Page 3 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars (Ton’s Beasts #1)
A aron could think of far worse things than striding into the home of his future father-in-law—maiming, boiling in a pot of oil, an affliction of the mind. All sorts of torturous conditions that would kill a man long before he drew his last breath.
Then again, he could think of many other things that would better occupy his time.
The butler, who had greeted him at the door, had taken one look at his masked visage and immediately turned five shades paler with a hint of green.
The poor sod managed to compose himself quickly enough to sketch a polite, somewhat fearful bow and bid him to follow him to the study, where the Marquess of Wyndham was waiting for his arrival.
Along the way, a maid swallowed a panicked cry. Another one scurried into the shadows like a frightened mouse.
“Is he the man the young lady is to marry?” He heard a shocked gasp.
“What man? He is a monster!” Another whispered. “Some say… some say that a courtesan ran screaming into the night at the sight of him!”
“Well, you would have to pay me a fortune to stay with… with that .”
“Hush, you! It is Her Majesty herself who decreed this marriage. Of course, there is a huge fortune involved.”
Their reactions were all par for the course. Something he had come to expect since his return to London and Society.
Young ladies had given him a wide berth, their ambitious mamas frantically herding them away at the mere hint of his shadow.
Even the self-professed gentlemen would not engage him in silly talks of fishing and hunting, their faces distorting in revulsion when he so much as stepped into a crowded ballroom.
The only one who had not regarded him with shock and disgust had been the little nun he had met in the woods on his way back to London. He could still recall her wide eyes, green as emeralds and just as bright, her little lips parting and then pursing in displeasure and frustration.
He had never seen a pair of lips he wanted to kiss more.
No, not just kiss. He wanted to devour her.
So much so that he was practically salivating when his gaze dropped to those luscious pink lips, wondering if they tasted as sweet, as succulent as they looked in the dappled sunlight.
He had wanted to delve into her, explore all her secrets, and leave her breathless and wanting more.
He frowned.
More of what, exactly?
He did not have particularly much to offer a woman. A title, perhaps, and more wealth than she would know what to do with in a lifetime.
Beyond that, nothing much. At least, nothing that could compel her to marry him.
But he could not so easily forget the first time someone had looked at him— really looked at him—and not recoiled in disgust.
No, she had looked at him with interest. Hell’s bells, he knew that look—and he knew that no woman in her right mind would ever look at him the way she had.
“My Lord, the Duke of Blackwell is here to see you.”
The response from the other side of the door was a half-hearted, “Let him in.”
The butler opened the door and politely gestured for Aaron to step inside. “Your Grace.”
Aaron did not even spare the rattled man a glance as he stepped into the study as if he owned the place. A force of habit, really. His father had practically engraved the arrogance into his bones, so much so that not even cannon fire could stamp it out of him.
“Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Aaron restrained his lips from twisting into a sneer.
Pleasure, indeed. His future father-in-law did not look the slightest bit pleased. No, he looked just like everyone else—as if he could not wait for him to leave.
Well, Aaron was not going to grant him relief anytime soon.
“I came to inquire as to where the hell my bride is.”
All right, that did not come out quite as he had intended, but he supposed that he was entitled to demand the wife he had been promised.
Her Majesty’s orders were Her Majesty’s orders, and the Marquess and his wife had stalled long enough to the point of humiliation.
Rampant gossip had spread amongst the ton that the young lady had run away in fear of her betrothed.
Lord Wyndham’s smile looked more like a grimace. “About that… well, you will see her soon enough, Your Grace.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes at him, inwardly enjoying watching the man squirm. “How soon is soon enough, might I ask?” He asked icily.
“Tomorrow,” the Marquess promised. “At the wedding.”
“Then you had better make sure she is there on time and not a moment later,” Aaron growled. “I, for one, do not intend to find out the consequences of going against a royal decree.”
He smiled as the Marquess squirmed a little more, turning a shade of green reminiscent of his butler. He tipped his hat at his soon-to-be father-in-law.
“I shall see you all tomorrow at the wedding, then. Do not be late.”
The Marquess practically sagged into his chair when he turned around and strode out of the study.
But not before he caught the hateful glare that was aimed at him.
A sister.
And not only that, but a whole family as well, with a mother and a father. Servants, even.
In the space of a few hours, Theresa had gone from being a foundling the Congregation of St. Agatha could not care less about to being part of an actual family. And not just any family at that, but the family of the Marquess of Wyndham.
