Page 10 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER TEN

S leep eluded Elizabeth as she paced her chambers, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor. Her new sitting room beckoned—the sanctuary she'd created from Cecil's mother's paintings. Though she now knew their origin, something about them still called to her, as if they held secrets yet untold.

Wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her nightrail, Elizabeth slipped into the darkened corridor. The house was silent save for the occasional creak of ancient timbers settling. As she passed her husband's study, however, a telltale glow beneath the door caught her attention. Candlelight flickered, suggesting Cecil was still at work despite the late hour.

She hesitated, her hand hovering near the door. Propriety dictated she return to her chambers—what sort of lady wandered the halls in her nightclothes? But something stronger drew her forward, some need to bridge the growing gulf between them.

Before she could second-guess herself, she knocked softly.

"Enter," Cecil's deep voice commanded.

Elizabeth opened the door to find him at his desk, his cravat loosened and coat discarded. The sight of him in such casual disarray made her pulse quicken. He looked up, and she watched his eyes darken as they traveled over her thin dressing gown.

"I couldn't sleep," she explained quickly, fighting a blush. "I thought perhaps..."

"You thought to visit your sanctuary?" His voice held an edge she couldn't quite interpret. "The room you've made from my mother's paintings?"

Elizabeth lifted her chin. "I find peace there. Though I confess, I don't understand why they trouble you so."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Finally, Cecil set down his pen. "Walk with me."

As they moved through the darkened corridors, Elizabeth was acutely conscious of his presence beside her, the whisper of his footsteps matching hers. The sitting room looked different in darkness, the paintings mere suggestions of shape and color until Cecil lit several wall sconces.

"My mother painted every day in this room," he said finally, his voice low and controlled. "She claimed the light was perfect here. That she could capture truth in her brushstrokes."

Elizabeth watched his face, seeing the muscle tick in his jaw. "And did she? Capture truth?"

His laugh held no humor. "She captured what she wanted others to see. The perfect countess, the devoted mother, the loving wife." His fingers traced the air above a painting of children playing in a sunlit garden. "We were all so blind."

"Tell me," Elizabeth said softly, drawn by the raw pain in his voice. "Help me understand."

Cecil's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn to face her. "Why are you really here, Elizabeth? What do you seek in these halls at night?"

She recognized the deflection but answered honestly. "Sometimes the house feels...too quiet. Too full of things unsaid." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of her thin nightclothes. "My mother used to walk at night too, when she couldn't sleep. Father's silences drove her to restlessness."

"Tell me about her," Cecil said, his voice gentler than she'd ever heard it.

Elizabeth hesitated, moving to stand by the window. For years, she'd guarded these memories, kept them locked away where they couldn't hurt her. "I'm not sure I can..."

"You can't sleep at night," Cecil observed quietly. "You wander these halls like a ghost. Why?"

She stared out at the moonlit gardens, gathering her courage. "Because sometimes I see her in my reflection. Not as she was at the end, but as I remember her from my childhood. Beautiful, graceful...hopeful." Her voice caught. "Before Father's disappointment crushed that hope from her."

"What happened?"

"She was gentle," Elizabeth said finally, her words barely above a whisper. "Afraid of her own shadow, really. The ton's disapproval of her common origins made her desperately eager to please. When she couldn't give Father the sons he wanted..." She touched her scar unconsciously. "She blamed herself for everything—for my mark, for bearing daughters, for not being what he wanted."

"And you blame yourself as well?" Cecil's question was careful, measured.

Elizabeth turned to face him, surprised by the understanding in his eyes. "How could I not? I was her firstborn—the one who should have been a son. Instead, I emerged marked, damaged. Father never let either of us forget it."

"What was she like?" Cecil pressed gently. "Before his disappointment wore her down?"

A sad smile touched Elizabeth's lips. "She used to sing while she worked on her embroidery. French lullabies her mother had taught her. Sometimes, late at night, I'd find her in the conservatory, dancing by herself to music only she could hear." She blinked back unexpected tears. "But after my birth, after this—" she gestured to her scar "—she stopped singing. Stopped dancing. Started apologizing for taking up space in her own home."

"And you?" Cecil finally turned to face her. "Do you blame her?"

Elizabeth was quiet for a long moment, considering. "No," she said finally. "I blame the world that turned a vibrant woman into a shadow of herself. That made her believe her only worth lay in giving her husband sons. That taught her to apologize for things beyond her control until she forgot how to do anything else." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Do you know what her last words to me were?"

When Cecil shook his head, she continued, "She said 'I'm sorry I couldn't be a better mother.' As if she hadn't given us everything she had, everything she was, until there was nothing left."

