“Dane, are you asleep?”
He pretended to snore.
“I know you’re awake.”
He lay still.
“You have no idea what it was like to be raised by my mother,” she said softly. “To be so loved, so protected, that every scrap of clothing I wore, every word I spoke, every action was managed and chosen for me. Every friend I tried to make was driven away for fear they might corrupt me. Every innocent diversion was pronounced a gateway to immorality. I had no free will. I was made to believe that disaster would strike if I strayed outside of her strict rules of conduct.”
She moved restlessly in the bed, and he wanted to hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t be the man who did that for her.
“And even as a grown woman,” she continued, “she still chose my clothing and told me what I could and couldn’t say, whom I could speak with, whom I should marry. I had no air to breathe. I was trapped in a net. And this week in London has given me a taste of what it would be like to be my own person. To discover who I am without my mother, without Mr. Pilkington, without the weight of having to be the perfect daughter and wife—biddable, chaste, maidenly, virtuous, selfless. You don’t even value the freedom that society grants you because of your sex and your fortune. I want to be a little bit selfish. Is that so terrible?”
“Selfish doesn’t make you happy. I can attest to that.”
“Perhapsselfishisn’t the word. I want to live on my own terms, in my own way. I’ve always wanted that. I used to write stories about littlegirls who ran away from home and had glorious adventures.”
“Fairy tales.”
“Perhaps. I stopped writing them when I was thirteen. The day I learned that there was no escape from my life. I woke in the morning with a dreadful cramping in my belly and blood on my sheets, and I knew that it was because I’d written another one of the bad stories about a girl who ran away from her mother. I’d hidden the story under my bed, and this was my punishment. I was dying. I knew it. I ran sobbing to my mother and confessed everything. I asked her to call for the vicar to give me my last rites.”
“Oh, Sandrine.” His heart was breaking for her. He pushed the chair around to face her. Dragged it closer to the bed. “Your monthly courses had begun.”
“I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it was a punishment, and my mother confirmed it. This was the curse given to all women because we are the original sinners. Bad and unclean. Every month I would receive this reminder of the sin inside me that must be wrestled with and overcome. She made me watch her burn the story I’d written, then she made me scrub my own sheets, and I wept and begged her forgiveness. I promised to be good and obey her and never think about being disobedient again.”
Dane couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to give her some comfort, and all he had to offer was himself. She was sitting up in bed. He sat next to her, on top of the covers, and held her hand.“Sandrine. That was very wrong of her to instill shame in you for something so natural, something which should have been viewed as normal.”
“I realize that now, but at thirteen all I saw was my wickedness. My body was shameful. Something to be hidden away and denied.”
“Your body is beautiful, Sandrine. Something to be proud of, to be celebrated.”
“Seeing the nude portrait of you made me start thinking about nakedness in a new way. You’re obviously proud of your body. You display it for anyone to see. I only want you to know what I battle. A legacy of shame and restriction. And I want to leave it behind like a snake leaves its dry old skin. I want to be something new. I want to inhabit my body in an unfettered way. It’s not my adversary, something to be ashamed of, but a gift, a precious gift, and these carnal cravings aren’t something to be denied and suppressed.”
He stroked her hand softly. “Your body is a temple, and I long to worship it, I want you so badly. But I can’t offer you the connection, the commitment, or the love that you deserve.”
“I’m not asking for commitment, Dane. I’m asking you to be my partner as I seek freedom, as I break free from the shackles of shame. Shouldn’t a notorious rake be able to help me with those goals?”
“Believe me, I want you to reach those goals so badly it hurts. But you deserve, you want, more than I can give.”
“Not even one more item from the list of wicked things you whispered to me in the garden?”
“Not even one.” It cost him everything to say those words. “Sandrine, I told you from the start that I was bad, that I’d misspent my life, and I couldn’t be the man you want me to be.”
“What if we really were Mr. and Mrs. Danny Smith? What if you were the man you pretended to be at the seashore? Maybe things wouldn’t be so complicated between us.”
Her words were a spell woven of beach grass, sunshine, and longing. He wanted to be that man so badly. And he wanted things to be uncomplicated. Because in that moment it didn’t seem too complex. He wanted her. She wanted him.
There was only one bed.
“I watched you calm your horse. You spoke gently, and your touch made him feel safe. I want you to do the same with me. I want to feel safe and gentled by your touch.”
She wanted to feelloved. And he couldn’t give her that. And if he couldn’t give her that, then he couldn’t give her any of the other things she asked for.
But damn it! She just kept talking in that soft, honeyed way about unbearably sensual things, and he was at his breaking point.
“One more forbidden, wicked thing. Notthething. Only the next thing on the list,” she said, glancing at him from under her lashes.
“I can’t remember the list,” he lied. He remembered every second of their encounter in thegarden. All he wanted to do was write the whole damned list on her body with his tongue.