“Leonie, I know he raped you.”
She tilted her head, not certain she believed him.
“I knew that night.” Quietly, in the voice one used to gentle an animal, he said, “He’d been brutal. It was not your fault. He was not a gentleman. You were protecting yourself.”
Had she been? Suddenly, she could not remember.
Or recall very much of the aftermath. She tried not to think of those days. She had been thankful when her parents had whisked her away from India. It had been hard to sleep. That is when her mother had started giving her a little brandy.
There would be no brandy now, not with Roman.
She looked to him. “You took the gun from me.”
“I did.”
For a raw moment, Leonie let herself feel all the ugliness she’d compressed deep inside her. Tears rimmed her eyes. She blinked them back, struggling to be strong. She would not cry.Not for Arthur. Not for herself.
And then, abruptly, she lost the battle. The tears broke through her defenses and they were not gentle and soft. No, they burned. They were hot, angry, betrayed, and overjoyed for their release.
Strong arms wrapped themselves around her... just as they had that night.
She’d forgotten.
Leonie had remembered Roman walking into the room. He’d taken the gun from her—and now, in the same way as she had that horrible night, she buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
He’d pushed her too far.
Roman had been incensed that she’d had so little respect for him that she had come to their marriage ceremony drunk. He’d not been able to think of anything else.
Well, he’d had a few thoughts while he’d waited all afternoon for her to come to her senses, and they had been dark ones.
No man wanted a drunkard for a wife.
Considering her mother’s behavior, he chastised himself for not being more cautious. Yes, he needed her dowry money, but he was leg-shackling himself to Leonie for the rest of his natural days, and at what cost?
He’d also berated himself for letting a pretty face erase him of his good sense.
In India, Leonie had been known as a willful brat whose almond-shaped eyes could befuddle any man’s brains. The problem was, he’d believed himself unbefuddleable, and he was wrong. He had thought with his cock like every other man in breeches.
Twice she had fooled him, the first time being when she and her family had left India for him to face Paccard’s death alone. And now this time.
He faced the truth: Charnock had paid him to marry his daughter—and now Roman knew why.
It also didn’t help that, even drunk, Leonie was an attractive bit. What sort of perverse man was he?
And when she had come to her senses, Roman had wanted her repentant for what she’d put him through. He’d given quite a show for the servants and guests when he’d carried her into the house. He’d made it sound as if he couldn’t wait to bed her. Any right-thinking man would have thought him a lothario of the first order and that had galled him, too. Why, there were a host of guests downstairs who assumed he was up here rightfully rogering his new wife and having a high time of it.
Oh, yes, he’d spent a good portion of his day in self-pity. And now?
Now he felt shame.
Her sobs were heartbreaking. Of course she’d turned to brandy to help her forget a wedding she never wanted. He might have as well.
Especially if the wedding triggered memories of Paccard’s foul treatment of her. Roman had been furious that night when he’d seen the bruises on her arms, neck, and face. If Arthur hadn’t already been dead, Roman would have killed him.
Now, as then, he found himself holding her, letting her cry until she exhausted herself. For a long moment, they stood together in healing silence.
She shifted, a signal that she’d had enough. She was better.
