Page 16 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he morning light filtered through Cecil's chamber windows, rousing him from a fitful sleep. His body tensed as memories of the previous night flooded back—Elizabeth's soft sighs, the way she'd trembled beneath his touch, her complete trust in him even after learning his darkest secrets.

Trust. The word made his chest constrict painfully. He'd revealed too much, let her slip past defenses built over years of guarding his heart. Worse still, when she'd offered herself to him, he'd put her wishes above his own needs. The heir he desperately required to secure his lineage—he'd willingly forgone that chance because she didn't want children.

Cecil ran a hand through his disheveled hair, cursing under his breath. This wasn't supposed to happen. Their arrangement had been simple: three months, an heir, then freedom for them both. Instead, he found himself lying awake at night imagining a future with her—watching her manage his household with quiet competence, seeing her confidence bloom as she stepped into her role as countess, perhaps even...

No. He cut off that dangerous line of thought. He couldn't afford such weakness, not after witnessing how love had destroyed his father. The Earl of Stonefield had worshipped the ground his wife walked on, only to have his heart shattered by her betrayal. Cecil had sworn he'd never make the same mistake.

Yet here he was, breaking his own rules for a woman who'd somehow made him forget every hard-learned lesson about keeping his heart guarded. A woman who'd seen his vulnerability and offered comfort rather than judgment. A woman who made him want to be worthy of the trust she so freely gave.

"Damn it all," he muttered, throwing back the covers and rising to pace the room. He needed to end this before it went any further. Before he completely lost the ability to walk away.

The sound of servants moving in the corridor reminded him that Elizabeth would be expecting to join him for breakfast. His chest tightened at the thought of facing her, of seeing the soft understanding in her eyes that made him want to confess every secret, every fear he'd ever harbored.

No. Better to crush this dangerous attachment now.

Elizabeth stood before her mirror, her fingers trembling as she adjusted her morning dress. Had it truly been just hours ago that Cecil had held her, touched her with such tenderness? Her body still hummed with the memory of his caresses, of the way he'd worshipped every inch of her—even the scar she'd spent years hiding.

More precious than his physical touch had been the trust he'd shown in revealing his past. She'd seen the wounded boy beneath the earl's polished facade, understood finally what drove him to keep everyone at arm's length. Her heart ached remembering the raw pain in his voice as he'd spoken of his mother's betrayal, of his father's devastating discovery.

"He needs time," she whispered to her reflection, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirts. After years of guarding such painful secrets, it must have shaken him to share them. But surely last night had changed things between them. The way he'd held her afterward, pressing tender kisses to her temple—that hadn't been mere physical satisfaction.

Her cheeks warmed remembering the intensity of their shared pleasure. She'd never imagined intimacy could feel like that—not just the physical sensations, but the profound emotional connection. For the first time in her life, she'd felt truly seen, truly cherished.

Hope bloomed in her chest as she made her way to the breakfast room. Perhaps now Cecil would see what she'd begun to realize—that their "arrangement" had become something far deeper. That the walls they'd both built around their hearts had crumbled in the face of growing affection.

The words "I love you" trembled on her lips, ready to be spoken. After years of being overlooked, of believing herself unworthy of such profound emotion, she'd finally found someone who saw past her scars to the woman beneath.

She paused outside the breakfast room, gathering her courage. Through the partially open door, she could see Cecil already seated at the table, his broad shoulders tense as he stared unseeing at the morning paper.

"Good morning," she said softly, stepping into the room. Her heart fluttered as she waited for him to look up, to give her that devastating smile that made her knees weak.

But the man who raised his head was a stranger—his face a cold mask she hadn't seen since their first days of marriage.

"My lord," Elizabeth faltered, thrown by the glacial look in his eyes. Gone was the tender vulnerability of last night, replaced by the notorious rake's practiced indifference.

"Lady Stonefield." His formal address hit her like a physical blow. "Please, join me."

Elizabeth sank into her usual chair, her breakfast appetite evaporating as tension filled the air between them. The casual intimacy they'd developed over the past months had vanished, leaving only frigid politeness in its wake.

"I trust you slept well?" she ventured, desperately seeking some crack in his icy facade. Surely last night hadn't been a dream—the way he'd held her, whispered endearments against her skin, trusted her with his deepest wounds.

"Well enough." Cecil didn't look up from his paper, his voice carrying that dangerous edge she'd come to recognize as a warning. "Though I've been considering our arrangement."

Elizabeth's heart stuttered. "Our arrangement?"

"Yes." He finally met her gaze, his blue eyes cold as a winter sea. "It seems pointless to continue this charade for the remaining days. You've made your position clear regarding children, and I have no desire to waste either of our time further."

The words struck her like arrows, each one finding its mark with devastating precision. "I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Last night?—"

"Was a pleasant diversion," he cut in smoothly. "But let's not pretend it was anything more. We had an agreement: three months, an heir, then freedom. Since you've no intention of fulfilling your part of the bargain, I see no reason to delay my departure."

Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. How could he dismiss their intimacy so casually? The secrets they'd shared, the trust they'd built? "Cecil, please?—"

"My lord," he corrected sharply. "Let's maintain proper distance, shall we?"

