Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney Page B

he had learned, heaping abuse on her golden head. He knew her passionate nature, and only his idealistic desire to bring her a virgin to the marriage bed had prevented him from taking what she had so casually given to another man.
    How many others had there been? She was much sought after; had he been the only one too foolish to sample her luscious flesh? Had she accepted his offer among so many only because he was heir to a dukedom? On those early morning rides, could he have mounted her as well as his stallion if he had had the temerity to ask?
    Margot made no attempt to deny it. Had she offered the feeblest of defenses, he would have grasped it with craven gratitude. If she had wept and begged his forgiveness, he would have granted it, even knowing that he would never be able to trust her again.
    He would have beggared himself of his whole life's pride if she had given him the barest reason to do so.
    She had merely listened, her creamy complexion turning dead white. She did not even ask the name of the man who had revealed her wantonness—perhaps there were so many men that it didn't matter. Instead, she had said calmly that it was fortunate that they had discovered each other's true natures before it was too late.
    Her reaction had been a death knell, for Rafe had been unable to suppress a desperate hope that the story was untrue. In that instant, something in him had withered and died.
    Though they were not officially engaged, he had given her a Whitbourne heirloom ring, which she wore on a chain around her neck. When she finished speaking, she pulled it from between her breasts, breaking the gold links in her eagerness to be free. Then she had hurled the ring to the floor at Rafe's feet with such force that the large opal cracked.
    Murmuring that she did not wish to keep her horse standing any longer in the cool air, she had walked out with her head held high, no emotion visible. He had never seen her again. Within days, she and her father had taken advantage of the newly negotiated Peace of Amiens and left for the Continent.
    As the months passed, Rafe's fury and sense of betrayal were gradually overcome by his longing for Margot. He found himself waiting with hope and pain for the Ashtons to return to England . After almost a year of agonizing, he had gone to France , determined to find her again. If he had succeeded, he would have begged her to marry him.
    Then in Paris the news had come that it was forever too late. The only thing he could do to make amends was bringing the bodies of her and her father back to England .
    As time passed, Rafe had convinced himself that it was fortunate that she had died before he could abase himself to her. The thought of being married to a woman before whom he was so helpless was not a pleasant one.
    The Seasons and the Beauties had come and gone since then, and few remembered the glorious Margot Ashton who had been so briefly the toast of London . Rafe had learned to take his pleasures from the skilled and willing married women of his set, kissing lightly and letting go gracefully. Not for him the tawdry problems of getting birds of paradise out of the lovenest when they were loath to go; he saw no reason for a man to pay for a mistress when there were so many volunteers available for the price of a few compliments and an occasional bauble.
    Rafe had taken particular pleasure in cuckolding Oliver Northwood. Cynthia Browne had been a pretty, happy girl, the daughter of a prosperous country squire. It had been considered an excellent match for her to marry the younger son of a lord. Oliver had been attractive in a bluff, blond way, and she had not realized the kind of man she was getting.
    After learning of her husband's gambling, drunkenness, and whoring, she had bitterly decided to play the same game. Though she was not promiscuous by nature, she had started taking lovers of her own. It was tragic, really; with a loving husband she would have been a devoted wife and mother.