Page 14 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Gentleman's Club

T he distinctive sound of fists striking leather echoed through the private boxing room at White's as Cecil ducked another of Laurence's precise jabs. Sweat dampened his shirt, plastering the fine linen to his chest as he circled his opponent. His cousin had always been the more technically skilled fighter, but today Cecil's distraction made him an embarrassingly easy target.

"Your guard is dropping," Laurence observed coldly, following up with a swift combination that Cecil barely managed to block. "I've seen drunken lords show better form."

From his position by the wall, Percival made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. "Perhaps if our friend weren't so preoccupied with thoughts of his new countess..."

Cecil's attention wavered at the mention of Elizabeth, and Laurence's next strike caught him squarely in the ribs. He stumbled back, cursing under his breath.

"I see I've hit a tender spot," Laurence remarked, though whether he meant the physical blow or the mention of Elizabeth remained unclear. "Shall we take a break before you embarrass yourself further?"

"Your concern is touching," Cecil muttered, but he didn't protest when Percival tossed him a towel. His body ached, though more from tension than exertion. He hadn't slept properly in days, his dreams haunted by images of Elizabeth—her smile when she thought he wasn't looking, the way she trembled under his touch, the quiet strength with which she faced every challenge.

"You're brooding again," Percival observed, pouring three glasses of brandy. "I haven't seen you this out of sorts since...well, since before your father's passing."

Cecil's hand tightened around his glass. "Less than a month," he said abruptly, changing the subject. "That's all that remains of my agreement with Elizabeth. Then I'll leave London as promised."

"And is that what you want?" Laurence asked, his voice cutting through Cecil's defenses like one of his precise strikes. "To abandon your estate—and your wife—simply because you made some ill-conceived promise?"

"What I want is irrelevant." Cecil tossed back his brandy in one harsh swallow. "The agreement was clear: three months, an heir, then freedom for us both."

"An agreement you made before you knew her," Percival pointed out. "Before you saw how perfectly she manages your household, how well she fits into your life?—"

"Enough." The word emerged sharper than Cecil intended. He set down his glass with careful precision, fighting for control. "I won't become—" He cut himself off, but not before he saw understanding flash in Percival's eyes.

"You won't become your father," his friend finished softly. "A man who loved so deeply he nearly destroyed himself when he discovered?—"

"I said enough." Cecil's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. The look he leveled at his friend would have sent braver men running, but Percival merely sighed.

"You haven't seen your sisters since the wedding," Percival continued, his tone deliberately casual. "Madeleine asks after you constantly. She's convinced you're avoiding her."

"I am not avoiding her," Cecil muttered, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. "I simply haven't found the time."

"Time?" Laurence's eyebrow rose skeptically. "You seem to have plenty of time for brooding in this club."

"I've been preoccupied," Cecil said, his voice carrying a note of warning that would have silenced lesser men.

Percival leaned forward. "Preoccupied with your new wife, perhaps?"

Cecil's jaw tightened. "My affairs are my own."

"Are they?" Laurence's cold voice cut through his defenses. "Because you look like a man being slowly tortured by something—or someone."

Cecil shot his cousin a dangerous look, but Laurence merely raised an eyebrow, unmoved. The Duke of Westrow had always been immune to Cecil's attempts at intimidation.

"Speaking of your lovely countess," Percival interjected smoothly, "Madeleine insists on hosting a small dinner party tomorrow evening. Nothing elaborate—just family. She won't take no for an answer."

"I'm otherwise engaged," Cecil said automatically, though they all knew it was a lie.

"Are you?" Percival's smile held a knowing edge. "Because your wife has already accepted the invitation."

Cecil's head snapped up. "When did you?—"

"This morning. I called at Stonefield Manor while you were..." Percival gestured to Cecil's disheveled state. "Otherwise occupied. Elizabeth was quite gracious about accepting, though she did mention you've been rather scarce lately."

Something that felt dangerously like guilt twisted in Cecil's chest. He had been avoiding Elizabeth, throwing himself into business affairs and spending long hours at his club. Anything to escape the way his body yearned for her presence, the way his heart lightened at her smile.

