Page 41 of Harpy of the Ton
Scars on my leg?
Four pairs of eyes stared at her skirts.
Very well. If the Beast wished to indulge in some ridiculous charade, then she’d expose his lies.
“Would you like some privacy, miss?” the doctor asked.
“No. I intend to put a stop to this nonsense with you all as witness. Then you can turn this person away.”
Summoning her dignity, she rose from the chaise longue, then approached a screen at the far corner of the parlor. Concealed behind it, she lifted her skirts. The skin of her lower legs was pale and smooth, with no sign of a blemish other than a yellowing bruise on her shin.
Then she saw it—the puckered skin just above her right knee. She raised her skirts further to reveal a scar that covered her leg from the knee to the top of her thighs. She ran her fingertips over the marks, where the flesh was smooth and hard in places and roughened in others, a myriad of shades, from dark red—almost purple—to light pink, to white.
What in the name of heaven had happened to cause such an injury?
She closed her eyes, willing the memory to surface. Surely the sight of the marks of her history should elicit something! But other than the faint crackling sound, and the acrid smell of smoke in her nostrils, no memories came to the fore. Not even the memory of pain—she poked the scar, but there was nothing other than the faint sensation of touch.
Then she lowered her skirts, her hands trembling.
The Beast had spoken the truth. Which meant…
Sweet Lord!It meant that she belonged to him.
She stepped out from behind the screen.
The vicar nodded, satisfaction in his eyes. Beside him, the doctor and his wife grinned with joy.
As for the Beast…
He opened his arms and approached her in the manner of a powerful animal seizing its prey.
“Come to your husband.”
Chapter Fourteen
“This cart stinks!”
Lawrence glanced over his shoulder and suppressed a laugh.
Lady Arabella—no, from now on she wasBella—sat among the straw in the back of the cart, her mouth creased into a grimace of discontent.
Sweet heaven, she was a beautiful creature! He’d not believed it possible for her to be even more alluring than when she’d been dressed in all her finery in Dunton’s garden. But in that ill-fitting gown—courtesy of Mrs. Carter’s charity—her hair a mess of jet-black curls, sky-blue eyes glittering with fury, she was exquisite.
And the spirit with which she’d resisted him as he led her out of the cottage and onto the cart had warmed his blood and stirred his cock. How he’d enjoy taming her!
“It’s never bothered you before, Bella, love,” he said. “You’ve endured far worse, and will do so again.”
“Why should I?” she demanded—the question that had fallen from her lips several times already.
“Because you’re my wife and vowed to obey me,” he said—the reply he’d given each time.
“It’s so bumpy,” she continued. “I’m bruised all over.”
“Then sit in the straw, love, like I told you. It’ll cushion your arse, and you’ll have an easier ride. We’ll save the hard ride for later.”
She flushed with indignation and stuck her chin in the air. Such an act might look appropriate on a lady—but with her dressed in a tattered gown, covered in straw, it was nothing short of comical.
The cart hit a rut. She squealed and lost her balance, and Lawrence couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. Giving him a glare, she righted herself, pushed her hair from her face, then sat back in the straw, curling her hands around the edge of the cart to steady herself.
