Page 4 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars (Ton’s Beasts #1)
“ S o… this is home.”
“Yes, yes. This is Wyndham Park.”
Even the house has a name .
Theresa tilted her head back up to take in the massive behemoth of a structure before her. Cold and imposing, it loomed over them as if judging who was worthy of entering its esteemed halls.
The Marchioness looked at it with such pride and joy that she might as well have birthed that gigantic spectacle of brick and mortar.
“Well now, don’t stand there gaping at it, my dear, or you’ll catch a cold in this dreadful weather,” she fussed as she ushered her inside. “Come, I shall show you to your rooms.”
Theresa allowed herself to be dragged inside, a tendril of warmth winding its way around her heart.
With the exception of Sister Edith and Margaret, she had never been made to feel welcome at the nunnery. Certainly, she had never been urged to come inside with such enthusiasm that she could not help but smile.
“I know that it may all come as a shock to you, but I do hope that you will come to think of Wyndham Park as your home while you are here.” The Marchioness’s voice hitched suspiciously.
“It is… different.”
Different was a great understatement. Where the nuns venerated austerity, Wyndham Park seemed to revel in decadence.
The plush carpeting underfoot would have sent Sister Mary into an apoplexy.
Mother Superior would have frowned heavily upon the rows of portraits of the Ellison ancestors lining an entire corridor instead of portraits of blessed saints and depictions of pious sacrifice.
Sister Edith, on the other hand, might have marveled at the cleanliness of the place, and Margaret—oh, her dearest friend—would have appreciated the sheer extravagance of keeping the entire manor perpetually warm.
However, Theresa found that there was hardly any difference between some ancient forebear regarding her from his lofty, framed perch and a stern saint judging her soul to be beyond saving.
“These will be your rooms, my darling.”
The Marchioness pushed open a door that led to a spacious room with a couch in deep rose velvet right across the fireplace.
A long, low bed was positioned against the window, piled generously with inviting pillows.
There was even an escritoire tucked against the wall with a whole accoutrement of writing materials.
Theresa gaped at the room in sheer awe. This… this was much bigger than any room in the nunnery! Even Mother Superior’s quarters were not as grand, and she had the best accommodations in the whole nunnery.
She walked over to the bed and let out a sigh. It was so soft that she could fall asleep on it right at that moment.
“This is more than I could ever hope for, Mother,” she said softly. “I had thought to maybe ask for a blanket, but the room is already so warm that I do not think I shall require one.”
The Marchioness blinked at her. “Whatever do you mean, child? This is just your sitting room.”
Theresa gawked at her. “But it has a bed .”
Surely, that incredible piece of furniture was not simply meant for sitting. The room already had a couch that could easily fit three people. Just how much sitting was she expected to do in such a room?
“My dear, that is a divan .”
“Oh.” She did not exactly know what a divan was, but from the look on her mother’s face, it was certainly not a bed.
Or at least not where one was expected to spend the night.
“Your bedchamber is over there.” The Marchioness waved a hand to a double door on the other side of the room. “And over there is your dressing room.”
Dear heavens, I have not thought to require a room for every single thing!
“We… that is to say, your father and I, barely had time to prepare your suite.” Her mother choked back what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I came to the nunnery as soon as I learned about your existence.”
Theresa felt her heart twist in her chest. Despite all her doubts, the Marchioness had indeed come to the nunnery to fetch her with haste. Surely that meant she had a great affection for her.
“Oh, Mother… this is more than anything I could have ever hoped for.” Theresa smiled at her. “The room… well, the sitting room, dressing room, and all—everything is quite beautiful.”
However, that seemed to only elicit a fresh wave of tears from the Marchioness.
Theresa was decidedly at a loss as to how to politely comfort the weeping woman, so she patted her soothingly on the back the way Sister Edith would.
“This is less than what you deserve, dearest,” the Marchioness told her tearfully. “Your father and I owe you a great many things…”
Theresa frowned at that. Were relationships amongst the aristocracy so transactional?
“There, there, Mother,” she said instead, hoping that her voice was reassuring enough to the distraught woman. “What kind of daughter would I be if I held everything against you?”
The Marchioness patted her cheek affectionately with a tearful smile.
