Page 17 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he summer breeze drifted through the open windows of Trowbridge Manor's dining room, carrying with it the faint scent of roses from the garden. Elizabeth barely noticed either the warmth or the fragrance, her attention fixed on the untouched roasted pheasant before her. She pushed a morsel around her plate with the same listless energy that had plagued her for days—ever since Cecil had...

No. She wouldn't think of him now.

"You've hardly touched your food," Harriet observed quietly from across the table. Her sister's worried gaze had been following Elizabeth all morning, noting every sigh and distracted glance. "Cook prepared the pheasant specially, knowing it's your favorite."

"Did she?" Elizabeth managed a wan smile. "How thoughtful. The journey from Stonefield must have tired me more than I realized."

They both knew it wasn't true. She'd arrived two days ago, and sleep had been as elusive as her peace of mind. The dark circles beneath her eyes told that tale clearly enough.

"Perhaps some tea might help restore your appetite," Harriet suggested, already half-rising to ring for the servant.

"No, thank you." Elizabeth's fingers tightened around her fork. "I'm quite well, truly."

Their father sat at the head of the table, seemingly engrossed in his own meal, but Elizabeth could feel his disapproving glances. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle clink of silverware against china and the distant sound of birdsong from the garden.

"The weather has been remarkably fine," Harriet ventured, her tone deliberately bright. "Perhaps we could walk in the garden after luncheon? The roses are in full bloom, and?—"

"When can we expect news of an heir?"

Luke's question cut through the air like a knife, causing both sisters to start. Elizabeth's fork clattered against her plate, the sound sharp and jarring in the sudden silence.

"Father, I—" Elizabeth began, but her voice failed her.

"It's been three months." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, his movements precise and controlled. Each tap of the linen against his lips seemed to punctuate his words. "Surely the earl has... attended to his duties by now."

"Father!" Harriet's cheeks flushed pink. "That's hardly appropriate conversation for the dining table."

"When else should we discuss it?" Luke's stern gaze fixed on his eldest daughter. "The ton will talk if there's no announcement soon. Lady Weatherby mentioned just yesterday that she'd heard nothing of your...condition."

"Lady Weatherby," Elizabeth said stiffly, pushing her plate away, "would do better to mind her own affairs."

"Your condition is her affair." Luke's voice hardened. "It's the affair of every person of consequence in London. Or have you forgotten how this marriage came about?"

Elizabeth's fingers instinctively rose to her neck, tracing the raised line of her scar. How could she forget? The whispers, the stares, the way potential suitors' eyes would drift to her marred skin before quickly looking away. Until Cecil...

"This marriage secured our family's position," Luke continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore his daughter's distress. "Your sister's indiscretion was forgotten because of it. The least you could do is ensure its success."

From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Harriet flinch at their father's words and felt a familiar surge of protectiveness. "Harriet has nothing to do with this," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "She's home now, and the scandal has passed."

"Thanks to your marriage to the earl." Luke's eyes narrowed. "A marriage that needs securing with an heir."

"Perhaps we could discuss something else," Harriet pleaded, reaching across the table to touch Elizabeth's hand. The contact was brief but warm, a reminder of countless childhood comforts exchanged in moments of distress. "Elizabeth looks pale. She should rest after her journey."

"Rest?" Luke scoffed, his knife scraping against his plate with unnecessary force. "She's had nothing but rest since she arrived. What she needs is to attend to her responsibilities."

"And what responsibilities would those be, Father?" Elizabeth's voice was barely above a whisper, but there was steel beneath the softness. "To provide an heir? To secure the family name? To make up for the shame of my—" Her fingers brushed her scar again.

"Don't take that tone with me, Elizabeth." Luke set down his cutlery with deliberate care. "You know very well what's expected of you. The ton will talk if there's no announcement soon. You know how they love to gossip, especially about..." His eyes flickered to her scar before darting away.

A servant entered with a fresh decanter of wine, and the conversation paused. Elizabeth used the moment to gather her composure, though her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass.

"More wine, Father?" she offered, desperate to change the subject.

"Don't attempt to distract me," Luke warned. "This matter cannot be ignored. When I saw the earl at his club last week, he seemed...distracted."

Elizabeth's heart stuttered at the mention of Cecil. "You saw him?"

"Indeed." Luke's voice took on an edge. "He was rather absorbed in his cards. Barely acknowledged me when I greeted him. I trust you haven't given him cause for concern?"

"Father, please," Harriet interjected again. "Can't you see Elizabeth isn't well?"

"She'll be less well if she fails in her duties." Luke reached for the wine himself, pouring a generous measure. "Come now, Elizabeth. Surely you understand the importance of this. The earl?—"

"Cecil is gone."

The words burst from her like water through a broken dam, hanging in the suddenly still air of the dining room. The servant who had been clearing the dishes froze mid-reach, then quietly retreated from the room at Luke's sharp glance. Harriet's face had gone pale, while their father sat unnaturally still, his expression darkening like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"What do you mean, gone?" Luke's voice was deadly quiet.