"Is that why you've never married before now?" Cecil's voice was careful, neutral.

"Partly," Elizabeth admitted. "But also because I saw what happened to the few men who expressed interest despite my scar. The way their mothers would pull them aside, whisper about the risks of damaged bloodlines." Her laugh held no humor. "Eventually, it seemed easier to be the spinster aunt, to focus on giving Harriet the chances I never had."

Something shifted in Cecil's expression—a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "Is that why you fear motherhood? You think you'll share her fate?"

Elizabeth's breath caught. How had he seen through to her deepest fear so easily? "I saw what marriage and motherhood did to her," she admitted. "How it slowly extinguished her light until nothing remained but duty and regret. I won't—I can't become that."

"Elizabeth." The way he said her name made her shiver. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You seem confused by my actions lately."

"I am," she admitted, acutely aware of his proximity. "One moment you're distant, the next...you look at me as if..." She trailed off, unable to voice the desire she saw in his eyes.

"As if what?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "As if I want to devour you whole?"

Elizabeth's breath caught at his bold words. "Yes."

Cecil's smile was pure wickedness as he traced the air near her scar, not quite touching. "Perhaps because that's exactly what I intend to do. Why else would I keep you on edge, wondering what I'll do next?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "A proper seduction requires...anticipation. The not knowing when I might touch you, where my hands might wander. It's all part of the game, my dear wife."

"You're playing with fire," Elizabeth managed, though her voice emerged breathier than intended.

"No, my dear." His fingers finally made contact with her skin, tracing the line of her scar with deliberate slowness. “I'm playing with you . Every touch, every glance, every moment of distance...it's all designed to make you want more."

Elizabeth's heart thundered against her ribs at his bold declaration. "You're very sure of yourself, my lord."

"I am." His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Because I can feel how you tremble when I'm near. How your breath quickens when I touch you. You may resist now, but soon enough..."

Elizabeth's heart thundered against her ribs at his words. His fingers still traced her scar, each light touch sending sparks of awareness through her body. "Perhaps," she whispered, surprised by her own boldness, "I don't want you to stop."

Cecil's hand stilled against her neck. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me." The words emerged before she could stop them, hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

His other hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward the candlelight. "Look at me, Elizabeth."

She opened her eyes to find his gaze dark with barely contained desire. The intensity there should have frightened her, but instead it made her feel powerful, wanted.

"I am not a gentle man," he warned, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "And you are far too tempting in your nightclothes, walking these halls like a ghost seeking absolution."

"Is that what you're seeking?" she asked softly. "Absolution?"

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "What I seek would shock your sensibilities, wife."

"You underestimate me." Elizabeth lifted her chin, though her voice trembled slightly. "I am not some fragile bloom to wilt at the first hint of passion."

"No," he agreed, his fingers sliding into her hair, loosening pins until curls tumbled around her shoulders. "You're something far more dangerous. A temptress who claims to want no children, yet stands before me in nothing but silk and moonlight."

"Cecil..." Her voice emerged as little more than a breath.

"Shh." He stepped back abruptly, leaving her swaying at the sudden loss of his touch. "Go back to your chambers, Elizabeth. Before I forget myself entirely."

"And if I don't want to go?"

His laugh was low and dark. "Then tomorrow night, you'll join me in my study. We'll play a game of my choosing—one that will show you exactly what kind of man you're provoking."

Elizabeth's pulse jumped at the promise in his voice. "What kind of game?"

"One where the stakes are measured in cloth and skin." He moved to the door, his control visibly strained. "Goodnight, wife. Dream of me."

She watched him leave, her body humming with unfulfilled desire. Only when his footsteps faded did she notice she was trembling.

The paintings watched silently from the walls, their subjects caught forever in moments of innocent joy. Elizabeth wondered what Cecil's mother would think of her now, standing in her former sanctuary with her hair tumbled down and her body aching for a man who promised both pleasure and ruin.

"What secrets did you keep?" she whispered to the nearest portrait. "What truths lie beneath these brushstrokes?"

But the paintings kept their counsel, and Elizabeth was left alone with her racing thoughts and the phantom sensation of Cecil's touch still burning on her skin.

The following evening found Elizabeth outside Cecil's study once more, though this time fully dressed in an evening gown of deep emerald silk. Her hand trembled slightly as she knocked, remembering his promise from the night before.

"Enter," came his familiar command.

The study looked different tonight. The massive desk had been cleared, a deck of cards and two crystal glasses of brandy arranged precisely on its surface. Cecil stood by the fireplace, his evening attire immaculate save for his missing coat.

