Page 21 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars (Ton’s Beasts #1)

A aron was in his tower as usual, brooding over the fact that his wife had better things to do today than spend time with him. He was busy, yes, but he could have found time for her in his busy schedule.

She could have spent some time with him, but he didn’t want to deny her an opportunity to see the art gallery.

He finished putting on his suit when two footmen came up and knocked on his door. His servants had been trained to notify him before they barged into his tower.

He opened the door to find them carrying a large package.

“What is this?” He asked. “I was not expecting anything today.”

“A gift from the Duchess. She said you could hang it anywhere you like.”

He dismissed the footmen with a nod and removed the wrapping paper from the canvas. His breath caught in his throat. It was full of the vibrant colors that he admired and used in his own painting.

But what struck him the most was that his wife had been thinking of him during the time they had been apart. She thought not only of him but also of his creations.

And that fact struck a chord within him. He had not anticipated such a feeling, seeing the nature of his marriage.

Even more, she had seen a part of him that he did not relish sharing—his inner turmoil. And yet she kept seeking him out, spending time with him, wanting him just the same.

He decided to hang the painting in his tower, the most intimate and private space he had in the manor.

He was so taken with the painting that he felt like he needed to have it around him at all times.

He’d leave a note for the footmen to come back and hang it.

In the meantime, he would express his gratitude to his wife for a thoughtful gesture.

He climbed down from his tower and headed to Theresa’s rooms.

As he approached, he did the same as last night—he stood at the door and simply watched her being herself when she didn’t know someone was looking. When he peered in, the maid was just finishing with her hair.

“You have such a delicate touch,” Theresa was saying. “I have never had anyone help me with such a task. Margaret helped me occasionally, but even that was not always done well. Thank you.”

The maid gave her a beatific smile, curtsied, and left the room just as quietly as she had entered it. She yelped in fright when she ran into Aaron, but then recovered quickly and scurried away.

“Do you always lurk outside the door?” Theresa called out over her shoulder.

“It’s just that you have wrapped every servant in this house around your little finger,” Aaron said with a smile. “I know you’ve been getting extra sweets from the cook.”

“She offers them freely,” Theresa countered. “You could ask, too. She would do the same for you.”

“You take offense where I meant none,” Aaron said. “I came to thank you for the painting and to tell you how lovely you look in that gown. This color and style certainly suit you.”

The truth was that Aaron was at a loss for words about how his wife looked in her new gown. Silence fell between them as he racked his brain for something to say, the right words to tell her what she was starting to mean to him.

But now was not the moment for platitudes. He merely wanted her to know how good she looked before they left for the garden party.

He cleared his throat and shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts that did not serve him.

“Thank you for the painting, but you need not have given me a gift,” he tried again.

“You told me that I was free to use my dowry however I wanted. And I wanted to thank you for giving me this second chance at life.” Theresa bit her bottom lip, as if there was more she wanted to say.

“I never was sure that being a nun was meant for me. I loved my sisters, especially Sister Edith, who raised me, and Margaret, who is my dearest friend. But their life… It just wasn’t for me.”

“You were meant for more,” Aaron agreed. He couldn’t help but let his eyes roam over her body from head to toe.

“As were you,” she countered. “As I have seen so much art today, I do wonder if you would allow me to peruse your own works.”

Aaron hesitated. His paintings were private, meant for his eyes only. It was the reason he did not hang them in the common areas of the estate. His paintings were meant to express the pain he could speak about.

How could he possibly share that pain with the little nun who would never understand the depths of his feelings?

“Dear husband, I know you are harboring some talent that you wish to keep from me,” she teased when he did not respond.

With resignation, he sighed. He could not deny her what she wanted when it was so innocent. Her desire to remove his mask was another story, but this he could grant to her. He would allow her into his tower to survey the paintings he had already completed.

“If you wish to see my pain, I will allow you to browse my canvases.”