Elizabeth's hands trembled in her lap, but she forced them still. Years of practice at maintaining composure in the face of society's scrutiny served her well now. "He left. A week ago."

"Left?" The wine glass hit the table with enough force to make the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. "What did you do?"

"I didn't?—"

"You must have done something!" His voice rose with each word. "No man abandons his wife without cause. Did you refuse him? Drive him away with your stubborn pride?"

Something inside Elizabeth snapped. She rose from her chair, her napkin falling forgotten to the floor. The movement was sharp, decisive—so unlike her usual careful grace that Harriet gasped.

"Is that what you truly think of me?" Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion. "That I would deliberately sabotage my own marriage?"

"What else am I to think?" Luke stalked to the window, then whirled back to face her. His reflection fractured across the glass panes behind him, multiplying his fury. "The earl is a man of means and position. He married you despite that hideous scar, and this is how you repay his charity? By driving him away with your stubbornness? You are saying he’s gone?”

"Yes, he's gone!" Elizabeth's voice cracked. Her chest felt too tight, each breath a struggle. The weight of the past week, of all the sleepless nights and tearful dawns, pressed down upon her. "Just like you were gone when Mother needed you most. When she lay in her sickbed, begging for a kind word, for any sign that you still cared!"

Luke recoiled as if she'd struck him. "How dare you?—"

"How dare I? How dare you!" The words poured out of her like a flood breaking through a dam. "You want to know why I never wanted children? Because I watched you treat Mother like she was nothing more than a vessel for an heir. I watched you ignore her, belittle her, break her spirit piece by piece until there was nothing left!"

"Elizabeth!" Luke's face had gone purple with rage. "You forget yourself?—"

"No, Father. For once in my life, I remember exactly who I am." She pressed her palms flat against the table to stop their trembling. "I am my mother's daughter. And I promised myself I would never?—"

"Enough!" Luke's fist crashed down on the table, making the crystal glasses jump and chime. "You speak of things you don't understand. Your mother?—"

"Was the kindest, most loving person I've ever known," Elizabeth cut in, her voice thick with unshed tears. "And you couldn't even give her the courtesy of your presence in her final days."

Harriet had risen too, hovering uncertainly between them. "Please, both of you?—"

"Stay out of this, Harriet," Luke snapped. "Your sister seems to have forgotten that it was her marriage to the earl that saved you from ruin. Or have you forgotten that scandal as well, Elizabeth?"

"I haven't forgotten anything," Elizabeth said quietly. "I remember every slight, every cruel word, every time you made Mother cry. And now you stand there, demanding an heir, just as you demanded one from her until it killed her."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the birds outside seemed to have fallen quiet, as if holding their breath along with the occupants of the room. Luke stood rigid, his face a mask of fury and something else—something that might have been shame, if Elizabeth didn't know better.

"You have no idea what being a parent means," Luke said, his voice dangerously low. The morning sunlight caught the silver at his temples, making him look older, more bitter than ever. "The sacrifices required?—"

"Sacrifices?" Elizabeth's laugh was hollow. "Like sacrificing your wife's happiness for your pride? Or sacrificing your daughter's confidence for your obsession with a male heir?" She met his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. "No, Father. I understand sacrifice all too well. I watched Mother sacrifice everything for you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of her to give.”

For a moment, her father seemed to age before her eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her words. Then his jaw tightened, and he straightened to his full height. "I see your time with the earl has made you forget your place," he said coldly. "Perhaps when he returns, he'll remind you of it."

"He's not coming back," Elizabeth whispered, all the fight suddenly draining from her. She sank back into her chair, her legs no longer able to support her. "He made that quite clear."

The room felt suffocating now, the afternoon sun that streamed through the windows doing nothing to warm the chill that had settled in her bones. The remains of their lunch lay forgotten on the table, a stark reminder of how quickly everything had shattered.

"Nonsense," Luke scoffed, though something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps. "Every man desires an heir. You must have misunderstood?—"

"I understood perfectly well." Elizabeth raised her eyes to meet her father's, and something in her gaze made him fall silent. "He looked me in the eye and told me he was no longer interested. Just as you looked Mother in the eye and told her you had no interest in her beyond the children she could give you."

"Then you must go to him," Luke declared, his voice brooking no argument. He began to pace, his boots clicking against the polished floor. "A wife's place is with her husband. Whatever grievance exists between you?—"

"Father, stop!" Harriet moved to stand between them, her usually gentle demeanor hardening with determination. "Can't you see you're making things worse? Elizabeth needs our support, not your lectures."

Luke's face reddened. "What she needs is to remember her duty. The earl?—"

"The earl made his choice," Elizabeth said quietly, her fingers absently tracing the pattern on the tablecloth. Each loop and swirl of the embroidery reminded her of the way Cecil would trace her scar in their intimate moments, as if memorizing its path. "He told me our time was up. That he no longer desired an heir." The words still burned her throat like bitter wine.

"Nonsense," Luke scoffed again, but his voice held less conviction now. "Every man desires an heir. You must have misunderstood?—"

"I understood perfectly well." Elizabeth raised her eyes to meet her father's, and something in her gaze made him fall silent. "He told me plainly enough. Just as you told Mother her worth lay only in the children she could give you."