She was now Lady Theresa Ellison, daughter of the Marquess of Wyndham.
She had pinched herself enough times to leave welts on her arms. She had blinked hard for a full quarter of an hour.
Still, she found herself in a carriage bound for London.
Wyndham Park , the beautiful lady, who was her mother, told her.
Home , according to the Marchioness of Wyndham.
Balderdash , Theresa wanted to say.
She was the least likely of anyone to be the daughter of a marquess. For a nun, her deportment left much to be desired. For a lady of supposed noble birth, she would be much worse.
A disaster , she scoffed inwardly as she stared glumly out the window. An absolute catastrophe.
She stole a glance at the woman seated across from her in the carriage and sighed.
The Marchioness’s overly bright gaze was not something she was used to. Mother Superior’s censorious looks—now, that she was quite familiar with. Sister Mary’s contemptuous glares—she had lived with them all her life. Sister Edith’s kind gaze and Margaret’s conspiratorial glances…
She drew a deep breath. She would miss them all, even Sister Mary, and that was saying something.
But Theresa only felt a gnawing sense of unease and a strange urge to jump out of the carriage and run. Hike up her skirts and flee.
“Why?” The single-worded question escaped her lips before she could stop herself.
The Marchioness blinked in confusion. Her eyes, green as the freshly sprouted grass in spring, were so uncannily like her own that it was unnerving.
“Why what, my dearest?”
Hidden in the folds of her skirts, Theresa clenched her hands into fists. “Why now? Why did you only search for me now?”
The older woman’s eyes flashed, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Mother , Theresa reminded herself. She is my mother.
But the word seemed even more unnatural on her tongue than it did in her brain.
“We… I did not know,” the Marchioness admitted softly.
“You were born frail, my darling. The doctor said you barely let out a cry before you choked. Nobody thought you would live past the hour of your birth.” She closed her eyes as if she were in a great deal of pain.
“They thought… they thought to spare me the pain of your death. When I woke up after childbirth, you were already gone, and all I had was hope.”
Theresa blinked.
What an odd thing to say. Hope for what, exactly?
But the Marchioness smiled gently at her. “Hope is the name I gave your sister. Your twin.”
“Oh.” Theresa felt her cheeks flush. “Well, that is a very pretty name.”
“Yes, it is, but so is yours,” the Marchioness told her.
“Thank you.” Theresa smiled.
For a highborn lady, her mother seemed pretty kind, and nothing at all like the uppity women of the upper classes that Margaret had described.
“It was Sister Edith who gave it to me.”
“The nun who took you in?”
Theresa nodded happily. “Yes, she has been very kind to me.”
“But the rest were not so?” The Marchioness frowned.
Theresa winced. “It would not be fair to blame them. I… well, I can be very disobedient. They—the nuns—only meant to discipline me.”
“Well, I certainly hope they did not lay hands on you,” the Marchioness said, displeasure evident on her beautiful face.
Theresa decided that it was much more respectful to keep her mouth shut. When she had been much younger, Sister Mary had frequently whacked her bottom for misbehaving. She’d also been pinched for squirming during her prayers, and her hands had been slapped when she could not keep them clean enough.
When she grew up, her hands were deemed useless, and so they had taken to using the rod on her. Even that had not proven so effective, much to Mother Superior and Sister Mary’s dismay.
“Well, whatever happened in the nunnery, you can put it all behind you,” the Marchioness— Mother —she corrected herself, assured her.
“You are where you rightfully belong now. As our daughter, you will have so much more than what the nunnery can offer. You will have much nicer dresses in silks and velvets. Sweetmeats with every meal, or whenever you want them.”
“Truly?” Theresa clasped her hands together in delight.
Sweets were a rarity in the nunnery, as Mother Superior declared them not only wasteful but also hedonistic and sinful.
To think that she was to have one with every meal was not only cause for elation, it was also a stark reminder of the difference between her life in the nunnery and outside of it.
She was no longer simply Theresa of the Congregation of St. Agatha. She was now Lady Theresa Ellison, and she was going to have dessert after every meal. How absolutely decadent!
She smiled as she peered out the carriage window and watched as the scenery changed from the idyllic countryside to tall buildings. The wide, open spaces soon became crowded streets made even more cramped by the people rushing to and fro all around them.
Perhaps this was where she truly belonged—right here in London, with her family.
Perhaps she was truly home, at last.