Page 40 of The Duke and the Scarred Bride

Instead, he seemed intent on sending her mixed messages with his words and actions. The man’s mood changed so quickly that it could give one a headache.

She had conversed with him at length, enjoying his banter and humor until she had felt relaxed enough to discuss the state of their marriage and the fact that she was not really his wife, since their marriage remained unconsummated. She had taken the risk and asked if he had any intentions to visit her bedchambers that night.

But then she watched his smile drop, only to be replaced with his impassive mask. Except, this time, his eyes burned withsomething that closely resembled desire. Or perhaps a mix of desire or anger? Whatever it was, it had stirred the desire in the pit of her stomach.

The man was the root of her confusion. His words said one thing, but his actions said another.

Not for the first time, she felt angry that he would toy with her this way when there was a possibility that he wanted the same thing that she was asking him for.

It seemed that her husband was a contrary man, but he would have to be clear and honest soon, or else she could not trust herself not to go mad from the frustration.

The sudden sound of something falling with a loud thump in the room above startled her. It came again and again, each time punctuated by shouts.

It seemed that someone was hitting something, and whatever it was that he was hitting seemed to be crying out in pain. But then who could possibly be awake at this ungodly hour, and who was his victim?

The yelling came again, and this time she could recognize her husband’s voice.

What is he doing up there? Is he beating someone or being beaten?

It did not matter. Someone was in danger—most likely Percival—and she had to help. That thought spurred her out of her bed. Opening her trunk, she retrieved a wrapper to cover her nightgown and wore her slippers. Snagging a candle holder, she padded to the door, opened it, and stepped into the long, dark corridor.

The manor looked more hideous and haunted at night, and despite the light of the single candle she carried, a shiver of fear and foreboding ran down her spine.

How on earth did her husband manage to live here, she did not know. But then it was said that a person became blind to the imperfections in their home once they had lived in it long enough.

Tiptoeing, she avoided holes in the flooring where the wood was decaying. While she wished to rescue her husband from whatever battle he was involved in, she had no wish to be buried alive under the rubble of this manor. The manor might be haunted by ghosts of old, but she had no wish to join them that night.

“While I respect your presence here,” she said in a high-pitched voice, addressing the ghosts she imagined hovering around her, “I do not wish to die. Your son and I haven’t even consummated our marriage.”

She felt silly but relieved in a way that she had acknowledged their presence, instead of trying to pretend that they did not exist.

A stream of air blew into the corridor, touching her skin in a fleeting caress. She knew it was quite silly of her, but she felt that was a sign of acceptance by whatever spirit haunted this house.

The sound came again, jolting her back to reality—rather rudely, she might add—and prompting her into action.

Following the sound of the thumping, she moved towards the staircase—the one that was falling apart. It looked like a dead effigy in the darkness, and she was quite sure that those stairs had wide, yawning holes where the wood had rotted.

She stood on the landing, paralyzed by indecision. Her husband had warned her to avoid those stairs for the simple reason that their state made them a death trap.

As if egging her on, the thumping sound grew louder and became more erratic. The boxer, whoever he was, seemed to be in a frenzy. The sound struck fear in her heart.

While she knew the risks she was taking, she could not imagine abandoning Percival to the mercy of whatever it was that was lurking in the tower, breaking things.

She put her foot on the first step and was a little startled by the creaking sound it made. Her heart lurched into her throat with fear.

Steeling herself, she slowly ascended the steps, placing one careful foot before the other and trying as much as possible to avoid the darker areas where the wood had decayed.

Of course, there was no guarantee that the intact parts of the wooden stairs were safe, but then that was what a risk was—betting that you were right even though it was more probable that you were wrong.

Halfway up the stairs, she stepped around a particularly weak patch in the wood and felt the flooring cave, trapping her right foot deep inside the gaping hole that was rapidly widening and making her yelp.

Swallowing hard, she focused on her breathing, tightly clutching the rusted railing. She could not die like this, not while she was still at a crossroads with her husband. She was going to find him, rescue him, and have a very long talk with him about their marriage.

She was not going to give him the chance to end the conversation just like he ended the other ones—with angry outbursts that forced her to retreat into her shell. Well, now she was even more angry than he ever hoped to be.

She was no longer going to allow his outbursts to affect the way she felt about herself. It had taken her so much to build the confidence she had now, despite the many challenges she had faced after her accident. She would not let years’ worth of work go to waste just so he could feel good about himself.

Louisa felt a sense of calm slowly wash over her, bringing clarity to her thoughts. Holding on tightly to the rusted railing, she managed to lift her leg out of the hole, pulling up pieces of rotten wood in the process. Then, she hopped the rest of the way to the top of the stairs. When she stood on the landing, she saw nothing, as she had dropped her candle holder and the candlelight flickered out sometime during her venture up the stairs.

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