Page 5 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The left side of his countenance bore the unmistakable marks of cannon fire or explosive blast. Scars carved deep furrows from temple to jaw, twisting the flesh into patterns that spoke of unimaginable pain.

His left eye was intact but surrounded by damaged tissue that pulled at the corner, while his ear on that side was little more than a mangled remnant.

His hair, which might once have been fashionably styled, hung long and dark to partially conceal the worst of the damage, but nothing could hide the fundamental alteration of his features.

Yet it was his eyes that truly captured her attention, dark as midnight and burning with an intelligence that seemed to look straight through her. Whatever physical damage he had sustained, his mind remained clearly intact, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.

He leaned heavily upon a walking stick carved from some dark wood, his left leg obviously paining him. But even diminished by injury, he radiated a power that filled the room like smoke from the fire. This was a man accustomed to command, to obedience, to having his will obeyed without question.

And he was studying her with the intensity of a naturalist examining some rare and potentially dangerous specimen.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of the finest education overlaid with something harder, more primal. "You are smaller than I anticipated."

The dismissive observation stung, though she kept her expression composed. "I fear I cannot remedy my stature to better suit your expectations, Your Grace."

Something flickered in those dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest hint of approval. He had clearly expected her to cower, to lower her gaze in proper feminine submission. Her direct response seemed to disconcert him more than tears or trembling would have.

"Indeed. And I suppose you consider yourself quite brave, coming here to face the monster of Ravenshollow?"

"I consider myself practical, Your Grace. Monsters, in my experience, exist primarily in gothic novels and the imaginations of impressionable young ladies."

His scarred mouth twisted in what might have been amusement or disdain. "How refreshingly rational of you, Miss Hartwell. I trust you shall maintain such admirable composure when we discuss the true purpose of your visit."

"I confess myself eager to hear it, Your Grace. Your correspondence was somewhat opaque on the matter."

He moved with careful precision to position himself behind a massive oak desk, maintaining a distance that spoke of long practice in managing others' reactions to his appearance. The gesture did not escape her notice, nor did the way he angled his body to minimize the view of his damaged profile.

"Your father, “he said abruptly, "wrote to me of your circumstances. Debts, I understand. Property seized. The usual consequence of a soldier's death.”

The casual cruelty of his words made her stiffen. “My father died serving his country, Your Grace. I would not characterize his sacrifice as usual.”

"All soldiers die serving their country, Miss Hartwell. Some simply have the good fortune to do so on a battlefield rather than in a sickbed, leaving their dependents to face the consequences of their heroism."

The bitter cynicism in his tone was clearly meant to wound, to shock her into retreat. Evangeline recognized the tactic for what it was—a test, or perhaps an attempt at self-protection. He was trying to drive her away before she discovered something he deemed too terrible to witness.

"If you summoned me here merely to disparage my father's memory, Your Grace, I shall take my leave. I may be in reduced circumstances, but I am not so desperate as to endure insults for the sake of shelter."

For a moment, something like approval flickered across his features. Then the mask of cold indifference descended once more.

"Spirited. Your father mentioned that particular trait in his letter. He seemed to consider it an asset rather than a flaw."

"And what is your opinion on the matter?"

"I have yet to decide. Spirit in a woman can be inconvenient."

"As can the lack thereof, I imagine. How tedious it must be to converse with creatures who possess no thoughts of their own."

This time his amusement was unmistakable, though quickly suppressed. "You have a sharp tongue, Miss Hartwell."

"So I have been told, Your Grace. Fortunately, I also possess the discretion to know when to employ it."

"Do you indeed? And what makes you believe this is such a time?"

She met his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated by either his size or his scars. "Because, Your Grace, you are attempting to frighten me away without offering any explanation for why I was summoned here in the first place. I find such behaviour rather ungentlemanly."

The word hung in the air between them like a thrown gauntlet. For a moment, his control slipped, and she glimpsed something raw and dangerous in his dark eyes. Then he collected himself with visible effort.

"Ungentlemanly," he repeated softly. "How interesting that you should choose such a word. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, what do you see when you look at me?"

The question was clearly a trap, but she answered with characteristic directness.

"I see a gentleman of obvious education and breeding who has suffered grievous injury in service to his country.

I see someone who uses his scars as both armor and weapon, expecting others to recoil so that he need not risk genuine human connection. "

His intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Clearly, her assessment had struck closer to the mark than he found comfortable.

"You presume to understand a great deal based on a few minutes' acquaintance."

"I presume nothing, Your Grace. I merely observe what is before me."

"And what you observe does not disturb you?"

"Should it? You are scarred, not contagious. Wounded, not wicked. Unless, of course, you have committed some heinous crime that I should know about?"

"Some would say that my very existence is crime enough."

"Then some are fools, and their opinions need not concern us."

He stared at her as though she had sprouted wings and begun to fly about the room. Clearly, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his appearance was not the reaction he had anticipated or, perhaps, desired.

"Your father," he said after a long pause, "saved my worthless life at the war."

"So Mr. Blackwood informed me. I should like to hear the particulars, if you would be so good as to relate them."

"Would you indeed? Very well." He moved to the windows, gazing out at the moor through a gap in the curtains.

"When the French artillery found our position, I was buried beneath a collapsed wall with half my company.

Your father dug me out with his bare hands while shot and shell fell around us like hail. "

"That sounds rather like him. He never could abandon a creature in distress, whether it be a wounded bird or a lost soldier."

"He carried me three miles to the field hospital, Miss Hartwell. Three miles through enemy territory, with French cavalry hunting survivors and my blood painting a trail for them to follow."

"And nearly faced court martial for his trouble, if the documents I found among his papers are accurate."

The Duke's shoulders stiffened, and when he turned back to her, his expression was darker than a winter storm. "Your father risked everything to save a man who was not worth saving. He should have left me to die with dignity rather than preserving me for this mockery of existence."

"How remarkably self-pitying of you, Your Grace."

The words escaped before she could recall them, hanging in the air like a challenge flung down between armies. The Duke's face went absolutely still, and for a moment she feared she had pushed too far, too fast.

"I beg your pardon?" His voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me correctly, I believe. You speak of my father's heroism as though it were some cruel jest played upon you by fate.

Yet here you stand in your magnificent library, surrounded by luxury most can only dream of, possessed of one of the oldest titles in England.

If this is your idea of a mockery, I confess myself curious about your definition of success. "

"You think wealth and title are sufficient compensation for..." He gestured toward his scarred face with bitter emphasis.

"I think you are alive when thousands of better men lie buried in the soil.

I think you have the opportunity to honour their sacrifice by living worthily, by using your position and resources to some meaningful purpose.

Instead, you lurk in this mausoleum feeling sorry for yourself while your tenants suffer and your estate crumbles around you. "

The silence that followed her outburst was so complete that she could hear the rain pattering against the windows and the soft hiss of the fire in the grate.

The Duke stared at her with an expression of such astonishment that she began to wonder if anyone had dared speak so plainly to him since his return from war.

"You have considerable nerve, Miss Hartwell."

"I have considerable honesty, Your Grace. I thought you might appreciate the novelty."

"What I appreciate," he said, moving closer with that careful, controlled gait, "is impertinence in its proper place. Which is not in my library, directed at my person."

"Then perhaps you should not have summoned me here under false pretenses. You spoke of matters of mutual interest, yet all I have heard thus far is a litany of your grievances against Providence."

"False pretenses?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What would you say, Miss Hartwell, if I told you that your father's dying request was that I take you as my wife?"