“You are much too kind, my dear. Now, I shall leave you to rest. We have had quite a journey, after all. And do not worry about dinner—I shall have the maids send it up to you after you have rested. All you need is to ring this bell”—she gestured toward a hanging cord—“and they shall attend to you posthaste.”
Theresa tilted her head slightly. “Am I not dining with you and Father and Hope tonight?”
The Marchioness stiffened, her trembling lips turning two shades paler.
“No need for that, my dear.” She shook her head. “Your father is attending to the wedding guests tonight, and Hope is… in the midst of preparations. There will be time enough to meet everyone tomorrow at the wedding.”
“I see.” Theresa pushed down the disappointment with a bright smile. “In that case, I shall not inconvenience you further, Mother.”
The Marchioness reached for her, and for a moment, Theresa hoped that she would hug her. That she would finally feel the warmth of her mother’s arms around her…
But the Marchioness reached for her hands instead. “You are truly the kindest child,” she murmured and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I shall leave you to your rest now.”
When she closed the door behind her, Theresa stood there amidst the silence.
Here she was, surrounded by an opulence she could never have imagined at the nunnery, and still, she could not shake off the bitter cold that seemed to wrap around her heart.
She stared at the crackling flames in the fireplace and wrapped her arms around herself. Perhaps she was a greedy, selfish little thing, as Sister Mary had often admonished her.
She closed her eyes and put a hand over her heart, her lips moving slightly in a silent prayer. Lord, please calm these wild desires within me.
But no sooner had her mind formed the words when another image flashed behind her closed eyes—that of a man wading waist-deep into the water, his hands covered in blood, his features shrouded in secrecy.
Theresa could only pray harder.
Aaron growled in frustration as he carelessly tossed his jacket onto the sofa.
It was all a sham. Hollow pageantry of the worst sort. A vulgar display of royal generosity that made a complete and utter fool of him.
And he had no choice but to accept it and even pretend to be grateful for it.
It would have been much better if Her Majesty had never issued that decree and left him to wallow in his nice little puddle of self-pity. Preferably with an unlimited supply of his favorite whiskey.
“I had hoped to find you in better spirits, Aaron Lennox, and not deep in spirits!” A sharp voice reprimanded him.
He peeled open one eye to find an old woman leaning heavily on a cane, her eyes bright even in the dim candlelight.
“Grandmama,” he murmured. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight?”
“Oh, you can stop pretending to be obtuse with me, boy. I have known you ever since you came squalling into this world naked!”
“It would have been an absolute miracle if I came out fully clothed,” he drawled.
She rapped the cane on the floor, but she looked as if she would rather hit him over the head with it.
His grandmother was over twice his age, half his size, and probably a third of his weight, but a single glare from her still made him want to crawl to whatever hiding spot was nearest.
Bloody hell, why were dowagers incapable of minding their own business? The lot of them seemed to regard meddling in their children’s— grandchildren , in his case—affairs as a competitive sport, all of them trying to outdo each other on who could be the most exasperating.
“It is your wedding day tomorrow.” She rapped her cane again. Louder, this time. “Is your young bride supposed to find you more than a trifle disguised at the altar?”
“I have obtained a special license, so it will not be in front of the altar.”
“Do not get smart with me, Aaron Lennox!”
He groaned. First, she complained that he was being obtuse. Now, she bemoaned that he was being smart with her.
There was simply no pleasing her.
“My state of inebriation should be the least of her concerns,” he bit out.
His grandmother’s features softened to genuine sorrow. Or was that pity?
Either way, Aaron wanted none of it.
“Do not worry, Grandmama. I shall not desert my bride at the altar and humiliate Her Majesty’s best efforts,” he told her heavily. “I just want to celebrate the last few hours of my bachelorhood.”
He raised his glass in her direction and smiled bitterly.
And ask the heavens why I must be forced to endure such a twisted fate , he added silently.
Wallowing in the quagmire of his misery had become one of his favorite activities to languish in ever since his return. In fact, he had become rather adept at it that he could do it in the presence of other people without much difficulty.
Even his grandmama.
“Very well, then,” she sighed, resigned. “I shall leave you to it. Just… make sure you do not do anything you might regret tomorrow.”