Page 46 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The summer breeze drifted through the open windows of Trowbridge Manor's dining room, carrying with it the faint scent of roses from the garden. Elizabeth barely noticed either the warmth or the fragrance, her attention fixed on the untouched roasted pheasant before her. She pushed a morsel around her plate with the same listless energy that had plagued her for days—ever since Cecil had...

No. She wouldn't think of him now.

"You've hardly touched your food," Harriet observed quietly from across the table. Her sister's worried gaze had been following Elizabeth all morning, noting every sigh and distracted glance. "Cook prepared the pheasant specially, knowing it's your favorite."

"Did she?" Elizabeth managed a wan smile. "How thoughtful. The journey from Stonefield must have tired me more than I realized."

They both knew it wasn't true. She'd arrived two days ago, and sleep had been as elusive as her peace of mind. The dark circles beneath her eyes told that tale clearly enough.

"Perhaps some tea might help restore your appetite," Harriet suggested, already half-rising to ring for the servant.

"No, thank you." Elizabeth's fingers tightened around her fork. "I'm quite well, truly."

Their father sat at the head of the table, seemingly engrossed in his own meal, but Elizabeth could feel his disapproving glances. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle clink of silverware against china and the distant sound of birdsong from the garden.

"The weather has been remarkably fine," Harriet ventured, her tone deliberately bright. "Perhaps we could walk in the garden after luncheon? The roses are in full bloom, and?—"

"When can we expect news of an heir?"

Luke's question cut through the air like a knife, causing both sisters to start. Elizabeth's fork clattered against her plate, the sound sharp and jarring in the sudden silence.

"Father, I—" Elizabeth began, but her voice failed her.

"It's been three months." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, his movements precise and controlled. Each tap of the linenagainst his lips seemed to punctuate his words. "Surely the earl has... attended to his duties by now."

"Father!" Harriet's cheeks flushed pink. "That's hardly appropriate conversation for the dining table."

"When else should we discuss it?" Luke's stern gaze fixed on his eldest daughter. "The ton will talk if there's no announcement soon. Lady Weatherby mentioned just yesterday that she'd heard nothing of your...condition."

"Lady Weatherby," Elizabeth said stiffly, pushing her plate away, "would do better to mind her own affairs."

"Your condition is her affair." Luke's voice hardened. "It's the affair of every person of consequence in London. Or have you forgotten how this marriage came about?"

Elizabeth's fingers instinctively rose to her neck, tracing the raised line of her scar. How could she forget? The whispers, the stares, the way potential suitors' eyes would drift to her marred skin before quickly looking away. Until Cecil...

"This marriage secured our family's position," Luke continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore his daughter's distress. "Your sister's indiscretion was forgotten because of it. The least you could do is ensure its success."

From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Harriet flinch at their father's words and felt a familiar surge of protectiveness."Harriet has nothing to do with this," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "She's home now, and the scandal has passed."

"Thanks to your marriage to the earl." Luke's eyes narrowed. "A marriage that needs securing with an heir."

"Perhaps we could discuss something else," Harriet pleaded, reaching across the table to touch Elizabeth's hand. The contact was brief but warm, a reminder of countless childhood comforts exchanged in moments of distress. "Elizabeth looks pale. She should rest after her journey."

"Rest?" Luke scoffed, his knife scraping against his plate with unnecessary force. "She's had nothing but rest since she arrived. What she needs is to attend to her responsibilities."

"And what responsibilities would those be, Father?" Elizabeth's voice was barely above a whisper, but there was steel beneath the softness. "To provide an heir? To secure the family name? To make up for the shame of my—" Her fingers brushed her scar again.

"Don't take that tone with me, Elizabeth." Luke set down his cutlery with deliberate care. "You know very well what's expected of you. The ton will talk if there's no announcement soon. You know how they love to gossip, especially about..." His eyes flickered to her scar before darting away.

A servant entered with a fresh decanter of wine, and the conversation paused. Elizabeth used the moment to gather hercomposure, though her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass.

"More wine, Father?" she offered, desperate to change the subject.

"Don't attempt to distract me," Luke warned. "This matter cannot be ignored. When I saw the earl at his club last week, he seemed...distracted."

Elizabeth's heart stuttered at the mention of Cecil. "You saw him?"

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