"Ah, my fearless wife arrives." His smile held a predatory edge that made her pulse quicken. "Tell me, did you dream of me as instructed?"

Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "I believe you promised me a game, my lord, not an inquisition."

"So I did." He gestured to the chair across from his. "Though I wonder if you'll be quite so bold once you hear the rules."

She settled into the offered seat, arranging her skirts with deliberate care. "And what rules might those be?"

"Simple ones." Cecil sat across from her, his movements fluid and controlled. "We play hands of cards. The loser of each hand removes one article of clothing."

Elizabeth's breath caught, but she refused to show her shock. "Rather scandalous for a man who spoke of maintaining distance just yesterday."

"Perhaps I grew tired of distance." He began shuffling the cards with practiced ease. "Unless you're afraid to test your skills against mine?"

"The real question," Elizabeth replied, lifting her chin, "is whether you're prepared to lose, my lord. I've spent countless hours playing cards with the ton's most formidable dowagers."

Cecil's eyes darkened with interest. "Have you indeed? Then by all means, wife, choose your game. Show me what these dowagers taught you."

"Vingt-et-un," she decided, watching his hands move over the cards. "A game of chance and strategy."

"How fitting." He dealt with fluid grace. "Though I should warn you—I rarely lose at games of chance."

"There's a first time for everything," Elizabeth murmured, picking up her cards. A thrill went through her as she realized she held an excellent hand.

The first round passed in tense silence, broken only by the snap of cards and the crackle of the fire. To Elizabeth's satisfaction, Cecil lost the first hand.

"Well played," he conceded, reaching for his cravat. The white silk whispered as he unknotted it with deliberate slowness. "I see those dowagers taught you well."

Elizabeth tried not to stare as the removal of his cravat revealed the strong column of his throat. "Your turn to deal, my lord."

His smile was wicked. "So eager to lose something yourself?"

The next hand proved less fortunate for Elizabeth. She stared at her losing cards, heat rising to her cheeks as Cecil's expectant gaze fell upon her.

"Your gloves, perhaps?" he suggested silkily. "Unless you'd prefer to start with something more...substantial."

Elizabeth removed one of her gloves with as much dignity as she could muster, laying the delicate kid leather beside her cards. The air felt cool against her bare hand, making her suddenly aware of how exposed even this small uncovering left her.

"Your scar," Cecil said unexpectedly as he dealt the next hand. "You never finished telling me about it."

She touched the mark reflexively. "There's little to tell. I was born with it—a reminder, my father always said, of how close to death I came during my birth."

"And you believed him?" Cecil's voice held an edge. "Believed it was something to be ashamed of?"

"The ton certainly thought so." Elizabeth arranged her cards, not meeting his eyes. "It's rather difficult to make a good match when every potential suitor can't bear to look at you."

"Fools," Cecil muttered, laying down his hand. Another winning one. "Your other glove, if you please."

As Elizabeth removed it, his fingers caught her bare wrist. The touch sent sparks of awareness racing up her arm. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at you," he said simply, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. "Since apparently, I'm the first man wise enough to do so properly."

"You're doing considerably more than looking," she managed, though she made no move to pull away.

His smile was sin itself. "Would you like me to stop?"

"I..." Elizabeth's voice failed as his fingers traced up her bare arm.

"Your breath betrays you, wife," he murmured, noting how her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements. "It hitches every time I come near. Does my presence affect you so?"

"No," she whispered truthfully. "I'm afraid of myself. Of how much I want..."

"Yes?" His voice dropped lower, sending shivers down her spine.

But Elizabeth gathered her composure and pulled her arm back. "I believe it's my turn to deal, my lord."

Cecil's laugh was warm and rich. "So it is. Though I must say, you're proving far more intriguing than any dowager's card lessons."

The next hand went to Elizabeth, and she couldn't suppress a triumphant smile as Cecil unbuttoned his waistcoat. The fine silk brocade joined his cravat on the desk, leaving him in just his shirt and trousers.

"The night is still young," he reminded her, eyes glittering in the firelight. "And you have far more layers to lose than I do."

Several hands later, Elizabeth had lost both her shoes and her shawl, while Cecil's shirt hung loose, partially unbuttoned. The brandy had left a pleasant warmth in her belly, making her bolder than she might otherwise have been.

"You never answered my question," she said, studying her cards. "About your mother's paintings."

Cecil's fingers stilled on his cards. "You're remarkably persistent."

"And you're remarkably evasive." She met his gaze steadily. "Even while trying to divest me of my clothing."

"Perhaps I simply prefer to focus on more pleasant subjects." His eyes traced the line of her scar. "Like how the firelight makes your skin glow."

