between the two of you has spilled over and poisoned me.'
Again, her voice faltered, catching in her throat, but she was going to tell him, make him understand. She would speak about this ugliness she had kept hidden for so long. Only then could he really understand what had happened to her last night. She clenched her fists and dug her torn fingernails into her palms.
'After a while, Daisy's mind… She wasn't right in her head. She'd bring men back to our room. Lie with them. And they'd hurt her. They'd hit her and… and do things to her. She'd sometimes beg and cry. Other times, she wouldn't even make a sound, just lie there. I knew then that I'd never let a man touch me. That's why I carried my knife.' Her eyes bored into Simon's. 'I want you to know that I would have killed him and laughed when he died.'
Simon made no visible reaction to her savage pronouncement. 'Go on,' he said. Now he wanted to hear it all, know the truth of what his son had done. He wanted to hear the worst so he could justify the revenge he knew he was going to take.
Noelle would not meet his eyes. She stared past him and continued her story. 'He ripped off my clothes and told me to take a bath. I've dreamed of a bath like that as long as I can remember. Hot water with the steam coming up from it, soap that smelled so good, you almost wanted to taste it.' She laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound.
'I was unlucky enough to have my dream come true. I had my bath all right, but with him sitting there, watching me with eyes like the devil. He had his legs stretched out in front of him and was sipping his brandy as though he didn't have a care in the world. Just watching me as if I weren't even a real person, as though I had no feelings.
'Then he got up and turned out the light. He picked up the towel, threw it across the room out of my reach, and pulled me out of the tub. I tried to back away from him, to tell him I wasn't what he thought, but he wouldn't listen. I fought him, but he held my hands, pushed me onto the bed. Then he was all over me, ripping me apart.' Her eyes were hard and bitter as she turned to face Simon. 'Mr. Copeland, I know now that I'll die before I ever let any man touch me like that again.'
Now it was Simon who would not look at her. He stood and walked to the book cases that stretched the width of the library. Running his index finger down the spine of one of the leather- bound volumes, he finally spoke, his voice filled with emotion.
'Noelle, what happened with you and my son was ugly and twisted. It was an animal coupling, the act of a stallion mounting an unwilling mare only by virtue of his superior strength. But lovemaking between a man and a woman does not have to be like that. It can be beautiful and full of tenderness.'
He turned toward her, but he no longer saw her; another face swam before him. He saw warm dark eyes and hair like rippling black silk. 'Some will say that only men enjoy the act of love.' His voice rose with the depth of his conviction. 'But that's a lie. I have seen such joy on the face of a woman that I knew it shone from her heart. It was magical, something to be treasured forever.'
Simon had revealed himself much more fully than he had intended, but it was all for nothing. He saw by Noelle's closed expression that it was useless to try to explain further. Her bitterness formed an unbreachable wall that encircled her. Once again he became businesslike as he crossed to her, his hands clasped behind his back.
'I will make no excuses for what my son did; it was unforgivable. It is inadequate to tell you that I'm sorry for what has happened, but I am. And I promise you, Noelle, that I am somehow going to make it up to you.'
The door opened slowly and Tomkins entered. Refusing to acknowledge Noelle's presence by so much as a glance, he majestically placed a silver tray bearing a matching tea service on a small table near Simon and announced, 'Mrs. Peale has just arrived, sir. I asked her to wait in the anteroom; however…'
'Oh, Tomkins, you old fusspot, there's no need to announce me.'
The inimitable Constance Peale, as fresh as a breeze after a morning rain, floated into the library with a swish of ruffles and black silk. Although the appropriate color, her dress could only be categorized as proper mourning attire by the broadest definition. Its revealing decolletage was covered with the sheerest film of black gauze. The overbodice was gathered at the base of her slim neck into layers of lacy ruff.
Her hair was bright auburn with many curls and ribbons. There were several malicious gossips who hinted that a woman of forty-five could not possibly have hair that particular shade of red without resorting to henna. It was a mark of Constance's popularity that the gossips found few willing to listen.
In point of fact, she was not really a beautiful woman at all. Her features were pleasant, but certainly not distinguished. Instead, it was the animation of her personality, her charm and vitality, that had been known to quicken the heartbeats of gentlemen many years her junior.
Despite the frivolity of her mourning attire, Constance's grief for her dead husband was deep and heartfelt. She had loved him since she was little more than a child, and his passing had left a painful void in her life. She hid her sorrow well, however, and few comprehended the depth of her suffering.
'Simon, my dear.' Her voice was low and melodic. 'It really is dreadful to descend on you like this, but I needed-' She faltered momentarily at the sight of Noelle, and then her green eyes began to twinkle with amusement. 'I had no idea you were entertaining, Simon.' Tipping her elegant head slightly to the side, she regarded him with exaggerated innocence. 'I do hope my untimely arrival has not interrupted anything.'
Smothering his irritation, Simon kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek. 'You're always welcome, Connie.' He could not resist using the nickname that he knew she detested. Drat the woman! Why did she have to appear now?
Just then, the last piece of the puzzle he had been trying to fit together in his mind fell into place, and he knew what he had to do.
'Let's go to the drawing room, where you can be more comfortable, Connie. We can finish our business there. Tomkins, please pour tea for the young lady. Noelle, if you'll excuse me.'
Not waiting for Constance to protest, Simon hustled her from the library and led her to the drawing room. He was thinking furiously as he walked, weighing his options. His chances of pulling it off were so slim as to be almost nonexistent, but still, what other choice did he have?
When they arrived in the drawing room, which had been gracefully decorated
'Simon, do stop pushing me so. I have long known you were a most vexatious man, but until now I never suspected you lacked the niceties of polite behavior. Much more of this and I shall have the vapors!' She sank eloquently onto a small lacquered chair, her hand resting gracefully over her heart.
'The vapors!' Simon's handsome face split with laughter. 'Connie, you wouldn't know how to have the vapors if you tried.'
'Of course I would. It's all a matter of holding one's breath. Now, do stop calling me that ridiculous name-you know I detest it-and tell me what is happening here. Really, Simon, I know men have their animal needs, but that child is frightfully ugly. Besides,' she sniffed daintily, 'I have always imagined you satisfied your baser cravings among the ladies of the demimonde, not with a common tart.'
'My baser cravings, as you call them, Constance, are none of your concern. However, I will tell you that I have never been so desperate that I had to resort to an alliance with a streetwalker.'
As much as Constance would have enjoyed pursuing this topic in greater depth, her curiosity about Simon's visitor overcame her. 'Then who on earth is that person, and what is she doing here?'
'That person, Connie, is Quinn's wife,' Simon said quietly.
'His wife!' All the ribbons in her auburn curls jerked at once. 'You can't be serious!'
'I'm quite serious. They were married last night.'
'But why? Quinn could marry any woman he chooses. He has everything. He is handsome, wealthy. He can be charming when it suits him. Why on earth? Surely he did not fall in love with her!'
'Don't be ridiculous. He'd never seen her until last night.'
'Then why?'
'Revenge, Connie.' Simon smiled wryly. 'Like an avenging angel, he has smitten me.'
'Do spare me your metaphors and explain yourself in a forthright manner, Simon. But first, please pour me a small glass of sherry. I daresay I'm going to need it.' With this, she settled herself comfortably, crossed her dainty ankles, and listened intently as Simon told Noelle's story.
Quinn had made several passing references to Constance about Simon's preoccupation with having him marry well. At the time, she had paid little attention; conflicts between Simon and Quinn were so frequent that she had
