She looked up finally, her face stunned, then glowing, then almost beseeching.
She cleared her throat. “Perhaps I ought not to have allowed him to kiss me at all? For I did, you know. I did not hate his kiss the first time, Mr. Hawkes. Does that make me a wanton? I wanted to see what it would be like. But I did not yet want another that evening. For he was in a dark mood, you see, for the day before I had laughed at something the footman said about the weather... he was very jealous of my attention. He tried, and I said, ‘No, thank you.’ And if I had not said this, then perhaps he would not have...”
“No,” he said firmly at once.
“. . . perhaps then he would not have gotten so angry? If I had not denied him? Perhaps I should not have laughed at the footman’s jest?”
“Aurelie, no.”
“I thought it mattered to him what I thought, or what I did or did not want, you see... and so I told him.” She gave a little stunned laugh. Full of bewildered bitterness and self-contempt. “I feel so foolish now. When he tried to kiss me anyway... I gave his chest just a little push with my fingers. Just a little one.” She illustrated this by pushing the air before her now. “I knew I was testing his temper, but I felt very sure of myself and my attractions. Is that not absurd?” She paused. “He did not like being... countermanded, I think is the right word.”
“Aurelie...” He could scarcely breathe. Oh, God. Oh, dear God.
“He was so angry.” Her voice was anguished. “He was furious. I wonder... perhaps if I were not so proud in general? Perhaps I should have been less adamant?”
“No, Aurelie,” he said softly. At least he thought he spoke softly. A roaring sound had started up in his ears. The pounding of his blood.
“You see... there was a wall just behind me, and... I couldseein his face the moment he decided to... that he wanted to...” Her voice was shaking. “Did you know, Mr. Hawkes, one hand was all he needed, to...” She touched her wrists. She swallowed. “He could hold them in one hand. Both of my wrists.”
Hawkes fought hard not to close his eyes.
But he could see it too clearly: Brundage’s hand glinting with a heavy signet ring trapping her slim wrists.
“He held them... over... over my head.”
I stared at his throat. I would not look him in the eye while he did it.
Black spots scudded across his vision.
Her darkest secrets had comforted him in his wretchedness, through his fog of fever. But he supposed, in his way, he’d been her comfort, too.
“It’s very surprising to realize, Mr. Hawkes... that you cannot move at all.”
He honestly hadn’t thought there was anything left of him to break.
“He took you against your will.”
He said it so she wouldn’t have to.
He didn’t inflect the words with judgment or horror or astonishment or fury or pity. He managed to deliver them quietly, even as an eviscerating fury at the vicissitudes of fate nearly separated his soul from his body.
He didn’t want her to feel obligated to manage his emotions, or to be swayed by them.
Her truth washers. She could feel what she felt. He would be the cliff against which her emotions could wash. He could take it.
It hadn’t destroyed her. And he knew that it wouldn’t.
“Yes.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper.
Her face was pinched and white. Her features pulled taut against suppressed emotions.
And then her chin went up.
But she didn’t turn away from him. She was so brave. She searched his face.
Perhaps she saw in his expression he’d gladly do murder for her. Perhaps she saw how he suffered for her.
Whatever it was she seemed to take immediate strength from it.