Page 38 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"What I want is irrelevant." Cecil tossed back his brandy in one harsh swallow. "The agreement was clear: three months, an heir, then freedom for us both."

"An agreement you made before you knew her," Percival pointed out. "Before you saw how perfectly she manages your household, how well she fits into your life?—"

"Enough." The word emerged sharper than Cecil intended. He set down his glass with careful precision, fighting for control. "I won't become—" He cut himself off, but not before he saw understanding flash in Percival's eyes.

"You won't become your father," his friend finished softly. "A man who loved so deeply he nearly destroyed himself when he discovered?—"

"I said enough." Cecil's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. The look he leveled at his friend would have sent braver men running, but Percival merely sighed.

"You haven't seen your sisters since the wedding," Percival continued, his tone deliberately casual. "Madeleine asks after you constantly. She's convinced you're avoiding her."

"I am not avoiding her," Cecil muttered, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. "I simply haven't found the time."

"Time?" Laurence's eyebrow rose skeptically. "You seem to have plenty of time for brooding in this club."

"I've been preoccupied," Cecil said, his voice carrying a note of warning that would have silenced lesser men.

Percival leaned forward. "Preoccupied with your new wife, perhaps?"

Cecil's jaw tightened. "My affairs are my own."

"Are they?" Laurence's cold voice cut through his defenses. "Because you look like a man being slowly tortured by something—or someone."

Cecil shot his cousin a dangerous look, but Laurence merely raised an eyebrow, unmoved. The Duke of Westrow had always been immune to Cecil's attempts at intimidation.

"Speaking of your lovely countess," Percival interjected smoothly, "Madeleine insists on hosting a small dinner party tomorrow evening. Nothing elaborate—just family. She won't take no for an answer."

"I'm otherwise engaged," Cecil said automatically, though they all knew it was a lie.

"Are you?" Percival's smile held a knowing edge. "Because your wife has already accepted the invitation."

Cecil's head snapped up. "When did you?—"

"This morning. I called at Stonefield Manor while you were..." Percival gestured to Cecil's disheveled state. "Otherwise occupied. Elizabeth was quite gracious about accepting, though she did mention you've been rather scarce lately."

Something that felt dangerously like guilt twisted in Cecil's chest. He had been avoiding Elizabeth, throwing himself into business affairs and spending long hours at his club. Anything to escape the way his body yearned for her presence, the way his heart lightened at her smile.

"If you're trying to maintain distance," Laurence observed dryly, "you're going about it all wrong. The whole ton is buzzing about how the notorious Earl of Stonefield seems to have been thoroughly tamed by his unexpected bride."

"I am not—" Cecil began hotly, but Percival cut him off.

"Tamed? Perhaps not. But you can't deny she affects you. I've known you since we were boys, Cecil. I've never seen you like this—not even during your most desperate attempts to outrun your father's grief."

The mention of his father made Cecil's jaw clench. "You're overstepping, Percy."

"Am I?" His friend's voice gentled. "Or am I simply pointing out what you refuse to see? That perhaps, just perhaps, you've found something worth staying for?"

"You presume too much," Cecil warned, but his voice lacked its usual bite. The truth was, he felt exhausted—not from the boxing, but from constantly fighting his growing feelings for Elizabeth. Each day brought some new discovery about her that made his chest ache: the way she hummed softly while reviewing household accounts, how her eyes lit up when she solved a problem, the gentle way she spoke to even the lowest kitchen maid.

"Do I?" Percival lounged back in his chair, studying Cecil with the same shrewd look he'd worn since their school days. "Then explain why you've taken to haunting this club like a ghost. The Cecil I know would be home right now."

"Perhaps I've grown tired of the game," Cecil muttered, though they all knew it for the lie it was.

"The game?" Laurence's laugh held no warmth. "Is that what you call it when you stare at her across ballrooms like a starving man eyeing a feast? When you practically growl at any man who dares approach her? When you?—"

"Your point is made," Cecil cut in sharply. "Though I fail to see how my marriage concerns either of you."

"It concerns us," Percival said quietly, "because we watched what your father's grief did to him. How he withdrew from everything and everyone. And now we're watching you make the same mistake—letting fear of the past poison your future."

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