Page 40 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

She rose quickly, not wanting to cause more of a scene. But as Cecil practically dragged her from the dining room, she caught a glimpse of his sisters' bewildered expressions and felt her heart twist. Whatever demons haunted her husband, they clearly had deep roots in his family's past.

The carriage ride home was silent save for the clatter of hooves and the occasional creak of wheels. Cecil stared out the window, his profile harsh in the intermittent lamplight, while Elizabeth's mind raced with questions she wasn't sure she dared to voice.

The moment they arrived at Stonefield Manor, Cecil strode from the carriage without offering Elizabeth his hand—a small slight that spoke volumes. She watched him disappear inside, his long legs carrying him swiftly toward the stairs that led to his private chambers.

Her sensible side urged her to retire to her own room, to give him space to wrestle whatever demons had emerged during dinner. But something stronger—something that felt dangerously like love—made her gather her skirts and follow.

"Cecil," she called, catching up to him in the darkened corridor. "Wait."

He paused, his hand on his bedchamber door. "Go to bed, Elizabeth."

"No." The word emerged stronger than she'd intended, echoing slightly in the empty hallway. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."

He turned then, and the raw pain in his eyes made her breath catch. "Some truths are better left buried."

"Like the truth about your mother's paintings?" She took a step closer, emboldened when he didn't retreat. "About why you can barely look at them, yet can't seem to part with them either?"

"Elizabeth." Her name was a warning on his lips. "Don't."

But she was already moving forward, close enough now to catch the scent of brandy on his breath. "Your sisters clearly adored her. Yet whenever she's mentioned, you look as if you're being slowly tortured. Why?"

"Because they didn't know her!" The words exploded from him with such force that Elizabeth actually stumbled back. Cecil caught her arm, steadying her even in his anger. His fingers burned through the silk of her gown. "They didn't see—" He broke off, his breath harsh in the silence.

"What didn't they see?" Elizabeth whispered, laying her free hand against his chest. She could feel his heart thundering beneath her palm. "Tell me, Cecil. Please."

He stared down at her for a long moment, something desperate and wild in his gaze. Then, without warning, he yanked open his chamber door and pulled her inside.

Elizabeth barely had time to register that she was in her husband's bedroom—a place she'd never been permitted to enter—before he released her and began to pace like a caged animal.

"I was eighteen," he said finally, his voice rough. "Young enough to still believe in perfect things. Perfect families. Perfect love." He gave a bitter laugh that made Elizabeth's chest ache. "I found her in the garden with him. Some nobleman whose name I never learned. They were..." He swallowed hard. "Well, let's just say their embrace wasn't motherly."

Elizabeth watched as Cecil poured himself a generous measure of brandy, his movements sharp with suppressed emotion. "I told myself I must have misunderstood," he continued, staring into the amber liquid. "That perhaps I was seeing things that weren't there. After all, she was the perfect countess, the perfect mother. How could she possibly—" He broke off, downing half his glass in one swallow.

"But you knew," Elizabeth said softly.

"I knew." His laugh held no humor. "Though I tried desperately to forget. Even after her death, I kept telling myself it had been nothing. An aberration. A moment of weakness." He set down his glass with more force than necessary. "Until I found the letters."

Elizabeth's breath caught. "Letters?"

"Hidden in her painting room. Dozens of letters, spanning years," Cecil said, his voice raw with old pain. "Declarations of love. Secret meetings arranged in code so obvious a child could have broken it."

He turned away, unable to meet Elizabeth's eyes. "At first, I didn't know what to do. I was young, scared. I thought if I kept them hidden, protected everyone from the truth..."

"How long did you keep them hidden?" Elizabeth asked softly.

Cecil's laugh was bitter. "Years. I told myself I was protecting my sisters. Protecting my father from the truth about the woman he worshipped." His fingers clenched. "But when he finally found them in my room, it destroyed him. He was sick within months. The physician called it a fever, but I knew. The truth killed him as surely as any illness."

"You were trying to protect your family," Elizabeth said gently. "A boy trying to shield those he loved from a painful truth."

"Was I protecting them?" His voice dropped, filled with self-loathing. "Or was I just a coward, carrying this secret that ate away at me?"

"The truth," Elizabeth whispered, finally understanding. "The truth about a woman he'd loved without reservation."

"I should have burned them the moment I found them. Should have?—"

But Elizabeth was already closing the distance between them, her hands coming up to frame his face. "Listen to me," she said fiercely. "You were eighteen years old, carrying a burden no child should bear. You tried to protect everyone you loved, even if it meant suffering alone."

"Elizabeth—" His voice was hoarse, his hands coming up to circle her wrists as if to pull away.

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