Page 102 of Her Dark Seduction
“Very well,” I said. “The only man I have ever loved was a servant. A peasant. Bastard born.”
I had expected Sir Roger to react but he merely smiled.
“Did he love you in return?”
“Nay, he did not,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I saw the love he had for others, yet he only ever looked at me with indifference. He left me to go whoring, thinking me a whore myself, while I gave birth to our son, and it broke my heart.”
My voice cracked. “Please, don’t make me marry again. I have no wish to experience another marriage without love or to break the heart of a good, honest man. I have known the pain of loving so deeply and not having that love returned. I will not inflict that pain on another.”
De Beauvane let out a sigh. “Tarvin would understand, child, and he is not a man to judge. He would be willing to risk a little heartbreak. Men are different than women, my dear. Our hearts are a little sturdier. At least let him speak with you before you make your final decision. You owe him—and me—that.”
“Very well,” I said, “but not today, I beg you. I feel nothing but shame for the words I wrote to him, knowing I cannot love him.”
Ignoring me, he looked over his shoulder.
“I believe you have heard enough. You can show yourself now and claim your wife.”
A shape moved in the dark behind Sir Roger. I had been tricked.
“Nay!” I cried, rising from my chair. Ignoring Sir Roger’s order to stop, I ran toward the door. I heard a crash as the desk was swept aside. Sir Roger was on me before I reached the handle. He took hold of my arm.
“Be still, madam,” he ordered. “Remember you’re under my authority.” He turned me to face the man who had been concealed in the dark.
“Step forward.”
The man moved toward us, making no sound. He closed the distance until I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He was tall—he even dwarfed Sir Roger—but where Sir Roger’s frame was broad, the man before me was lean yet muscular. Thick hair fell to his shoulders in waves. His brow creased into a frown and his nostrils flared. His jaw was set hard and his mouth firm—the full lips unsmiling. I followed the line of a scar, its redness indicating the wound was recent, which curled up the side of his face. When I finally summoned the strength to meet his gaze, strong blue eyes, dark with anger, bore into me.
My throat constricted as I tried to breathe and my legs felt as if they had turned to liquid. Sir Roger’s arms tightened around my waist to prevent me from falling. He lifted my arm and guided my hand toward the man standing in front of me until he took it. The shock of recognition tightened my skin as his flesh touched mine. My body silently called out and was rewarded with a response as long, lean fingers curled around my wrist in a possessive grip.
“Mon Dieu,” I whispered. Despite all my prayers, never did I think I would see a man return from the dead.
The living, breathing man standing before me was Vane Sawford.
