Page 49 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"Does it?" Elizabeth turned back to face her sister, managing a weak smile. "Sometimes I think it makes it better. At least I know now that I'm capable of it. That someone could love me back, even if only for a little while."

"He doesn't deserve your love," Harriet declared fiercely. "Not if he could walk away so easily. Not after you saved me from having to marry him myself."

But that was just it, wasn't it? Nothing about Cecil's departure had seemed easy. The pain in his eyes when he'd told her their time was up, the way his hands had trembled slightly when he'd turned away from her...

No, whatever had driven him away, Elizabeth was certain it hadn't been easy.

"Perhaps not," she conceded quietly. "But love isn't about deserving, is it? It's about feeling something so profound that it changes you forever." She touched her scar absently, remembering the way Cecil had kissed it that last night. "And I am changed, Harriet. No matter what happens next."

Harriet crossed the room to join her at the window, taking her hand. "Then what will you do?"

Elizabeth squeezed her sister's fingers, drawing strength from the contact. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I can't run away. Not this time." She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "Father may have forgiven you easily because of my marriage, but I have to face whatever comes next. Even if it means facing a life without Cecil."

Somewhere in the house, they could hear their father's study door slam.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

London

The crystal decanter clinked against Cecil's glass for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. Shadows lengthened across his London townhouse's study, but he hadn't bothered to light more than a single lamp. The dimness suited his mood.

"Perhaps you've had enough," Laurence suggested from his position by the window, his stern profile outlined against the fading daylight.

Cecil let out a harsh laugh. "I haven't even started." He raised the glass to his lips, ignoring how his hand trembled slightly. When had he last eaten? The days had begun to blur together since he'd left Stonefield. Since he'd left her.

"You look terrible," Percival observed bluntly, settling into one of the leather chairs across from Cecil's desk. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I sleep," Cecil muttered, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed the lie.

"In a bed? Or here at your desk?" Laurence turned from the window, his usually cold demeanor showing hints of concern. "This isn't like you, cousin."

Cecil's jaw tightened. No, it wasn't like him at all. The great Earl of Stonefield, reduced to a sleepless, lovesick fool. He'd spent the past week drowning himself in work during the day and whiskey at night, trying to forget the look in Elizabeth's eyes when he'd told her their time was up.

"Your butler mentioned you haven't been taking meals regularly either," Percival added, exchanging a worried glance with Laurence. "This has to stop, Cecil."

"What would you have me do?" Cecil demanded, slamming his glass down hard enough that amber liquid sloshed over the rim. "Return home? Pretend everything is fine?"

"Yes, actually," Percival said. "Return to your wife. Apologize for whatever foolish thing you've done this time. God knows I've had to do it often enough with Madeleine."

Cecil's fingers tightened around his glass. "This is different."

"How?" Laurence's deep voice carried across the room. "You're clearly miserable without her. And from what Emily tells me, your wife is equally devastated."

"I can't." The words came out rougher than Cecil intended. "I won't become him. I won't let myself—" He cut himself off, reaching for the decanter again.

"Become who?" Percival leaned forward, his expression intent. "Your father?"

Cecil's hand froze halfway to the decanter. "I trusted her," he said quietly. "I told her things I've never told anyone. Made myself vulnerable, just as my father did with my mother. And look what that led to."

"Your wife is not your mother," Percival said firmly. "And you are not your father. The only one destroying himself here is you."

"You don't understand," Cecil growled, pushing away from his desk with enough force to make the decanter wobble. "I've seen what love can do to a man. I watched my father waste away after learning of my mother's betrayal. He was strong once, respected. And in the end..." He swallowed hard, pacing the length of the study. "In the end, he died of a broken heart."

"So instead, you break your own heart?" Laurence's tone dripped with sarcasm. "A brilliant strategy, cousin."

Percival shot Laurence a warning look before turning back to Cecil. "You're not thinking clearly. When was the last time you were at Stonefield? Your real home, not this..." He gestured at the dark, oppressive study of the London townhouse. "This self-imposed exile?"

"A week." Cecil's voice was barely audible. "Seven days, thirteen hours, and—" He caught himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. When had he become the type of man who counted the hours since he'd last seen his wife?

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