Page 44 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

The sound of servants moving in the corridor reminded him that Elizabeth would be expecting to join him for breakfast. His chest tightened at the thought of facing her, of seeing the soft understanding in her eyes that made him want to confess every secret, every fear he'd ever harbored.

No. Better to crush this dangerous attachment now.

Elizabeth stood before her mirror, her fingers trembling as she adjusted her morning dress. Had it truly been just hours ago that Cecil had held her, touched her with such tenderness? Her body still hummed with the memory of his caresses, of the way he'd worshipped every inch of her—even the scar she'd spent years hiding.

More precious than his physical touch had been the trust he'd shown in revealing his past. She'd seen the wounded boy beneath the earl's polished facade, understood finally what drove him to keep everyone at arm's length. Her heart ached remembering the raw pain in his voice as he'd spoken of his mother's betrayal, of his father's devastating discovery.

"He needs time," she whispered to her reflection, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirts. After years of guarding such painful secrets, it must have shaken him to share them. But surely last night had changed things between them. The way he'd held her afterward, pressing tender kisses to her temple—that hadn't been mere physical satisfaction.

Her cheeks warmed remembering the intensity of their shared pleasure. She'd never imagined intimacy could feel like that—not just the physical sensations, but the profound emotional connection. For the first time in her life, she'd felt truly seen, truly cherished.

Hope bloomed in her chest as she made her way to the breakfast room. Perhaps now Cecil would see what she'd begun to realize—that their "arrangement" had become something far deeper. That the walls they'd both built around their hearts had crumbled in the face of growing affection.

The words "I love you" trembled on her lips, ready to be spoken. After years of being overlooked, of believing herself unworthy of such profound emotion, she'd finally found someone who saw past her scars to the woman beneath.

She paused outside the breakfast room, gathering her courage. Through the partially open door, she could see Cecil already seated at the table, his broad shoulders tense as he stared unseeing at the morning paper.

"Good morning," she said softly, stepping into the room. Her heart fluttered as she waited for him to look up, to give her that devastating smile that made her knees weak.

But the man who raised his head was a stranger—his face a cold mask she hadn't seen since their first days of marriage.

"My lord," Elizabeth faltered, thrown by the glacial look in his eyes. Gone was the tender vulnerability of last night, replaced by the notorious rake's practiced indifference.

"Lady Stonefield." His formal address hit her like a physical blow. "Please, join me."

Elizabeth sank into her usual chair, her breakfast appetite evaporating as tension filled the air between them. The casual intimacy they'd developed over the past months had vanished, leaving only frigid politeness in its wake.

"I trust you slept well?" she ventured, desperately seeking some crack in his icy facade. Surely last night hadn't been a dream—the way he'd held her, whispered endearments against her skin, trusted her with his deepest wounds.

"Well enough." Cecil didn't look up from his paper, his voice carrying that dangerous edge she'd come to recognize as a warning. "Though I've been considering our arrangement."

Elizabeth's heart stuttered. "Our arrangement?"

"Yes." He finally met her gaze, his blue eyes cold as a winter sea. "It seems pointless to continue this charade for the remaining days. You've made your position clear regarding children, and I have no desire to waste either of our time further."

The words struck her like arrows, each one finding its mark with devastating precision. "I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Last night?—"

"Was a pleasant diversion," he cut in smoothly. "But let's not pretend it was anything more. We had an agreement: three months, an heir, then freedom. Since you've no intention of fulfilling your part of the bargain, I see no reason to delay my departure."

Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. How could he dismiss their intimacy so casually? The secrets they'd shared, the trust they'd built? "Cecil, please?—"

"My lord," he corrected sharply. "Let's maintain proper distance, shall we?"

She watched in growing desperation as he rose from the table, every movement controlled and deliberate. Before he could reach the door, words burst from her lips: "Would it make a difference?"

He paused, his back still to her. "I beg your pardon?"

"If I agreed to give you an heir," she forced out past the lump in her throat. "Would you stay?"

In the heartbeat of silence that followed her desperate question, Elizabeth saw Cecil's shoulders tense. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—pain? regret?—before his features smoothed back into that impenetrable mask.

"No," he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. "I find I'm no longer interested in an heir. Or in continuing this marriage beyond our agreed-upon terms."

The casual cruelty of his words stole her breath. This was worse than any rejection she'd faced before—to be dismissed so completely by a man who'd held her with such tenderness merehours ago. Who'd whispered that she was precious, perfect, worthy of worship.

"You're lying," she challenged, rising on shaky legs. "Last night, you said?—"

"I said many things," he cut in smoothly. "As one often does in the heat of passion. Surely you don't expect a notorious rake to mean every pretty word whispered in the dark?"

---