Page 10 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

Even now, as she approached with that careful composure he had learned to recognize, he could see the subtle signs of her discomfort in his presence.

The way she avoided looking directly at his scarred profile, the slight tension in her shoulders that suggested she was steeling herself to endure the necessary intimacies of their ceremony, the polite mask that concealed whatever distaste she felt at the prospect of binding herself to such a husband.

He had been a fool to think, even for a moment, that her acceptance of his proposal indicated anything beyond desperate necessity.

She had married him because she had no choice, not because she could bear the sight of him, and her beauty only emphasized the cruel irony of their situation.

Here stood a woman who could have graced any ballroom in London, who could have had her pick of handsome, charming suitors, and instead she was trapped into marriage with a scarred recluse whose presence clearly disturbed her.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, his voice emerging harsher than he had intended as he struggled to master the unexpected emotion that threatened to undermine his composure.

Her formal greeting in response was everything he had expected—polite, distant, revealing nothing of whatever thoughts occupied her mind as she prepared to pledge her life to his keeping.

When she mentioned her surprise at being allowed to wear his family's jewels, he found himself responding with calculated coldness, determined to make clear that he harbored no romantic illusions about their arrangement.

Yet even as he spoke the words designed to wound, to establish the proper emotional distance between them, he found himself watching her face for signs of hurt or disappointment.

When she rallied with spirit, matching his harsh tone with wit and defiance, he felt an unwilling surge of admiration for her courage.

Here was a woman who would not be easily cowed, even by a husband whose appearance and manner were designed to intimidate.

The verbal sparring that followed was both frustrating and oddly exhilarating, as though he were testing the mettle of a blade and finding it tempered to perfection.

She met each of his cutting remarks with responses that demonstrated both intelligence and spirit, refusing to allow him to reduce her to the cowering, grateful creature he had perhaps expected her to become.

When the ceremony finally began, Lucian found himself acutely aware of her presence beside him, the soft rustle of silk as she moved, the faint scent of lavender that seemed to cling to her hair, the way the morning light caught the pearls at her throat with each breath she took.

She spoke her vows in a clear, steady voice that betrayed nothing of whatever emotions might be stirring beneath her composed exterior, while he struggled to concentrate on the ancient words that were binding them together for the remainder of their natural lives.

The ring slid onto her finger with surprising ease, the heavy gold band looking somehow natural against her delicate hand, as though it had been waiting for precisely the right woman to claim it.

Yet when their fingers touched briefly during the exchange, he was careful to minimize the contact, unwilling to subject her to more of his proximity than the ceremony absolutely required.

"You may kiss the bride," Reverend Whitmore announced with obvious relief, clearly eager to conclude his part in these irregular proceedings.

The instruction created a moment of frozen silence as both Lucian and Evangeline stood rigidly beside each other, neither moving to claim the privilege that tradition demanded.

He could not bring himself to inflict such contact upon a woman who clearly found his appearance disturbing, while she seemed equally reluctant to bridge the gap between them.

"Perhaps," Lucian said finally, his voice cutting through the awkward silence with deliberate formality, "we might dispense with that particular tradition. Our arrangement is one of convenience rather than sentiment, after all."

He caught a flicker of something—hurt, perhaps, or relief—cross her features before she composed herself once more. "As you wish, Your Grace. I would not presume to expect gestures of affection where none exist."

The words stung more than he cared to admit, though he supposed they merely confirmed what he had already known.

She felt no desire for his touch, no wish for even the most ceremonial intimacy between them, and he would be wise to remember that fundamental fact before allowing his imagination to conjure impossible scenarios.

"Then let us proceed to the breakfast," he said coldly, offering her his arm with stiff courtesy. "I believe Mrs. Cromwell has prepared suitable refreshments for the occasion."

As they moved through the wedding breakfast that followed, Lucian found himself studying his new wife with growing complexity of feeling.

She conducted herself with perfect grace throughout the meal, making appropriate conversation about household arrangements and estate management with the competence he had come to expect from her, yet he sensed the careful reserve that reminded him she was still essentially a stranger.

When they discussed the practical aspects of their married life—her role in managing the household, her involvement in estate affairs, the expectations that would govern their daily interactions—she displayed the same intelligence and directness that had both impressed and unsettled him during their initial negotiations.

Yet every word was carefully chosen, every response calculated to maintain appropriate distance between them.

"I shall require a detailed accounting of the household expenses," she informed him with businesslike efficiency. "If I am to manage domestic affairs effectively, I must understand the current financial arrangements."

"You may review whatever records you deem necessary," he replied, matching her formal tone. "Mrs. Cromwell will provide you with access to all relevant documentation."

"And what of the tenants? I observed several properties during my journey that appeared to require attention."

"The estate has suffered from neglect in recent years. If you possess opinions regarding necessary improvements, I am prepared to consider them."

"You speak as though such matters are beneath your notice, Your Grace."

"I speak as a man who has found himself inadequate to the task of managing his inherited responsibilities."

"Inadequate, or merely uninterested?"

Her direct challenge sparked irritation, though he found himself oddly grateful for her refusal to treat him with the careful deference that others employed in his presence. "You presume a great deal about my character and motivations."

"I presume nothing, Your Grace. I merely observe what is evident to anyone with eyes to see."

"And what, exactly, do you believe you see?"

"A man of obvious intelligence and capability who has chosen to withdraw from his obligations rather than face the possibility of failure."

The accuracy of her assessment stung, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. "How remarkably perceptive of you. And I suppose you consider yourself qualified to remedy my supposed deficiencies?"

"I consider myself qualified to assist in addressing practical problems with practical solutions. Whether you choose to accept such assistance is entirely your decision."

Their conversation continued in this vein throughout the meal, a careful dance of challenge and response that established the parameters of their relationship while revealing nothing of the deeper currents that ran beneath their formal politeness.

She was intelligent, capable, and possessed of exactly the sort of strength that would be necessary to manage the complexities of their arrangement, yet she remained as distant as a star, beautiful but utterly beyond his reach.

As the morning drew to a close and the reality of their changed circumstances settled around them like a shroud, Lucian found himself contemplating what manner of existence they would endure together within the confines of their practical arrangement.

She was his wife now, bound to him by law and sacred vow, yet she remained as distant and unknowable as she had been when she first arrived at his door with nothing but her father's debt and her own desperation to recommend her.

He would provide her with whatever comforts his wealth could procure, treat her with the cold courtesy due to her position, and harbor no illusions that their union would ever be anything more than a mutually beneficial transaction.

To expect otherwise would be folly, for hope was a weakness that scarred, and bitter men had long since learned to abandon.

The Duchess of Ravenshollow sat beside him in her borrowed finery and ancient pearls, beautiful and forever beyond his reach, and Lucian accepted with grim resignation the certainty of spending his life shackled to a woman who would never offer him more than dutiful tolerance—a fitting punishment, perhaps, for a man who had lost the right to expect love or happiness years ago.