"Now who's being evasive?" Elizabeth laid down her cards—another winning hand. "Your shirt, my lord."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he complied, each button coming undone with deliberate slowness. "You play a dangerous game, Elizabeth."

"I thought that was rather the point." Her voice remained steady, though her pulse quickened as his shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothing.

The sight of his bare chest caught her breath in her throat. Broad and muscled, marred here and there with small scars—evidence of a life lived fully. One particularly vicious mark curved along his ribs.

"Hunting accident," he said, noticing her gaze. "Though my mother always claimed it was punishment for my recklessness."

"Was she right?"

"She was..." Cecil paused, dealing the next hand. "She was many things. Kind, yes. Talented, certainly. But she was also..." He broke off, his expression darkening.

"What else?" Elizabeth asked softly, puzzled by his hesitation. "Are you not telling me more?"

His laugh held no humor. "You could say that." He studied his cards.

"Perhaps we should take a break from the game," Cecil suggested, his voice low and controlled. He stood up, the muscles of his bare chest catching the firelight, casting shadows that accentuated his powerful form.

Elizabeth's heart pounded as he moved around the desk, his intent clear in his eyes. She stood her ground, her breath hitching as he came to a stop mere inches away. The heat radiating from his body enveloped her, and she could smell the faint scent of brandy and the masculine aroma that was uniquely his.

"Cecil," she whispered, her voice barely audible. His name on her lips was a plea, a question, and an invitation all at once.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, then slowly trailing down her neck. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent shivers of anticipation coursing through her. Her skin felt alive, every nerve ending sparking with awareness.

"You are exquisite, Elizabeth," he murmured, his eyes following the path of his fingers. They traced her collarbone, then dipped lower, skimming the edge of her gown. "Every inch of you calls to me, begs to be touched, to be explored."

She swallowed hard, her throat dry with desire. His words were as intoxicating as his touch, weaving a spell around her that made it impossible to think, to do anything but feel.

His hands moved to her back, deftly unbuttoning the fastenings of her gown. Each button released was a tiny surrender, a giving over of control. The gown slid off her shoulders, catching briefly on her hips before pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it, kicking it aside, left only in her corset, chemise, and stockings.

Cecil's breath hitched as he took in the sight of her, his eyes darkening with unbridled lust. "You are a vision," he said, his voice rough with desire. "A goddess disguised as a mortal woman."

He reached out again, his hands cupping her shoulders, then sliding down her arms. His thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She gasped, her head falling back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat.

Cecil leaned in, his lips pressing softly against the pulse point in her neck. He lingered there, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin. Elizabeth's breath came in short pants, her body trembling with need.

His hands moved to her corset, expertly unlacing the ribbons. The constraining garment fell away, leaving her in just her thin chemise. The cool air of the room brushed against her nipples, making them harden into tight peaks.

Cecil's eyes dropped to her chest, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Look at you," he said, his voice thick with desire. "So responsive, so eager for my touch."

He reached out, his hands cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her chemise. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her. She moaned softly, her back arching into his touch.

He took his time, exploring her breasts, his fingers circling and teasing her nipples until they were taut and aching. Then, he slid his hands down her ribcage, his thumbs tracing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband of her chemise, he slowly pulled it down, revealing her inch by inch. The cool air brushed against her bare skin, making her shiver with anticipation. The chemise pooled at her feet, and she stepped out of it, left standing before him in nothing but her stockings.

Cecil's intake of breath was sharp, his eyes roving over her naked body with an intensity that made her feel both vulnerable and powerful. "You are a masterpiece," he said, his voice hoarse with desire. "A work of art more beautiful than any painting."

He reached out, his hands skimming her hips, then sliding down her thighs. His touch was feather-light, almost teasing, as if he were memorizing every curve and line of her body.

Then, he guided her to the desk, lifting her gently so she was perched on the edge. He stepped between her legs, spreading them wide to accommodate his body. His hands slid up her thighs, his thumbs brushing against the tender flesh of her inner thighs.

Elizabeth's breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation. She could feel the heat of his body, the hard length of his arousal pressing against her thigh. She wanted him, wanted this, with a desperation that stole her breath.

Cecil leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, exploring and claiming, while his hands continued their leisurely exploration of her body. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through her.

She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his touch. He swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening, becoming more demanding, more possessive.

She moaned softly as his skilled fingers found their target, exploring her most intimate place with deliberate care. Her hips bucked involuntarily at the novel sensation, her body responding with an eagerness that both thrilled and frightened her.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, tracing the folds of her sex, circling the sensitive nub at her core.

