mock me, please. I know it’s unsightly.”
“Unsightly?” He stroked her bare leg from her ankle to her knee. “Nothing about you could be unsightly.”
“It’s my toe. Or rather, my lack of one.”
He finally dragged his gaze down to the end of her foot, to the empty space where she was missing the small toe. “Were you born without it?”
“No, I . . . It froze in the snow.”
He ran his thumb over the stub of flesh.
“I tried to warn you.” She tugged her leg from his grip. “Lord, it’s so embarrassing.”
He broke into laughter. “You are the most ridiculous woman. Of all people, you’d worry that I would give a damn that you’re missing a tiny scrap of a toe?” He waved at the scarred side of his face. “Have you looked at me?”
“As much as you’ll allow me to, yes. But that’s different. You have war injuries. They’re marks of valor. I have a mark of foolishness.”
“The only foolishness here is the fact that you’d hide it.”
She tilted her head. “Hm. Shall I point out the hypocrisy in that statement?”
“No.”
“You did walk right into it.”
“In point of fact, it crashed into me.” He reclined onto his side, his head propped on one elbow. “A Congreve rocket at Waterloo. Powerful impact, nearly impossible to aim. One happened to turn back on our ranks, and I was its lucky target.”
Emma lay on her side, facing him. She didn’t dare say anything, for fear he would shutter himself again.
“After my injury, when I woke up in blinding pain and missing parts of myself, I looked down to see if my cock was still there. When I saw that it was, I said—fine, I suppose I want to live.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you did. Tonight was . . . I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“I’m tempted to take that as a compliment, but considering your limited experience I’m not certain I can.”
“My experience might not be as limited as you’re assuming. I . . .” Emma gathered her courage. “I’m not a virgin. Or, I mean, I wasn’t when we wed.”
Silence fell over the room, heavy as an anvil. She found it difficult to breathe under the weight.
“You’re very quiet,” she finally ventured. “Won’t you say something?”
“Let me guess. The boy back home?”
“Yes. I knew it was imprudent, but that was what made it exciting. My father was uncompromising, and I have a rebellious streak.”
“So I’ve noted.”
Emma had never been a good vicar’s daughter, no matter how she’d tried to be. Her father’s expectations were too elusive. If she made the slightest progress toward his approval, the line only moved further away. At some point, she gave up on trying and went looking for approval and affection in other places.
That, of course, was what had landed her in trouble.
“He was the local squire’s son,” she said. “Three years older than I. Sometimes we would meet by chance during walks, and I was flattered by his interest. A kiss became two, and so forth. I fancied myself to be wildly in love with him. There was a ball at his sister’s house, and he asked her to invite me. Said it would be a special evening for us both.”
“I can guess the sort of ‘special evening’ he had in mind.”
She looked over his shoulder, her gaze unfocused. “I made myself a new gown for the occasion. Rose-red silk with gold ribbon at the sleeves and waist. I spent hours fussing with curling papers and tongs to make my ringlets just right. Fool that I was, I thought he meant to propose. And even when he tugged at my bodice and reached up my skirt, I still thought he meant to propose—afterward. I thought he was carried away with passion, that was all. It felt dizzyingly romantic.”
She skipped over the details of the encounter. “We were caught together, which was humiliating enough. Then he refused to marry me—which was devastating. Apparently there’d been some family understanding that he would wed a distant cousin.”
“To the Devil with any cousin. Someone should have brought the knave up to scratch.”
“There was no one to try it. I hadn’t any brothers to defend my honor, and my father . . . My father didn’t even attempt to force his hand. He blamed me for everything. What treatment did I expect, he asked, going about in a harlot-red dress. He called me a strumpet, a jezebel, said he didn’t blame the young man for refusing. He told me no decent man would ever want me, and that I was to leave his house at once and not bother coming back.”
Even six years later, the pain felt as fresh as if it were yesterday. She’d known society would judge her harshly for her mistake, but her own father . . . ? Giles had disappointed and misused her, but Father was the man who’d broken her heart.
This was why she had to help Davina Palmer. She would never allow another young woman to face that sort of rejection and abandonment. Not if she could help it.
She swallowed back the bitter lump in her throat. “It was winter and snowing. I hadn’t much money. So I walked to London.”
“And you arrived with nine toes.”
She nodded.
“And every so often, you still shiver.”
She nodded again.
He was silent for several moments, and when he spoke his voice was low and stern. “Emma, you should have told me this.”
You should have told me this.
Emma’s heartbeat faltered. Guilt moved through her like a cold wind. She reached for one of the quilts. “You didn’t ask about my virtue. But you’re right, I should have told you anyway.”
Not every man would condemn her for such an indiscretion, perhaps—but a titled gentleman would have genuine, understandable concern. Laws of primogeniture and all. If he was angry with her, she couldn’t blame him.
Perhaps her father was right, and he’d believe he’d been sold a bill of damaged goods.
“It was ages ago,” she assured him. “And I didn’t conceive, thank heaven. You needn’t worry. Your bloodline is secure.”
He cursed. “Really, Emma. That thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Then . . . what thoughts are crossing it?”
“A great many.” He rolled onto his back and folded his hands
