. As did her heart. How shecravedthis man.
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You’re going to kill me, you know.”
“Can you think of a better way to greet the hereafter?” With great daring, she ran her hands over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, down the marble-hard ridges of his backside and was rewarded by the fierce rise of his erection against her thigh.
“By all means,” he said huskily, “let us findle petit morttogether.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie awoke the next morning to find herself alone. After the decadent night of lovemaking, Andrew had escorted her home in the wee hours, carried her to her bedchamber, and tucked her into bed. She had immediately fallen into a deep sleep and wasn’t sure if he’d stayed. Rolling over to see if she could sniff out his delicious scent on the sheets, she saw a note and box on the pillow next to hers. Sitting up, she unfolded the paper.
