Page 15 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"Indeed." Cecil drained his glass and set it down with more force than necessary.

CHAPTER SIX

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the walls of Cecil's study as Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her heart hammering against her ribs. She'd expected to be summoned to his bedchamber—isn't that where rakish husbands typically demanded their wives' presence? Instead, here she was, watching him lounging behind his massive desk like a predator at rest.

"Come in, wife," Cecil drawled, gesturing to the chair across from him. A decanter of amber liquid sat between them, two crystal glasses already poured. "I trust you weren't expecting something more...intimate?"

Elizabeth forced herself to move forward with measured steps, refusing to let him see how his mere presence affected her. "I've learned not to expect anything conventional from you, my lord."

"Cecil," he corrected, his eyes following her movement. "I believe we established that particular intimacy already."

She settled into the chair, painfully aware of how the candlelight would illuminate her scar. Even in the dim light, she couldn't help but wonder if he found it as repulsive as every other man had. Not that it mattered—this was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

"Drink with me," he said, sliding one of the glasses toward her. "Consider it a proper beginning to our...nightly arrangements."

Elizabeth's fingers closed around the cool crystal. "Nightly arrangements?"

"Mm." His smile held a dangerous edge. "I'll be calling you here each evening. Unless you'd prefer my bedchamber?"

"The study suits me perfectly well," she replied quickly—too quickly, judging by his knowing smirk.

"Does it?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me, Elizabeth, are you always this...defensive when alone with a man?"

"Only when that man has explicitly forbidden me from certain rooms in my own home," she shot back, emboldened by either the brandy or her own recklessness. "Speaking of which, your behavior this afternoon was absolutely?—"

"Careful, wife." His voice dropped lower, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You're beginning to sound like you're reprimanding me."

"And what if I am?" She lifted her chin. "Does the great Earl of Stonefield not tolerate criticism from his wife?"

Cecil's eyes darkened as he rose from his chair with fluid grace. "I'm not accustomed to women attempting to scold me like an errant schoolboy. They usually find...other ways to express their displeasure."

He moved around the desk, and Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken with each step he took toward her. When he reached her chair, she instinctively pulled back, though whether from fear or something else entirely, she couldn't say.

"Now who's being defensive?" he murmured, reaching out to trace the air just above her scar, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat of his hand. "I've never forced my attentions on an unwilling woman, Elizabeth. They typically beg for my touch."

The implications of his words made her face flush. "Then you'll find me a disappointing wife indeed, my lord, for I have no intention of begging for anything—least of all your touch."

"No intention of begging?" Cecil's laugh was low and dangerous as he perched on the edge of his desk, looming over her. "Not even for an heir? Isn't that what good wives are supposed to provide?"

Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, though her hands trembled in her lap. "I don't want children."

She saw the surprise flash across his face before he could mask it. "Never?"

"Never." Her voice was firm despite her racing pulse. "I have no desire to be a mother."

Something shifted in Cecil's expression—curiosity? But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that calculating look she was beginning to know too well.

"Well then," he said softly, "perhaps we should make this more interesting."

"Interesting?" Elizabeth didn't like the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"A challenge, if you will." He moved closer, until his leg brushed against her skirts. "I won't touch you unless you beg for it. You have my word."

She couldn't help the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. "The word of a rake?"

"The word of your husband," he corrected, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that made her skin tingle. "But make no mistake, Elizabeth—within these three months, you will beg."

"You seem very confident, my lord."

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