Elizabeth's breath came in short pants, her body trembling with need. She could feel the pleasure building, a tight coil of sensation low in her belly. She whimpered, her hips lifting, seeking more of his touch.

Cecil obliged, his fingers delving deeper, exploring her slick folds. He found her entrance, his fingers circling the sensitive flesh, then slowly sliding inside.

Elizabeth moaned, her head falling back, her eyes fluttering closed. The sensation of him filling her, stretching her, was exquisite. She could feel every ridge of his fingers, every knuckle, as he moved slowly in and out of her.

"You feel divine," he breathed against her neck. "So warm, so responsive to my touch."

"Cecil," she gasped, her voice trembling. "I've never...I didn't know it could feel like this."

His thumb found her clit, circling the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure spiraling through her, building with each stroke of his fingers.

"Let go for me," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I want to watch you come undone."

"I can't..." she whimpered, though her body arched into his touch. "It's too much..."

"You can," he assured her, his free hand tangling in her hair. "Trust me. Give yourself to me completely."

Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white with the strain. She was close, so close, her body trembling on the precipice of release.

Cecil seemed to sense her need, his fingers moving faster, deeper. His thumb pressed harder against her clit, his circles becoming tighter, more precise.

And then, she was falling, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her back arching, her hips lifting off the desk. Cecil held her there, his fingers drawing out her orgasm, his thumb circling her clit until the last tremors of pleasure had faded.

She collapsed back onto the desk, her body limp, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Cecil withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips. He sucked them into his mouth, his eyes locked on hers, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"You taste divine, wife," he said, his voice rough with desire. "I could feast on you for hours and never grow tired."

Elizabeth suddenly stiffened as reality crashed over her. What was she doing? She scrambled up from the desk, her hands trembling as she hastily straightened her clothing.

"I should go," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes as mortification flooded through her. What must he think of her, behaving so wantonly?

"Running away again?" His voice held that dangerous edge that made her shiver. "At least take some instruction with you—when you're alone tonight, remember how my hands felt. Practice what I showed you."

Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. The idea of pleasuring herself, of exploring her own body, was scandalous, forbidden. But it was also tempting, enticing.

"You are utterly infuriating," she said, her voice shaking with a mixture of desire and frustration. She knew she should be outraged by his presumption, not trembling with want. "This isn't...we shouldn't..."

She slid off the desk on unsteady legs, desperate to regain some semblance of dignity. When she bent to retrieve her chemise, Cecil stopped her, his hand on her arm.

"Leave it," he said, his voice commanding as he snatched up her chemise and tossed it into the fireplace. The delicate fabric caught immediately.

"What are you—" Elizabeth gasped in outrage, instinctively moving to cover herself. "The servants?—"

"—won't be anywhere near this floor tonight," he finished with a predatory smile. "I've made quite sure of that."

Understanding dawned, making her cheeks flame even hotter. "You planned this," she accused. "This whole evening was a trap."

"A seduction," he corrected, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "And you fell into it beautifully. Now, go to your chambers like this, wearing nothing but your stockings. Feel the cool air on your skin, the brush of your hair against your back. Let every step remind you of who made you feel such pleasure."

Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists. "You are impossible," she hissed, though she couldn't deny the thrill that ran through her at his words. "What if someone sees me?"

"Trust me," he murmured, tracing the air above her collarbone. "The path is clear. Unless...you'd prefer to stay?"

She turned away quickly, not trusting herself to respond. It was infuriating how easily he could make her body betray her better judgment."And Elizabeth," he said, his voice low and rough. "When you touch yourself, imagine it is my hands on your body, my fingers inside you, my mouth tasting you. Imagine it is me bringing you pleasure, me making you cry out in ecstasy."

A shiver of desire ran through her at his words. She nodded once more, then slipped out of the room, her body already aching with renewed need.

As she made her way to her chambers, she was acutely aware of every sensation. The cool air on her skin, the soft brush of her hair against her back, the silken slide of her stockings against her thighs. She felt alive, her body thrumming with desire and anticipation.

Once in her chambers, she climbed onto her bed, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves.

She lay back against the pillows, her breath coming in shallow pants. For a moment, her hand drifted towards her body, curiosity and desire warring within her.

"No," Elizabeth whispered firmly to herself, pulling her hand away. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking her resolve.

She took deep, measured breaths, forcing her racing thoughts to calm. The earl might think he could unsettle her with his provocative words, but she was made of sterner stuff. She would show him that she was not some simpering miss to be easily manipulated.

Determinedly, Elizabeth reached for a book on her bedside table, channeling her restless energy into reading and pushing away the dangerous temptations.