Font Size
Line Height

Page 28 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The evening light filtering through the tall windows of the Duke's chambers cast long shadows across the floor, emphasizing the solitary figure who stood before the ornate looking glass with the sort of grim contemplation that had become his evening ritual.

Lucian studied his reflection with the detached assessment of a man cataloguing damage that could never be entirely repaired, his fingers unconsciously tracing the network of scars that marked the left side of his face like a map of past agonies.

The afternoon's violence had awakened muscles that had grown unaccustomed to such exertions, leaving him with the sort of bone-deep soreness that reminded him forcibly of his early days of recovery in the field hospital.

His knuckles bore fresh abrasions from their contact with his attackers' faces, while his left arm ached with the familiar pain that had never entirely departed since the cannon blast that had nearly claimed his life.

He had removed his shirt and waistcoat to examine the extent of his discomfort, revealing the full scope of the damage that war had inflicted upon what had once been considered a remarkably fine physique.

The scars that marked his torso told the story of his service with brutal honesty—the puckered flesh where shrapnel had torn through muscle, the twisted skin where surgeons had labored to save his life, the permanent reminder of how close he had come to joining his fallen comrades.

Once, he reflected with bitter irony, he had been considered quite handsome by the fashionable world.

Ladies had competed for his attention at London balls, their mothers had schemed to secure his interest for their daughters, and his presence at social gatherings had been sought after rather than endured.

The man who had entered the military as a young man confident in his appeal to the opposite sex bore little resemblance to the scarred recluse who now avoided mirrors whenever possible.

What would his life have been like if Napoleon had chosen a different battlefield, if French artillery had been positioned mere yards to the left or right, if Captain Hartwell had not possessed the courage to dig him from beneath the rubble that should have been his tomb?

The questions tormented him with their implications, suggesting possibilities that ranged from simple death to continued existence as the man he had been rather than the damaged creature he had become.

The sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor outside his chambers interrupted his melancholy contemplation, followed immediately by the sort of commotion that suggested something had disrupted the usual evening quiet of Ravenshollow Manor.

Before he could properly assess the nature of the disturbance, his chamber door burst open with such force that it struck the wall behind it with a resounding crash.

A streak of golden fur shot through the opening like a cannonball, followed closely by the rustling of silk skirts and the unmistakable sound of feminine laughter that transformed the atmosphere of his private sanctuary with startling immediacy.

Wellington had apparently initiated some sort of game that involved pursuit through the corridors of the house, and Evangeline had been drawn into participation with the sort of wholehearted enthusiasm that marked her approach to most activities.

"Wellington, your impossible creature!" she called out breathlessly, her voice bright with genuine amusement as she pursued the dog into the forbidden territory of her husband's private chambers. "Come back here at once, you cannot simply—"

Her words died abruptly as she caught sight of Lucian standing motionless before his looking glass, and he watched her expression transform from laughing pursuit to shocked stillness as she absorbed the implications of her accidental intrusion.

Her dark eyes widened with something that might have been alarm or perhaps simple surprise as she took in his state of undress, though he noted with fascination that she showed no immediate inclination to flee from the sight that had sent other women into hysterics.

For a moment, they remained frozen in a tableau that would have scandalized any proper chaperone, the half-dressed Duke and his wife facing each other across the intimate space of his bedchamber while a thoroughly pleased dog settled himself on the hearth rug as though he had planned the entire encounter.

The silence stretched between them, weighted with implications that neither seemed prepared to address directly.

"I beg your pardon," Evangeline managed finally, though Lucian noticed that her gaze did not immediately seek the floor in the manner of a properly mortified lady.

Instead, her eyes seemed to move across his scarred torso with what appeared to be genuine interest rather than revulsion, studying the evidence of his injuries with the sort of careful attention that suggested fascination rather than horror.

The realization that she was examining his damaged form without visible distress sent an unexpected jolt of sensation through his entire being, awakening responses that he had thought permanently suppressed by years of self-conscious isolation.

No woman had looked upon his scars with anything approaching acceptance since his return from the war, and the experience of being studied without immediate rejection was both thrilling and terrifying in its implications.

"Are you quite finished with your examination of my person?

" he inquired with the sort of dry courtesy that concealed the tumult of emotions her unexpected reaction had stirred within him.

"Or would you prefer a more thorough inventory of the damage that war has inflicted upon your husband's formerly acceptable appearance? "

The teasing note in his voice seemed to break the spell that had held her motionless, and he watched with amusement as a blush spread across her cheeks with becoming rapidity.

Yet she did not immediately retreat from his presence, nor did she offer the sort of stammered apologies that proper feminine sensibility would have demanded under such circumstances.

"Pray, forgive me," she said with obvious embarrassment, though her voice carried none of the horror he had expected to detect. "I have not previously had occasion to observe a gentleman in such a state of undress. Most particularly not at such close proximity."

Her admission of inexperience with the masculine form struck him as both endearing and shocking in ways that he had not anticipated, reminding him that despite her practical competence in most matters, she remained essentially innocent of the intimate realities that marriage might eventually encompass.

The knowledge that he was quite possibly the first man she had seen in such circumstances filled him with a possessive satisfaction that had no place in their carefully maintained arrangement.

"Indeed," he replied with gravity that did not entirely mask his amusement at her obvious discomfiture. "And what conclusions has your examination led you to draw regarding the masculine form in general and mine in particular?"

Instead of fleeing from such an improper question, as any properly bred young lady should have done, Evangeline surprised him by stepping closer with the sort of deliberate movement that suggested genuine curiosity had overcome social propriety.

Her approach brought her within arm's reach of his position, close enough that he could detect the faint scent of lavender that seemed to cling to her hair and the quick rhythm of her breathing that spoke of emotional agitation.

"Your scars," she said quietly, her voice carrying none of the pity or revulsion he had learned to expect from such observations. "They must have caused you considerable pain."

"They did indeed. Though the physical discomfort proved temporary compared to the other consequences of such injuries."

Her gaze moved from his face to his torso, studying the network of damaged flesh with the sort of clinical interest that might have been displayed by a physician rather than a gently bred female encountering evidence of violence for the first time.

Yet there was nothing cold or detached about her scrutiny—rather, she seemed to be absorbing the reality of what he had endured with a sympathy that bordered on the maternal.

"This one," she murmured, extending her hand toward a particularly prominent scar that curved from his shoulder toward his bicep, "it appears to have been quite severe."

Before he could respond to her observation or warn her against such dangerous intimacy, her fingertips made contact with his damaged skin with a touch so gentle that it might have been the brush of butterfly wings.

The sensation of her exploring the ridge of scar tissue with careful delicacy sent such an intense shock through his system that he was forced to draw a sharp breath to maintain his composure.

"Evangeline," he managed through a throat that seemed to have constricted without warning, though whether his utterance was meant as encouragement or caution remained unclear even to himself.

She continued looking at her scars, not realising the difficult position he was put in.

"Does it still pain you?" she asked with genuine concern, her hand stilling against his shoulder while her dark eyes sought his face for evidence of discomfort.

"Not in the manner you might expect," he replied with complete honesty, though he suspected she would not immediately comprehend the full implications of his response.