Love did not factor into anything between them. In the wake of such devastating pleasure, Sarani suddenly felt a beat of sorrow. She shook it off. She hadn’t done it for love. There’d been very practical reasons, very rational reasons. Her virginity did not belong to the male sex to do with as they pleased. She’d wanted to experience carnal pleasure with a man she trusted with her body. And life was too short for regret.

Nothing to do with love whatsoever.

Twenty

If he could have booted the man out on his pompous arse, Rhystan would have. Bloody fortune hunter. Viscount Marvelle was in debt up to his ears, and Rhystan had nearly laughed at the ludicrous offer of marriage for Ravenna.

How much is the chit’s dowry? The duns are after me. I’ll take her off your hands.

Marvelle was lucky he was leaving the residence with his legs in good working order. Rhystan wished he could say the same for his unraveling temper. He rubbed his temples. That was the sixth offer this week, all from known scoundrels. Titled gentlemen, but sodding wastrels. Once he’d reinstated Ravenna’s considerable dowry, they’d come out of the woodwork.

Lord Belford, heir to a marquess, was a known gambler. Lord Penderton, an earl in his own right, was barely hanging on to his entailed estates. Mr. Lincoln Trent, son of a prominent barrister, had three by-blows living with him and was a known profligate. Rhystan respected the man’s decision to acknowledge his progeny, but a man who fathered God knew how many children with different women was not the husband for his little sister.

None of them were sodding good enough.

Just like you.

The wayward thought struck him hard.

The truth was, who was he to talk? He’d ruined an innocent woman—a royal no less—because he needed to sate his lust. All because he wanted her. Rhystan raked a hand through his hair, stalking to the mantel where he poured himself a full tumbler of whisky.

“She consented,” he muttered. “We both knew what we were doing.”

Doesn’t mean she wasn’t innocent.

She’d been a virgin. Sarani had been so passionate, so responsive, but innate sensuality did not imply that she was experienced. Rhystan didn’t know what he’d been expecting. She’d been engaged to Talbot for a few years. In hindsight, he’d made a stupid assumption. Sarani was Sarani.

Rhystan scowled. Hell, he was the worst kind of cad. Worse than Trent possibly.

He tipped up the whisky, feeling its contents burn a hot path to his stomach and waiting for the ease it would eventually bring. In the meantime, his thoughts remained on Sarani. In the aftermath, they’d lain together in his bed in a strange sort of comfortable quiet.