Page 66 of Her Beast of a Duke

All the frames were as dusty as the hallway, and the scent of must hung in the air, making her cough.

Tilting her head back, Isabella looked up at the portraits. A line of men with the same green eyes as Oscar, unmistakably Dukes from the past, all stared down at her. Isabella felt the weight of all, and she wondered if she ought to leave.

But she had to find Morris, or at least confirm he wasn’t there. So, she moved deeper into the gallery. And she stopped still.

It was Oscar, only he was younger, painted in a Cambridge uniform. His face was bright,happy,and to see such an unburdened smile on the Duke’s face was disconcerting. His hairwas shorter, not hanging in his face to cover up his scars, but styled neatly for his studies. Proper and uniformed.

But that was why: because he had no scars to cover up in this painting.

Isabella peered harder at the painting, trying to find the scar that split his face, trying to see if even his hands were marred by whatever had caused them, but he was unblemished. His green eyes were so full of life, and Isabella felt her breath catch.

“What stole your light, Oscar?” she whispered to the portrait.

Her eyes lifted to the blonde-haired woman in another family portrait. Two parents stood behind Oscar, their hands on his shoulders. Oscar was decorated with medals, and that surprised Isabella, for she had not known her husband had fought in any wars. In this one, his face was scarred—and freshly so.

However, instead of pride being visible on the faces of his parents, there was barely concealed resentment. Isabella wondered if that noticeable reaction was why this particular picture was shut away.

But no, they all were.

Oscar did not have portraits of his family displayed anywhere else, and this place had been locked away for a reason.

His face was newly injured, angry and ragged, the stitches looking painful, and the light had long gone from Oscar’s eyes.

He was a war hero, Isabella thought, reaching out to touch his face in the portrait.

“What are you doing here?”

The roaring question had Isabella spinning to face behind her. She jumped back against the wall, knocking one of the frames. Her hand clasped her throat as she faced her husband, whose face was tight, his teeth bared.

He stormed toward her.

“Why are you in here?”

His voice was an utter snarl, and her heart jackhammered in her chest as he reached for her as if to tug her from the wall. As he lifted his hand, she froze, noticing the bandages that covered his forearms. His shirtsleeves were pushed up beyond his elbows, baring the thick muscle, but something was wrong.

Her fear was secondary to her worry as she stared back at him.

“Oscar, what has happened? Are you all?—”

“I do not care to answer your questions until you answermine,” he growled, his eyes carefully staying on hers.

She didn’t know if it was to intimidate her to flee from the room, or if it was to avoid looking at the portraits.

“I do not understand any of this,” she whispered. “Why… why do you keep this all locked away? This is your past, Oscar, I?—”

“My past,” he scoffed. “My past is better locked up. You do not need to see it; you werespecificallytold to stay away from the northern turret.”

“Why?” she cried, exasperated. “What happened to make you lock up so many doors? Your scars—your parents… they?—”

“Donotspeak of my parents,” he warned.

Finally, his eyes lifted from her to the portrait above her head, and she saw how his disgust twisted his mouth.

He shook his head violently. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get out of this room, out of this wing, andneverreturn here. You are not welcome in this place.”