She watched in growing desperation as he rose from the table, every movement controlled and deliberate. Before he could reach the door, words burst from her lips: "Would it make a difference?"

He paused, his back still to her. "I beg your pardon?"

"If I agreed to give you an heir," she forced out past the lump in her throat. "Would you stay?"

In the heartbeat of silence that followed her desperate question, Elizabeth saw Cecil's shoulders tense. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—pain? regret?—before his features smoothed back into that impenetrable mask.

"No," he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. "I find I'm no longer interested in an heir. Or in continuing this marriage beyond our agreed-upon terms."

The casual cruelty of his words stole her breath. This was worse than any rejection she'd faced before—to be dismissed so completely by a man who'd held her with such tenderness mere hours ago. Who'd whispered that she was precious, perfect, worthy of worship.

"You're lying," she challenged, rising on shaky legs. "Last night, you said?—"

"I said many things," he cut in smoothly. "As one often does in the heat of passion. Surely you don't expect a notorious rake to mean every pretty word whispered in the dark?"

Elizabeth flinched as if he'd struck her. The calculated mention of his reputation—a reminder of all the women he'd presumably seduced and abandoned—felt like salt in an open wound.

"How dare you," she whispered, anger finally breaking through her shock. "How dare you make me trust you, make me believe—" She broke off, unwilling to reveal just how thoroughly he'd conquered her defenses.

"Believe what, my lady?" His smile held no warmth. "That a scarred spinster had somehow reformed London's most notorious libertine? That a few months of convenient marriage had transformed me into someone worthy of your precious trust?"

"Stop it." Her voice cracked on the words. "This isn't you. The man who held me last night, who shared his pain, his secrets?—"

"Was a fool," Cecil snapped, his composure finally cracking. "A weak fool who forgot himself for a moment. But rest assured, I won't make that mistake again."

Tears burned behind her eyes, but Elizabeth refused to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words wounded her.

"Very well," she said, proud that her voice remained steady. "If you wish to end our arrangement early, I won't stop you. But at least have the courage to tell me the truth—was any of it real? Or was I simply another conquest to add to your collection?"

Something dangerous flashed in Cecil's eyes, and for a moment she glimpsed the raw pain beneath his cold facade. He took a step toward her, then seemed to catch himself, his hands clenching at his sides.

"What difference does it make?" he asked, his voice rough. "In a few days, we'll both be free of this farce. You can return to your quiet life, and I..." He gave a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm sure the ton will be delighted to have their favorite rake back in circulation."

"Is that what you want?" Elizabeth challenged, moving closer despite her better judgment. "To return to your empty pursuits? Your meaningless affairs? We both know that's not who you truly are."

"Do we?" His smile was razor-sharp. "Perhaps you've simply seen what you wanted to see. A wounded soul in need of healing. A man worth saving." He leaned closer, his breath fanning her cheek. "But I warned you from the start, Elizabeth. I will ruin you."

"You already have," she whispered, finally letting him see the depth of her pain. "Not with scandal or social ruin, but by making me believe in something more. By making me trust you."

For a heartbeat, Cecil's mask slipped completely. She saw anguish in his eyes, a yearning that matched her own. His hand lifted as if to touch her face, then dropped back to his side.

"Trust is a dangerous thing," he said finally, his voice barely audible. "I thought I'd learned that lesson long ago. But you..." He shook his head, taking a deliberate step back. "It seems we both have painful lessons to learn."

Elizabeth watched him retreat, her heart cracking with each step he took away from her. All her life, she'd guarded herself against this very pain—the agony of opening her heart only to have it shattered. "You don't have to do this," she said softly. "Whatever demons you're fighting, whatever fears drive you to push me away—we could face them together."

Cecil's back went rigid. "There is no 'together,' Elizabeth. There never was. We made a business arrangement, nothing more."

"A business arrangement?" She gave a hollow laugh. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify last night? To excuse the intimacy we shared?"

"Intimacy?" His voice dripped with calculated disdain as he turned back to face her. "Come now, surely you're not so naive. Men of my...reputation are quite skilled at creating the illusion of connection. It makes the seduction so much sweeter."

"I don't believe you," Elizabeth said, her voice wavering between anger and hurt. "Something inside me—call it intuition, call it a sixth sense—knows you're lying."

Cecil turned, his expression deliberately neutral. "What you choose to believe is entirely your prerogative," he said flatly. "I'm simply stating facts."

"Facts?" She gave a bitter laugh. "Those weren't facts. Those were walls. Defenses."

"And what of it?" He shrugged, almost casually. "I never promised you anything more than what we agreed upon. Three months. An arrangement."

"An arrangement doesn't explain the way you looked at me," Elizabeth pressed. "The secrets you shared. The way you?—"

"Careful," Cecil interrupted, a warning edge creeping into his voice. "You're dangerously close to believing something that doesn't exist."

"And what is that?"

"That I'm capable of more than a transaction." His eyes were cold, challenging. "Believe what you want, Elizabeth. I truly couldn't care less.”

"Liar," she whispered, her hand lifting to touch his face.

Cecil caught her wrist before she could make contact.

He had slipped past every defense and made her believe she was worthy of love despite her scars.

He walked away without saying anything else.