Page 22 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"Are you well, Elizabeth?" Emily asked, concern evident in her voice. "You look rather flushed."

"Perfectly well," Elizabeth managed, though she could feel the heat in her cheeks. "Though perhaps a bit warm."

"It is rather stuffy in here," Cecil agreed innocently, though his fingers now traced the sensitive spot behind her knee that he'd discovered made her gasp. "Shall I open a window?"

"No!" Elizabeth said too quickly, knowing she'd never maintain her composure if he moved away. "That is, I'm sure I'll be fine. Whose turn is it?"

The game continued, but Elizabeth's concentration was thoroughly shattered. Every time she thought she'd regained her focus, Cecil would find some new way to torment her—a brush of his fingers along her thigh, a warm breath against her neck, a whispered suggestion that made her cheeks flame.

"I believe that's game," Percival announced after what felt like an eternity. "Though I must say, Elizabeth, your play became rather erratic toward the end."

"Yes," Cecil drawled, finally withdrawing his hand. "How unusual for someone who started so...confidently."

Elizabeth shot him a glare that promised retribution, but before she could respond, Madeleine rose from her seat.

"Oh, speaking of confident beginnings, that reminds me—Elizabeth, has Cecil shown you Mother's paintings yet? The ones in that lovely sitting room?"

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. "His mother's paintings?"

"Oh yes," Emily joined in, her expression softening with nostalgia. "Mother was quite talented. She painted almost every day in that room—it was her sanctuary. The one of Cecil with the wooden sword was always Father's favorite."

Elizabeth's mind raced, remembering her assumptions about the paintings' origins. She'd been so certain they belonged to some former lover, had even let that belief fuel her jealousy. But now...

"It's why we weren't surprised Cecil kept them all," Madeleine continued, seemingly unaware of the tension that had suddenly gripped her brother's frame. "Though I must say, turning it into a sitting room was inspired. Mother would have loved that—she always said that room needed more light."

Elizabeth glanced at Cecil, noting how his earlier playfulness had vanished entirely. His jaw was set in that familiar way that suggested he was fighting to maintain his composure.

"She was a wonderful mother," Emily added softly. "Always encouraging our creative pursuits, no matter how outlandish. Remember how she used to let you practice your fencing in the gallery, Cecil? Father was furious about the scratches on the floors, but she just laughed and said it gave the house character."

"Perhaps we should move to the dining room," Cecil cut in, his voice carrying an edge that made his sisters exchange puzzled looks. "It must be nearly time for supper."

As they rose to move to the dining room, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of Cecil's expression. For just a moment, she saw something raw and painful in his eyes—not the possessive heat from earlier, nor the practiced charm he usually displayed, but something altogether more vulnerable.

Then it was gone, hidden behind his usual mask of cool control. But Elizabeth couldn't forget it.

CHAPTER TEN

Sleep eluded Elizabeth as she paced her chambers, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor. Her new sitting room beckoned—the sanctuary she'd created from Cecil's mother's paintings. Though she now knew their origin, something about them still called to her, as if they held secrets yet untold.

Wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her nightrail, Elizabeth slipped into the darkened corridor. The house was silent save for the occasional creak of ancient timbers settling. As she passed her husband's study, however, a telltale glow beneath the door caught her attention. Candlelight flickered, suggesting Cecil was still at work despite the late hour.

She hesitated, her hand hovering near the door. Propriety dictated she return to her chambers—what sort of lady wandered the halls in her nightclothes? But something stronger drew her forward, some need to bridge the growing gulf between them.

Before she could second-guess herself, she knocked softly.

"Enter," Cecil's deep voice commanded.

Elizabeth opened the door to find him at his desk, his cravat loosened and coat discarded. The sight of him in such casual disarray made her pulse quicken. He looked up, and she watched his eyes darken as they traveled over her thin dressing gown.

"I couldn't sleep," she explained quickly, fighting a blush. "I thought perhaps..."

"You thought to visit your sanctuary?" His voice held an edge she couldn't quite interpret. "The room you've made from my mother's paintings?"

Elizabeth lifted her chin. "I find peace there. Though I confess, I don't understand why they trouble you so."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Finally, Cecil set down his pen. "Walk with me."

As they moved through the darkened corridors, Elizabeth was acutely conscious of his presence beside her, the whisper of his footsteps matching hers. The sitting room looked different in darkness, the paintings mere suggestions of shape and color until Cecil lit several wall sconces.

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