Page 4 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

E lizabeth hadn't slept more than a few hours.

The morning sun streamed through the windows of Stonefield Manor as she made her way down the servant's corridor, intending to speak with the housekeeper about the week's menus. She paused when she heard hushed voices around the corner.

"—scarred like that, and her own sister running away from the marriage too." The words, spoken in a maid's sharp whisper, made Elizabeth's fingers clench in her skirts.

"Seen her yourself then?" another voice asked eagerly.

"Clear as day, that mark running down her neck. No wonder she wasn't married before—and now taking her sister's place at the altar! Makes you wonder what the earl was thinking, accepting such a?—"

"Hush!" A third voice cut in. "That's no way to speak of the new countess."

"Well it's true, isn't it? First time in history Stonefield Manor's mistress is a?—"

Elizabeth stepped around the corner, her head held high. The three maids scattered like startled birds, dropping into hasty curtsies before fleeing. Only Sarah, the youngest maid dared meet her eyes for a moment—a glance full of mortification and apology.

Heat burned in Elizabeth's cheeks, but she forced her spine straighter. Let them whisper. Let them stare. She would prove her worth through actions, not appearances. This house needed a proper mistress, and she would be damned if she let a few gossiping servants undermine her authority.

By the time Mrs. Winters, the housekeeper, found her in the morning room, Elizabeth had already drafted three pages of necessary improvements in her mind.

"My lady?" Mrs. Winters entered with a steaming cup of tea. Her eyes swept over Elizabeth's face, noting but tactfully ignoring the high color in her cheeks. "I thought you might appreciate this before breakfast."

"Thank you." Elizabeth accepted the cup, grateful for both the tea and the elderly woman's dignified professionalism. Unlike the other servants, Mrs. Winters possessed that particular brand of stoicism that marked a truly professional housekeeper.

"Shall I have breakfast served in the morning room, my lady?"

"Yes, please." Elizabeth hesitated. "Will his lordship be joining me?"

Something flickered across Mrs. Winters' face. "His lordship...prefers to take his meals in his study, my lady. He's kept to that habit since—" She stopped abruptly. "For quite some time now."

Of course he did. Elizabeth suppressed a flare of irritation. Even in this, he would maintain his distance, treating their marriage as nothing more than the business arrangement he'd declared it to be.

"I see." She kept her voice neutral. "Then perhaps you could show me through the house after breakfast? I should like to familiarize myself with my new home."

The morning room proved to be a pleasant space, with large windows overlooking the estate's manicured gardens. But Elizabeth found herself picking at her food, her appetite diminished by the conspicuous emptiness of the chair across from her.

"My lady?" Mrs. Winters appeared in the doorway. "Shall we begin the tour?"

Elizabeth welcomed the distraction. As they moved through the house, she found herself impressed by its elegant efficiency. Every room spoke of wealth without ostentation, taste without excess. It was, she realized, rather like its master in that regard—beautiful but controlled, refined yet somehow dangerous.

"The kitchen gardens need attention," Mrs. Winters was saying as they walked. "And the east wing hasn't been properly aired in months. Cook has been asking for new copper pots, and the drawing room curtains..."

"The kitchen gardens should be our first priority," Elizabeth interrupted smoothly. "Fresh herbs and vegetables will reduce our reliance on the market. As for the east wing, we'll need to check the windows for drafts before winter arrives. The copper pots can wait until next quarter, but have the curtains cleaned and repaired rather than replaced—it's more economical."

Mrs. Winters' eyebrows rose slightly. "You have experience with household management, my lady?"

"I've been managing my father's estate since my mother passed." Elizabeth touched her scar unconsciously. "Someone had to."

The housekeeper's expression softened with something that might have been approval. "Then perhaps you'd like to see the account books after?—"

A flicker of color through an open doorway caught Elizabeth's attention. She paused, drawn to what appeared to be a small gallery filled with paintings.

"Mrs. Winters, what room is this?"

"Oh, that's—" Mrs. Winters began, but Elizabeth had already stepped inside.

The room took her breath away. Paintings covered nearly every inch of wall space, their gilt frames catching the morning light. They weren't the usual stern ancestral portraits she'd expected in a noble house. These were intimate scenes—gardens in full bloom, children playing by a stream, a woman's hand holding a paintbrush. The style was delicate yet assured, each brushstroke placed with evident care and love.

"Who painted these?" Elizabeth moved closer to examine one depicting a young boy with familiar dark blue eyes, sword-fighting with a tree branch. Something about the child's impish grin reminded her of?—

"What are you doing in this room?"

