“These are yours,” Rees said, keeping his distance near the doorway. “Redecorate as you wish. Mrs. Pembridge will assist with anything you require.”
Victoria turned slowly, absorbing the space that would be her refuge or her prison; he was not certain which. When she faced him again, her dark eyes held a question she did not voice, though he guessed its nature. When would he come to her? Tonight? Tomorrow? How long before he claimed what the law said was his?
“I will leave you to settle in,” he said, already retreating. “Dinner is at eight.”
He fled to his study, pouring himself a brandy he did not want and could not stomach. The afternoon dragged on in a haze of avoided thoughts and necessary preparations. His valet laid out evening clothes with unusual solemnity, understanding the significance of this night: the wedding night. The thought sat heavy in Rees’s stomach.
He had been with women before—not many, but enough to understand the mechanics and the pleasure of willing flesh. But those had been widows and courtesans who knew the game, who came to his bed with experience and enthusiasm. Victoria was neither widow nor courtesan but a virgin bride, trapped in this marriage as surely as he was.
The brandy burned down his throat, providing no courage, only a sour reminder of the night at the Lyon’s Den when wine had made him foolish enough to accept that challenge. He set the glass aside, disgust at his cowardice propelling him to action. It had to be done. The marriage had to be consummated, or it could be challenged, leaving Victoria in an even worse position.
He knocked on her chamber door, three sharp raps that sounded like a death knell in the quiet hallway. “Come in,” came the response, so soft he barely heard it.
She sat at the vanity in a white nightgown that covered her from throat to floor, brushing her dark hair. The candles cast golden light across her face, highlighting the pallor of her skin and the way her throat worked as she swallowed. When she saw him in the mirror, she froze, the brush halted mid-stroke, her knuckles white around the handle.
The fear in her eyes struck him like a physical blow. Not nervousness, but genuine terror that made his chest tighten with shame. He had seen that look before—in the eyes of horses that had been beaten, in women who had been handled roughly by men who thought force was their right.
“Have you done this before?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, rough with his own uncertainty.
The brush clattered to the vanity as Victoria spun to face him, color flooding her cheeks. “No! Of course not. Sterling tried to kiss me in that garden, forced himself on me, but I pushed him away. Nothing else happened, I swear it. Nothing!” Her voice cracked with mortification and desperation to be believed.
Rees studied her face, looking for deception, for the calculated expression of someone spinning tales for sympathy. But all he saw was honest embarrassment, the fumbling denial of someone truly innocent, and beneath it all, that bone-deep fear that made his stomach turn with self-loathing.
If she had been Sterling’s mistress, if she had welcomed his advances as the gossips claimed, she would not be shaking at the thought of the marriage bed. The truth hit him with clarity—she had been telling the truth all along. Sterling had assaulted her; she had fought him off, and the bastard had ruined her for sport, for the pleasure of destroying something pure.
And Rees had stood in her parents’ drawing room and accused her of conspiring with her attacker.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he said, his words inadequate but necessary. He moved toward her slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal. “I will be gentle. I promise.”
Her eyes tracked his approach, wide in the candlelight. When he reached for her hand, she flinched before forcing herself still, allowing him to pull her to her feet. This close, he could smell lavender in her hair and see the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
“I do not know what to do,” she whispered, the admission clearly costing her.
“I know. It is all right.” He kept his voice soft as he led her to the bed. His hands trembled as he helped her lie back against the pillows, the white nightgown spreading around her.
What followed was careful and patient, as gentle as he could manage. He watched her face, stopping when she tensed, murmuring reassurances that felt strange on his tongue. When the moment came that could not be made painless, he held her as she bit her lip to keep from crying out, tasting self-hatred.
Afterward, she turned her face away, but not before he saw the tears sliding silently down her cheeks. The sight twisted something in his chest.
“Did I hurt you?” The question emerged rougher than intended, weighted with more than just concern.
“No more than is natural,” she replied without meeting his eyes, her voice neutral, as if they were discussing the weather rather than their shared experience.
They lay on opposite sides of the bed, a careful distance maintained even in this moment. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Rees stared at the canopy above, his mind churning with thoughts that would not settle.
She had been innocent. Completely, utterly innocent. This meant that every assumption he had made, every cruel word he had spoken, had been wrong. She was a victim—first of Sterling’s cruelty, then of society’s judgment, and finally of Rees’s own contempt. The weight of it pressed down on him, making breath difficult.
But she had still trapped him. That fact remained, stubborn as a splinter. Whatever Sterling had done to her, she had passed her misfortune to him, hiding while Mrs. Dove-Lyon spun her web. The innocence of her body did not erase the calculation of her actions.
Did it?
Victoria’s breathing had evened out, though he doubted she slept. The tears had stopped, but the evidence lingered in her occasional shudder, the way she held herself still, as if movement might break something irreparable.
He should say something. Apologize for his earlier cruelty. Acknowledge her innocence. Offer comfort for what she had endured. But the words tangled in his throat, choked by pride and confusion.
Tomorrow, he thought as exhaustion began to claim him. Tomorrow, he would find the words, would try to bridge this chasm between them. Tomorrow, they would begin to navigate this marriage neither had chosen.
But as sleep pulled him under, his last coherent thought was of Victoria’s tears, silent in the darkness, and the certainty that some wounds, once inflicted, could never fully heal.
