Page 47 of The Duke and the Scarred Bride

She thought that the moment when she got injured was the most painful experience of her life, but it seemed the events of the previous night were jousting for that position.

Percival was so cruel to tease her body and spirit to the heights of ecstasy and then plunge her back into despair before she could catch her breath. She had cried herself to sleep, swearing to completely ignore him, but the moment she opened her eyes, she was hit by a fresh wave of despair and anger. A dull ache bloomed in her chest, and she rubbed the spot above her heart in the hope of relieving it.

A part of her, the part that was already half in love with Percival, argued that he might have a good reason for rejecting her,especially when it seemed that a lack of attraction was not the cause. She guessed that his reason was tied to the scars hidden beneath the surface, the ones he refused to talk about. That lovesick part of her urged her to be patient.

The other part of her, which was more logical and had a better sense of self-preservation, argued that she had waited and cajoled him enough. It was now time to take charge of her life and or ignore the capricious nature of her husband if she intended to keep a firm grasp on her sanity.

Remembering the embarrassment and frustration she had felt the previous night following his rejection, she was tempted to remain upstairs and take her breakfast in her room in the hope of avoiding him and the feelings of shame and despair that would surely overtake her if she ate in his presence. But she was no coward.

If she had been, she would not have survived the wagging tongues of the ton and the poisonous words that some of them spewed under the guise of consoling her. If she had survived such a dark time in her life, then she believed that she was equipped to handle whatever curveball life threw at her. Besides, she was not the one at fault here.

She only wanted the intimacy that was her right by marriage. The fact that he decided to hold back and deny her that pleasure was his fault, and his reasons were best known only to him, since he had refused to share them with her after several attempts on her part.

The lovesick part of her argued that she had signed up for this when she agreed to a marriage of convenience, but that argument was weakened by the fact that she had requested companionship, and sexual congress was another type of companionship—at least for married couples.

Besides, if he wanted to keep their relationship that chaste, he shouldn’t have been that handsome, shooting her heated glances from beneath his impossibly thick lashes.

How was a lady supposed to resist such potent masculine appeal, especially when it was so obviously one-sided? Now that she had experienced the pleasure his touch could wring out of her, she wondered how she was going to return to their earlier passionless rapport without longing for another taste of the bliss she could find in his arms.

That thought almost solidified her plan to continue hiding in her room, but she was not going to give him the opportunity to gloat, because if there was a chance that he realized he could hurt her that deeply, there would be nothing stopping him from doing it in the future.

Climbing out of bed, she tugged on the bell pull, and in no time Anne arrived to help with her morning ablutions.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maid greeted with a bright smile, her face glowing with so much happiness that Louisa felt some of her melancholy fade away.

“Good morning, Anne. I hope you had a good night’s rest?” Louisa asked offhandedly, plastering a smile on her face.

But it must have been unconvincing because Anne’s smile dropped, and she furrowed her brow.

“I had a good rest, Your Grace. But I do not think you had a good night,” Anne ventured, her voice ringing with concern.

“Why would you think that, Anne?” Louisa asked, patting her face self-consciously.

“For one, your eyes are rather red-rimmed and swollen,” Anne began, coming closer to examine her face. “Have you been crying, Your Grace?” she asked, her eyes widening in alarm.

Louisa could not fault the maid for her reaction. After dressing and styling her to perfection the previous night, Anne would have expected to see a happy and contented mistress come morning. Instead, she had to deal with a bedraggled one, who looked like she had been dragged through the fires of hell and had cried her eyes out all night long.

Forcing a smile, Louisa sought to distract her. “It’s nothing that a bowl of cold water and a bit of powder won’t fix. I would prefer to have my bath drawn immediately, since I am joining the Duke for breakfast. I trust that Lawrence can arrange for that with his brother. Could you please inform them?” she asked in a rush.

She could see the questions in her maid’s eyes, but something in her expression must have convinced her of the futility of pressing the issue.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Anne said with a deep curtsy, before leaving to carry out her orders.

While Louisa liked Anne and was fast becoming friends with her, she was not quite ready to delve into the subject of her marriage with her. After all, the maid was still a stranger, and Louisa hardly had her loyalty.

Her marriage was fragile enough—more fodder for the gossip mills would no doubt tear it apart. Besides, no matter what happened, Percival was the head of the household, and she would not do or say anything that could diminish his authority in the servants’ eyes.

She suspected that Anne felt hurt by the curt way she had avoided her question, and the maid would most likely go complain to her beau about how upset she was. Louisa just hoped that they would wrap up their lovers’ conversation fast enough and promptly deliver the buckets of water so that she could have the steaming bath she ached for.

Fortunately, Anne returned shortly after, with the strapping young men hot on her heels, hauling buckets of steaming hot water. While they seemed to be fit and capable with their bulging muscles and intimidating heights, they would also need help when Louisa started redecorating the manor. She made a mental note to hire more servants in order to lighten their workload.

When the tub was filled, she quickly lowered herself into the water, enjoying the relaxing warmth. She felt her anger towards her husband ebb and fade away long enough for her to dress up and head down to the breakfast room.

But her anger seemed to increase tenfold when she walked to the breakfast table. Percival was already there, sipping from his teacup and tearing bread into small pieces before popping them in his mouth.

It was so annoying to see him so unruffled and delicious in his shirtsleeves, his unruly hair falling over his eyes and softening the sharp lines of his face.

She must have made a sound because he looked up from the newspaper, his eyes flashing with some feral emotion as he looked at her from head to toe, his gaze leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

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