Page 39 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

Cecil surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "You know nothing about?—"

"I know you're terrified," Percival interrupted, his voice still gentle but implacable. "Terrified of trusting her. Of loving her."

The truth of his friend's words hit Cecil like a physical blow. He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles white with strain. "And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice rough. "Risk everything? Give her the power to?—"

"To make you happy?" Laurence suggested dryly. "How terribly inconvenient that would be."

"The dinner party will be intimate," Percival continued, ignoring Cecil's thunderous expression. "Just family. Though I must say, your wife seemed rather eager for the opportunity to spend an evening in your company. You've been spending an extraordinary amount of time away from home lately."

"Some matters require attention," Cecil deflected, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Laurence, never one for subtlety, cut directly to the heart of the matter. "You're running from your wife."

Cecil's fingers tightened around his glass. "I'm not running. I'm maintaining necessary distance."

"Distance?" Laurence's voice dripped with dry contempt. "Is that what we're calling your complete avoidance these days?"

A muscle ticked in Cecil's jaw. The truth clawed at his throat—Elizabeth had done something no other woman had ever managed. She'd seen past his carefully constructed walls, understood the pain he'd hidden for years, and made him want things he'd sworn never to desire again.

"Some boundaries are meant to be maintained," Cecil said finally, his voice rough. "Especially when feelings become...complicated."

Percival leaned forward. "Feelings are rarely simple, my friend. Especially in marriage."

"My parents taught me that feelings can destroy a man," Cecil muttered, the memory of his father's devastating grief surfacing unbidden.

Laurence's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Not all marriages are the same, Cecil.”

The silence that followed Percival's words hung heavy in the air, charged with unspoken truths. Cecil stared into his empty glass, seeing not his reflection but Elizabeth's face—the way she'd looked at him that morning, hope and hurt warring in those expressive green eyes before he'd made some excuse and fled.

"The dinner party begins at seven," Percival said finally, breaking the heavy silence. "Madeleine has instructed me to ensure you arrive promptly. Something about wanting to see if married life has improved your notorious tardiness."

A ghost of a smile touched Cecil's lips despite himself.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Duke of Greyhall's dining room glittered with candlelight, but Elizabeth found her attention drawn repeatedly to her husband's taut expression. Cecil had barely spoken since their arrival, responding to his sisters' cheerful chatter with nothing more than curt nods. Even now, he seemed distant, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his wineglass.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, brother," Madeleine observed, her hand resting unconsciously on her growing belly. "Surely married life hasn't made you this somber?"

Cecil's fingers stilled on his glass. "Perhaps I simply have nothing of interest to contribute."

"Nonsense," Emily countered, reaching for another slice of roast. "You always have something clever to say. Though I must admit, you've been different since—" She broke off, something flickering across her face. "Well, since Father passed."

Elizabeth watched her husband's jaw tighten, the muscle there jumping beneath his skin. She longed to reach for his hand beneath the table, to offer some comfort, but his rigid posture warned against it.

"Do you remember," Madeleine said, her voice softening with nostalgia, "how Mother used to let us hide in her painting room when Father was cross about some childish mischief? She'd distract him with tea while we giggled behind her easel."

"She was always protecting us," Emily agreed, her eyes misting slightly. "Even from our own foolishness. Remember when Cecil tried to teach himself fencing using her best parasols?"

Elizabeth noticed how Cecil's knuckles whitened around his glass at the mention of his mother. She'd seen that same tension whenever the paintings were mentioned, but now there was something darker in his expression—something that made her chest ache with an emotion she didn't dare name.

"Mother would have loved you, Elizabeth," Madeleine continued, oblivious to her brother's growing discomfort. "She always said Cecil needed someone who could match his wit and temper his worst impulses. Cecil, don't you think?—"

"Enough." The word cracked through the room like a whip. Cecil stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Elizabeth, we're leaving."

"But we haven't even had dessert," Emily protested. "And you haven't said a word about?—"

"I said enough." Cecil's voice dropped dangerously low. He turned to Percival, who had been watching the exchange with shrewd eyes. "My apologies, but we must take our leave. Elizabeth?"

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