Page 71 of Barbarous

When she opened her eyes she saw his expression was patient—the way it was with her sons or Lady Amelia or anyone else who was in need of some gentle handling. How could she ever have thought he would not believe her?

“Malcolm attacked me.”

He remained silent but the temperature in the room dropped.

Daphne lowered her gaze to the floor between them, where the intricate, repetitive patterns in the rug were somehow soothing.

“Sir Walter brought Malcolm to live at Whitton Park when it became obvious my mother would not give him a son. I was not much more than a child and he was already a young man, but, even so, we never got along. He did spiteful things, taunted me, insulted my mother—but he never laid hands on me until after his uncle died. He didn’t even wait a year before he began throwing house parties—debauches where he and his friends would gamble night and day. Sometimes he even brought in women.

“I did what I could to avoid him and his friends, but it became increasingly difficult. One day I encountered a group of them while out walking. They pressured me to join them firing pistols—just a lark to alleviate their boredom.” She laughed bitterly. “What could be more quaint than a girl shooting a pistol? Anyway, I . . . I bested Malcolm and they laughed and taunted him. He found me afterward, alone. He was furious. He said—well, it doesn’t matter what he said. I ran and he chased me into the woods, attacked me, and . . . well, to put it bluntly, he raped me.” She said the words quickly, before she lost her nerve.

“He struck me hard enough that I lost consciousness. Fortunately, I have no memory of the actual event. Of course the truth of what had happened became unavoidable several weeks later.”

A loud noise startled her into looking up. The glass Hugh had been holding lay in shards on the carpet, blood and brandy dripping from his fingers.

Daphne was up in a heartbeat and dropped beside his chair, taking his hand in hers. It was curled into a rigid claw. His face was carved from granite and bore the same terrifying expression it had earlier. “Hugh?”

He tried to pull away. “It is nothing.”

“It is something. Give me your handkerchief.” She wished she’d had the sense to wear her spectacles. Instead, she had to find the few shards of glass embedded in his hand by touch. Once she was sure she’d found them all, she wrapped the square of cloth around his cut fingers.

She looked up. “I should get some plasters.”

“Later.” His face was shockingly pale. Even his lips, usually so full and sensual, were thin and gray. He helped her to her feet and led her back to the sofa, where he sat down beside her.

“My uncle married you when you learned you were to have a child?” His voice was flat and calm.

“Yes. It was a marriage in name only, Hugh. We never lived as man and wife.”

He closed his eye briefly and exhaled. “And Hastings didn’t suspect anything?”

“My mother, Rowena, and I were very careful to keep the truth from anyone—even Fowler, my maid.” She bit her lip. “Although my mother was quite ill, she arranged to speak with Thomas before she died.” Her fingers were clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. “I believe what Malcolm did to me hastened her death. Thomas said we must marry immediately—without the usual mourning period. He said our public justification for not waiting would be that it was inappropriate for a girl of seventeen to live with her unwed cousin of twenty-five. Thomas took charge of everything—even bringing me to Lessing Hall before the wedding and ensuring I didn’t have to see Malcolm again. And I didn’t see him—not until the day you returned to Lessing Hall.”

“He was blackmailing you and you attacked him.”

“Yes, but I only attacked him after he tried to—” Hugh’s face darkened and Daphne hurried on. “He told me he would give me time to prepare myself if I demonstrated my intentions with a payment of one thousand pounds. I dithered and dithered like a fool, hoping for some miracle to come along.” Daphne stared up at him. “That is why I delayed telling you for so long. It was so important to me. Don’t you see, Hugh?” She rushed on. “Little did I know the very thing I hoped for—a way to thwart Malcolm permanently—waited for me in London.” She grimaced. “So, I paid him the money.”

He stared through her, as if seeing something or someone else.

“Please, Hugh, do not be angry with me.”

His gaze sharpened and his eyebrows snapped into a straight line. “Angry? With you?”

“Yes, because it is really your money I used.”

His brow wrinkled. “What the devil are you talking about, Daphne?”

“The money I used to pay Malcolm—it belongs to the Earl of Davenport—you.”

“Good Lord, love! What a load of bollocks.”

Daphne didn’t know which shocked her more—his attitude or hearing the word bollocks spoken out loud.

He waved his uninjured hand dismissively. “We shall come back to this in a moment. But first I want to get to the bottom of this business with Hastings. What is this proof you are referring to?”

Daphne told him about her meeting with Sir Marcus and the letters. “Would you like me to fetch them for you?” she asked.

“I can look at them later.” He stared into space, shaking his head. “I guess it was Hastings who tampered with my saddle—or at least had his servant do so. It seems a foolish thing to do, but then he is a fool. I can only suppose he thought it best to secure Lucien’s future just in case I ferreted out the truth, or”—he glanced down at her—“or you finally told me the truth.”