"You twist my words," Luke protested, though his complexion had paled considerably. "Your mother and I had an understanding. She knew her duty, her place. We made a good match, a proper match, until—" He faltered, something like regret flickering across his features. "Until she began filling your head with romantic notions about love and choice. Look where that's led us."

"Stop it Father. Mother and you were exactly what I feared Cecil and I would become." Elizabeth's voice cracked. "But he wasn't like you, Father. He was kind, and gentle, and he made me feel..." Her voice caught. "He made me feel beautiful. Even with this." She gestured to her scar.

Harriet reached across the table, squeezing her sister's hand. "Elizabeth..."

"And now he's gone," Elizabeth continued, the words tumbling out like water over stones, "but not because of my face or my pride. He's just... gone."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the birds outside seemed to have fallen quiet, as if holding their breath along with the occupants of the room.

"Elizabeth." Her father's voice had lost its edge, replaced by something that might have been regret. But Elizabeth had long since stopped looking for signs of tenderness in Luke Cooper's face.

"I should rest," she said, rising from her chair with as much dignity as she could muster. "The journey has tired me after all."

"I'll come with you," Harriet said quickly, shooting their father a warning glance as she followed Elizabeth from the dining room.

They made their way up the familiar stairs in silence, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Elizabeth's old bedroom remained unchanged, a shrine to the life she'd lived before Cecil. Before everything. The same pale blue wallpaper, the same worn novels lining her shelves, even the same slight creak in the floorboard by the window.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Harriet pulled her sister into a fierce embrace. "Oh, Elizabeth," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I should have known something was wrong the moment you arrived."

"How could you have known?" Elizabeth managed a weak smile as they parted. "You've had your own troubles to deal with. Though I notice Father seems to have forgiven you rather easily."

Harriet's face fell. "Only because you married the earl in my place. That's the only reason he welcomed me back so quickly." She sank onto the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. "He keeps saying how fortunate we are that you secured such an advantageous match. As if I didn't cause a scandal by running away. As if you didn't sacrifice everything to protect me."

"It wasn't a sacrifice," Elizabeth said softly, joining her sister. "At least...it didn't feel like one at the time."

"Tell me everything," Harriet urged, taking her hand. "What happened with Cecil?"

So Elizabeth did. She told her sister about the growing warmth between her and Cecil, about the nights in his study playing cards, about the way he'd taught her to dance. She spoke of his gentle teasing and the way he'd made her feel desired for the first time in her life. And finally, she told her about that last night, when he'd opened his heart to her about his mother, when she'd given herself to him completely.

"And then the next morning, he was...different," Elizabeth concluded, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. "Cold. Distant. As if the man I'd come to know had vanished overnight."

"Men," Harriet muttered darkly. "They're all the same in the end, aren't they? Even the ones who seem different." She squeezed Elizabeth's hand. "You should leave him."

Elizabeth's head snapped up. "Leave him?"

"Why not? He's already left you," Harriet said, her voice taking on the same determined tone she'd had when planning her own escape. "You could file for divorce on grounds of abandonment. Father would be furious, of course, but when isn't he?" Her eyes gleamed. "He forgave me easily enough once you married Cecil. Perhaps he'll forgive this too, in time."

"It's not that simple," Elizabeth whispered, rising to walk to the window. The garden below was in full bloom, roses climbing the trellises just as they had in her childhood. "Father only forgave you because the earl's position and wealth made the scandal disappear. If I leave Cecil..."

"Then we'll weather that storm together," Harriet insisted. "We could go to Bath, or perhaps even Scotland. Somewhere far from London society and their endless gossip. You're the one who taught me to be brave, remember? When I wanted to run away rather than marry him?"

"I love him." The words hung in the air between them, simple and devastating in their truth.

Harriet fell silent, watching as Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Oh, Elizabeth," she said finally, her voice gentle. "That only makes it worse."

"Does it?" Elizabeth turned back to face her sister, managing a weak smile. "Sometimes I think it makes it better. At least I know now that I'm capable of it. That someone could love me back, even if only for a little while."

"He doesn't deserve your love," Harriet declared fiercely. "Not if he could walk away so easily. Not after you saved me from having to marry him myself."

But that was just it, wasn't it? Nothing about Cecil's departure had seemed easy. The pain in his eyes when he'd told her their time was up, the way his hands had trembled slightly when he'd turned away from her...

No, whatever had driven him away, Elizabeth was certain it hadn't been easy.

"Perhaps not," she conceded quietly. "But love isn't about deserving, is it? It's about feeling something so profound that it changes you forever." She touched her scar absently, remembering the way Cecil had kissed it that last night. "And I am changed, Harriet. No matter what happens next."

Harriet crossed the room to join her at the window, taking her hand. "Then what will you do?"

Elizabeth squeezed her sister's fingers, drawing strength from the contact. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I can't run away. Not this time." She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "Father may have forgiven you easily because of my marriage, but I have to face whatever comes next. Even if it means facing a life without Cecil."

Somewhere in the house, they could hear their father's study door slam.