Page 52 of When He Was a Duke
“The scars.” The words burst out of Rose. “Did you see Sebastian’s back?”
The mood sobered instantly.
“Yes,” Arabella said. “Difficult to miss.”
“What could cause such marks?” Rose asked, though she suspected she already knew.
“A whip,” Violet said, her voice barely audible. “Or a riding crop.”
“Violet,” Arabella asked, “how do you know such things?”
“My father,” Violet whispered. “He has a terrible temper. My brother Robert bears the worst of it.” She touched her ribs gingerly. “I know what such marks look like.”
The revelation made Rose’s stomach drop.
Arabella stopped walking entirely, her face darkening with fury. “Your father beats you?”
“Not physically, although words can hurt,” Violet said quickly. “But Robert. My brother. He has been beaten more times than I can count. One time Father broke his arm.” She shuddered. “It is why I want to marry, to escape my father.”
“Oh, Violet,” Rose said, taking the younger woman’s hands. “I had no idea.”
“There are too many bad men in this world,” Violet said. “But there’s not much we can do about it.”
They walked in heavy silence. Rose’s mind kept returning to Sebastian’s scars, to the resignation in his eyes when he’d seen her looking. How many others carried such hidden wounds? How many suffered in silence behind closed doors?
As they crested a small hill, Rose’s mother’s voice suddenly echoed in her mind, clear as if she were standing beside her.
You and your partner could hang for this. And then what happens to Rose?
Rose stumbled, her breath catching. The voice was so vivid, so real, that she looked around expecting to see her mother standing there.
“Rose?” Daphne caught her arm. “Are you quite all right?”
“I…” Rose pressed her hand to her temple. “I’m fine. Just overheated, I think.”
But she wasn’t fine. The voice had been different this time—not just a fragment, but a complete sentence. And it suggested her mother had known about the smuggling, had confronted her father about it.
And then what happens to Rose?
Her mother had been afraid. Not just of the legal consequences,but of what would happen to her daughter if her father were caught. Her earlier suspicions were growing too strong to ignore.
“Let’s return to the house,” Rose said shakily. “I could use something cool to drink.”
The ladies agreed, but Rose could feel their concerned gazes upon her. She was falling apart, piece by piece, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold herself together.
As they walked back toward the manor, Rose found herself thinking about her father and his secrets. How many more was he hiding? Could it be a murder? That of his own wife? Was it possible?
*
That evening, Rosestood in front of the mirror while Prudence helped her dress. They’d chosen a dark blue silk, with delicate silver embroidery along the neckline. Prudence had fixed her hair in an elegant updo, with tendrils framing her face. At any other time, Rose might have admired the soft sheen of the fabric that draped to the floor with a slight train. But tonight, her reflection looked like a stranger. Pale, hollow-eyed, fragile.
“My lady, is something amiss? You’ve barely said a word,” Prudence said, adjusting the drape of Rose’s sleeves.
Rose stared at herself in the mirror, seeing echoes of her mother in the shape of her eyes, the curve of her mouth. How many times had her mother stood in this very spot, preparing for an evening she dreaded? How many nights had she smiled and played her role while fear gnawed at her heart?
“I’ve been having those dreams again. The ones where my mother’s trying to tell me something.” Rose turned from the mirror to face her maid directly. “And lately, I’ve been hearing her voice when I’m awake. Clear as if she were standing beside me.”
Prudence’s face went carefully blank, the expression she worewhen trying to hide something. “Dreams can feel very real when we’re grieving or troubled.”
