Never Less Than A Lady | Herophine

Chapter Fifteen

Josephine

Brandy wasn't enough to warm the chill in Josephine's soul. After Hero left, she lit the fire laid in the fireplace, then curled up in a corner of the small sofa. The idea of crawling under the writing desk was appealing, but that lacked dignity. It was time she began acting like a rational adult rather than a terrified girl.

A small, cowardly corner of her mind longed to run away to a place where no one knew her and she could start over again. But she hadn't the energy for that or the strength to face such loneliness.

Since suppressing the past hadn't worked, the only way forward was through the hellish wreckage of her first marriage. Which meant she must look at Xander and how she had felt about him.

Josephine forced herself to pull down the loose fabric of robe and nightgown so she could stare at her scarred breasts. As a girl, she had taken her healthy young body for granted. Despite her lack of inches, it was a good body. Not extraordinary, but graceful and well-proportioned, worthy of male admiration. Nature designed young men and women to appeal to each other.

That natural acceptance of herself had been destroyed by her first marriage. The occasional sensual pleasure she had experienced in the early days was soon overcome by loathing for his body, and for hers.

The letters he had carved bloodily into her breasts had set the final seal on her self-hatred. She was ugly, mutilated. No man could want her, just as she wanted no man. For years, she had done her best never to view her scarred body. Her bedroom held no mirror, and she became an expert in dressing herself without seeing or thinking about her physical form any more than was absolutely necessary.

Looking back, she realized that time, life, and her nursing work had mitigated much of her hatred of the human body. She had delivered so many babies who were conceived in love. She'd seen deep, satisfying sexual bonds between husband and wife. And she'd heard her share of bawdy, happily lascivious jokes because married women didn't hold their tongues around a widowed midwife.

Xander's sprawling, irregularly shaped initials were about two inches long and carved on the upper curves of her breasts. It hadn't been easy for her to overlook them. Over the years, the angry red letters had faded to dense white ridges of scar tissue.

She felt no particular sensation when she traced the forms. "X" for Xander, gone from her life and from the world. "T" for Tiffin. It was ironic that in the fullness of time, she might still become Countess Tiffin. But with a mercifully different husband.

Josephine pulled up her nightgown and robe and settled back into the sofa, her absent gaze on the flickering fire. She had been barely sixteen when her father announced that she was to marry Damien's heir.

She'd been raised to expect such an arrangement because of her high rank. Though she would have resisted if she'd met Xander and found him repugnant, she had been delighted by her father's choice.

All too clearly she remembered the way Xander smiled when they first met. He was dark, handsome, and fashionable, and he'd professed himself rapturous to have such a beautiful, elegant bride.

Josephine had wanted to believe she was beautiful and elegant. What young girl wouldn't? By the time he kissed her to seal their betrothal, she was halfway in love with him. Their wedding had been the grandest of the Season, attended by no less than seven members of the royal family. It was no more than the Duke of Castleton's daughter deserved.

With the benefit of hindsight, she could see there were early signs that something was very wrong with Xander. His glittering, dagger edged charm sometimes made her profoundly uneasy. He would be oddly amused for reasons she didn't understand. Yet she had blindly ignored her instincts.