"If you're trying to maintain distance," Laurence observed dryly, "you're going about it all wrong. The whole ton is buzzing about how the notorious Earl of Stonefield seems to have been thoroughly tamed by his unexpected bride."

"I am not—" Cecil began hotly, but Percival cut him off.

"Tamed? Perhaps not. But you can't deny she affects you. I've known you since we were boys, Cecil. I've never seen you like this—not even during your most desperate attempts to outrun your father's grief."

The mention of his father made Cecil's jaw clench. "You're overstepping, Percy."

"Am I?" His friend's voice gentled. "Or am I simply pointing out what you refuse to see? That perhaps, just perhaps, you've found something worth staying for?"

"You presume too much," Cecil warned, but his voice lacked its usual bite. The truth was, he felt exhausted—not from the boxing, but from constantly fighting his growing feelings for Elizabeth. Each day brought some new discovery about her that made his chest ache: the way she hummed softly while reviewing household accounts, how her eyes lit up when she solved a problem, the gentle way she spoke to even the lowest kitchen maid.

"Do I?" Percival lounged back in his chair, studying Cecil with the same shrewd look he'd worn since their school days. "Then explain why you've taken to haunting this club like a ghost. The Cecil I know would be home right now."

"Perhaps I've grown tired of the game," Cecil muttered, though they all knew it for the lie it was.

"The game?" Laurence's laugh held no warmth. "Is that what you call it when you stare at her across ballrooms like a starving man eyeing a feast? When you practically growl at any man who dares approach her? When you?—"

"Your point is made," Cecil cut in sharply. "Though I fail to see how my marriage concerns either of you."

"It concerns us," Percival said quietly, "because we watched what your father's grief did to him. How he withdrew from everything and everyone. And now we're watching you make the same mistake—letting fear of the past poison your future."

Cecil surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "You know nothing about?—"

"I know you're terrified," Percival interrupted, his voice still gentle but implacable. "Terrified of trusting her. Of loving her."

The truth of his friend's words hit Cecil like a physical blow. He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles white with strain. "And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice rough. "Risk everything? Give her the power to?—"

"To make you happy?" Laurence suggested dryly. "How terribly inconvenient that would be."

"The dinner party will be intimate," Percival continued, ignoring Cecil's thunderous expression. "Just family. Though I must say, your wife seemed rather eager for the opportunity to spend an evening in your company. You've been spending an extraordinary amount of time away from home lately."

"Some matters require attention," Cecil deflected, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Laurence, never one for subtlety, cut directly to the heart of the matter. "You're running from your wife."

Cecil's fingers tightened around his glass. "I'm not running. I'm maintaining necessary distance."

"Distance?" Laurence's voice dripped with dry contempt. "Is that what we're calling your complete avoidance these days?"

A muscle ticked in Cecil's jaw. The truth clawed at his throat—Elizabeth had done something no other woman had ever managed. She'd seen past his carefully constructed walls, understood the pain he'd hidden for years, and made him want things he'd sworn never to desire again.

"Some boundaries are meant to be maintained," Cecil said finally, his voice rough. "Especially when feelings become...complicated."

Percival leaned forward. "Feelings are rarely simple, my friend. Especially in marriage."

"My parents taught me that feelings can destroy a man," Cecil muttered, the memory of his father's devastating grief surfacing unbidden.

Laurence's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Not all marriages are the same, Cecil.”

The silence that followed Percival's words hung heavy in the air, charged with unspoken truths. Cecil stared into his empty glass, seeing not his reflection but Elizabeth's face—the way she'd looked at him that morning, hope and hurt warring in those expressive green eyes before he'd made some excuse and fled.

"The dinner party begins at seven," Percival said finally, breaking the heavy silence. "Madeleine has instructed me to ensure you arrive promptly. Something about wanting to see if married life has improved your notorious tardiness."

A ghost of a smile touched Cecil's lips despite himself.