Cecil's voice, cold and sharp as winter frost, made her spin around. He stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the exit, his expression thunderous. Mrs. Winters had vanished, Elizabeth noticed, apparently possessing the good sense to flee at the first sign of her master's displeasure.

"I wasn't aware any rooms were forbidden to the mistress of the house," Elizabeth replied, lifting her chin. Though her heart raced at his sudden appearance, she refused to be cowed. "Unless these paintings hold some special significance? Perhaps they belonged to a former...companion?"

The muscle in Cecil's jaw ticked. "You overstep, madam."

"Do I? I merely wish to understand what areas of my new home I'm permitted to enter. After all, we wouldn't want me stumbling upon any...delicate memories."

"You presume too much about things you don't understand."

"Then enlighten me, my lord." The words emerged more breathless than she'd intended. "What am I to make of a husband who demands marriage one day, then retreats to his study the next, speaking only to issue commands about forbidden rooms?"

Something shifted in Cecil's expression—a flicker of something almost like pain before his features hardened again. "You agreed to our arrangement. Three months, an heir, then freedom. My private matters are not your concern."

"Everything in this house is my concern now." Elizabeth gestured to the paintings. "Including these. If I'm to manage this estate?—"

"You'll manage what I tell you to manage." His voice dropped lower, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "And you'll stay out of this room."

Their gazes locked in silent battle. Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken at his proximity, hating how her body betrayed her with its response to his presence.

"Is that how you intend to spend our three months?" Elizabeth challenged, emboldened by his reaction. "Issuing commands and expecting blind obedience?"

A dangerous smile curved Cecil's lips. "I can think of far more...entertaining ways to spend our time."

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Elizabeth's breath caught. She took a step back, bumping into one of the paintings. Cecil's hand shot out to steady both her and the frame, effectively trapping her between his arm and the wall.

"Careful, wife," he murmured, his breath fanning against her cheek. "These paintings are irreplaceable."

"Like their artist?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Something dark flickered in Cecil's eyes. His free hand came up to trace the line of her scar, the touch so light it might have been imagined. "You're playing a dangerous game, Elizabeth."

"I wasn't aware we were playing at all." But her voice trembled as his fingers lingered on her neck.

"Aren't we?" His thumb brushed her pulse point. "You're here, in a forbidden room, provoking me with accusations about former lovers. One might think you're trying to make me jealous."

Elizabeth's face flushed with indignation. "Don't flatter yourself, my lord. I'm merely trying to understand what kind of marriage I've been forced into."

"Forced?" Cecil's eyes darkened. "As I recall, you came to me quite willingly at the altar. Or was that another sacrifice for your dear sister?"

The reminder stung. Elizabeth attempted to duck under his arm, but Cecil moved faster, placing both hands on the wall beside her head.

"Running away again?" His voice held a dangerous edge. "Like sister, like sister, it seems."

"At least Harriet had the courage to follow her heart," Elizabeth shot back. "Unlike some who hide behind locked doors and forbidden rooms, too afraid to?—"

"You seem very interested in my past affairs."

"Not at all," Elizabeth said, proud that her voice remained steady despite his approach. "I simply find it curious that a man so eager to secure an heir would keep a shrine to his previous?—"

"Enough." He stopped mere inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes dropped to her neck, following the line of her scar where it disappeared beneath her bodice. "Has anyone ever told you how fascinating you are when you're angry?"

Elizabeth's breath hitched. "I'm not angry, I'm?—"

"No?" His fingers traced the air just above her collarbone, not quite touching but close enough to make her skin tingle. "Your breathing says otherwise. I know what desire looks like, Elizabeth. The quickening breath, the flush in your cheeks...No matter how you try to hide it, I can always tell." He indicated the spot on her neck where her heartbeat betrayed her. "Like a trapped bird."

"Perhaps because you're blocking my escape," she managed, though her voice emerged huskier than intended.

"Am I?" His lips curved into that dangerous smile she was beginning to know too well. "You could easily step around me. Yet you remain." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Why is that, I wonder?"

Elizabeth fought to control her breathing, acutely aware of how her body was responding to his proximity. "You presume too much, my lord."

"I don’t presume. I am certain.” His hand came to rest on the wall beside her head, caging her in. "Tell me, Elizabeth, do all your arguments end with you pressed against walls, or am I special?"

"You're insufferable," she whispered, hating how her body swayed toward his unconsciously.

"And you're trembling." His other hand came up to touch a loose curl by her cheek. "Is it fear that makes you shake so...or something else entirely? "How about we find that out tonight? I will see you at my study, ten o’clock. Don’t be late, wife. "