Page 36 of Forgetting the Earl
“Are you sure, Honora?”
“I am.” She kissed him hard on the mouth.
Stepping out of the carriage and adjusting his coat, because his trousers had become unbelievably tight, he held out his hand to Honora.
Her fingers curled firmly around his, without hesitation.
Chapter Fourteen
“Honora.”
She turned from her perusal of the fireplace and the map hanging above it, a poorly drawn outline of the African continent. The coastline was all wrong…and rather lumpy.
“One of my first efforts.”
Gideon stood before her, two glasses of what smelled like brandy in his hands, garbed only in his shirt and trousers. He’d discarded his cane downstairs, claiming he had no need of it for the rest of the evening. She supposed the remainder of his clothing had met the same fate and now lay somewhere in the dark corners of his massive bedroom, a space that looked part sleeping area and part work space. A wide table sat by the window, maps strewn across the top, along with a pile of pencils, a battered compass, and Spix’s third volume on South America.
“A poor one at that,” she said lightly, taking in the map.
“I was only twelve at the time,” he said, half smile donning his lips. “I don’t think it’s all that bad.”
“Africa isn’t quite so lumpy, I’m sure. Nor is it egg-shaped.”
“Horribly overeducated.” His smile grew wider as he leaned in and touched his nose to hers.
His pale, white shirt hung open at the throat, showing a small swathe of the most perfect male skin and sprinkling of dark hair. “I’ve brought you a brandy.” He held out one glass.
Honora gently sniffed at the rim. “I don’t indulge in spirits often. Not until I met you, of course.”
“Then sip slowly.”
The firelight played along Southwell’s lean form, creating lovely shadows across the elegantly sculpted bones of his face. “Beautiful creature,” he whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Not always,” she replied a bit too harshly, thinking of the past. Mama had once told Honora that if Mama believed in changelings, Honora was certainly one. Marianne, Honora’s sister, was slender and elegant, as was their mother. Nor was Marianne the least bookish. She painted watercolors of flowers and sang with a lovely voice. Had snagged a wealthy young baron and proceeded to produce a brood of well-behaved children while Honora remained childless and was likely barren.
“My mother would disagree with you most heartily, my lord.” She took a large swallow of the brandy, struggling not to cough as it burned down her throat.
“I didn’t mean only the way you look, Honora.” He gently touched the space above her heart, which led to a caress along one of her breasts. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to the spot where her nipple lay beneath the silk.
“Spoken like someone who has never felt unattractive or ugly.” She gave him a sad smile. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be judged by your physical appearance.”
His hand fell from her breast, and he pulled away. As he tossed back the rest of the brandy, his face grew taut. Determined. He disappeared again to the far reaches of the room where she suspected either his valet lurked in a side room or there was some sort of antechamber where his clothes were kept. She returned her gaze to the flames, taking careful sips of the brandy.
She heard him pad back across the floor, felt his warmth as he stood behind her.
“Turn around.” He sounded unbelievably angry at her. Pained in a way she’d never heard him before, not even when they’d talked about the black caiman. Or during their argument after the museum.
Honora turned. Blinked. Gideon had discarded what remained of his clothing. He was quite naked. And aroused. But that wasn’t what made her stare. “Oh.”
His eyes fluttered shut as if he couldn’t bear to tolerate her perusal. “I think I do know what it is to feel ugly, Honora. Repulsive, even. I’ve literally had a woman scream at the sight of me.”
Even in the firelight, the scars glowed a deep, ugly red. Terrible, twisted bits of skin and hair started just below his navel on the left side. Puncture marks pierced his thigh in a distinct pattern, one made by a caiman’s mouth as it had tried to make a meal of Gideon. Three deep gouges started at his inner thigh and fell over his hip.
Claw marks.
And his leg—his poor, battered left leg—looked as if the skin had been partially peeled off. Torn.Shredded. A soft gasp left her. Not for the horror before her but the agony Gideon had to have endured. The sheer terror he must have experienced.
His eyes remained tightly shut. “I realize it isn’t exactly the same,Miss Drevenport. But I do think I have some experience at being judged for my appearance. The first woman who saw me naked after it happened almost fainted.” His eyes snapped open. “And the second. I didn’t care to try to fuck anyone after that.”