Theresa’s smile lit up her entire face, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Aaron had thought she was beautiful when he found her in her chambers, but the smile only made her that much more stunning. He was glad to be both the cause and the witness of that smile.

He held the door open for her to walk through. As she passed by him, he could not help himself. He grabbed her by the arm and held her in place, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“Dear wife, I believe I owe you some gratitude for your gift.”

“You have already thanked me, but I will accept the tokens of your affection,” she said. “If you wish to kiss me, dear husband, I will never stop you.”

Then, she marched forward from her chambers to the opposite side of the manor where his lonesome tower awaited. Aaron walked behind her, guiding her in the right direction with a hand on the small of her back to tether himself to her.

“You did not tell me how you enjoyed the gallery,” he said to make pleasant conversation on the way to an unpleasant task.

“It was simply grand! Never have I seen so much art in one place. And the sheer breadth of subjects and styles…It was almost more than I could take in. I did not expect to feel so overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.”

Aaron surveyed her face and found only honesty. If she could find the art gallery so thoroughly enjoyable, perhaps she would enjoy browsing his own collection of canvases. Surely, it would feel good to share his art with someone else for a change.

When he opened the door to his tower, Theresa waltzed in and made herself at home. She quickly surveyed the room, her eyes darting from right to left to take in her surroundings before they settled on the stack of canvas on the wall by the hearth.

She turned to look at Aaron, her head cocked to one side and her eyebrows arched. “May I see them?”

He nodded and sat down at the small table on the opposite side of the room. If he was going to share this intimate encounter with her, he was going to do so with a tumbler of whiskey in hand. He poured himself a drink and tried not to think about what Theresa might find in his paintings.

She moved slowly from one canvas to another, taking them in as if the art was the most important thing in the world. Each time she flipped to a new canvas, she paused to look at it from edge to edge. Never had Aaron dreamed that someone would pay such rapt attention to his work.

He sipped his whiskey, hoping she would say something soon. Hoping she would not comment on the violence of his paintings. He did not want to have to explain to sweet, innocent Theresa why his paintings were filled with blood and pain.

As she approached the last three canvases, she finally spoke to him. “Your paintings are so provoking. The swirl of the colors—how do you do it?”

“My painting style is unconventional,” he answered her. “I do not use a brush but rather my hands. It is a relief for me to convey my feelings onto the canvas, to feel the paint on my skin.”

“And what is the subject of your paintings? These colors are so vivid, and the way they are splashed across the fabric makes me feel your anger. Your pain.”

“That is because these are the paintings that I used to clear my head. It has not escaped your notice that I am a man of war, has it?”

“Your mask makes it difficult to forget,” she answered with a glance in his direction. “But you do not talk about how it came to be.”

Aaron took a deep breath and poured another tumbler of whiskey. If he was not planning on removing the mask as she demanded, he could at least tell her how he came about having the scars that disfigured him. He took a long sip of the amber liquid, relishing the way it burned his throat.

“Would you care to know how I came to be so grotesque?”

Theresa left her post by the paintings and seated herself primly on the chair across from him. She eyed the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, already half empty.

“My best friend and I were camped out at night. We had just gone to sleep when I woke to the smell of smoke. The enemy had set our camp on fire, but my friend was slow to awaken. He was much closer to the location where the fire had started.”

Aaron paused. He shook his head, trying to knock loose the memory of that night so that he did not have to see the vivid recollection in his mind. Part of him wanted to stop telling the story, while the other part demanded that he share this with someone else for a change.

“I could have gotten out. I could have run for it, but I went back to try to save him. The only thing I got for my trouble was this scar.”

“Your friend?” Theresa prompted him.

“Did not survive.” He drained the rest of his glass of whiskey but dared not pour a third in the presence of a lady.

“Your loss is the reason you paint so much violence and rage,” she said as she nodded her head. “You did a noble thing. Your scar is a badge of your courage.”

“My scar is a reminder of the war,” he scoffed. “It is not romantic to be disfigured.”